Full Contact. Tara Quinn Taylor
worse, Jay, who knew what it was to be abandoned, had unwittingly put his own son in the very same position.
Damn Kelsey for putting him in this position.
The idea that he had a son was not sitting well with him. Despite having had four weeks to come to terms with the news, to make the plans that uprooted his entire footloose and fancy-free, lay-on-the-beach-whenever-he-wanted-to lifestyle, the existence of a boy with Jay’s blood in his veins still seemed completely unrealistic.
He sat at his computer, intent on searching various databases he had access to for any mention of Jay Billingsley, Sr.
He had a copy of his mother’s birth certificate and death certificate, which had been listed in her maiden name—his aunt’s doing. She’d wanted to eradicate any mention of the man who’d deserted her baby sister.
Jay had his own birth certificate, too. But he couldn’t connect Tammy Renee Walton to Billingsley. He couldn’t find any record of his father at all. Not even on his own birth certificate. Even though they had been married, his mother had chosen to list her maiden name and leave the father blank.
He knew the man’s name was Jay Billingsley. He knew he’d worked at a car dealership in Tucson—as a salesman his aunt had said—that had long since gone out of business.
With those three pieces of information, it should be easy enough to trace the guy. Jay had always thought he could find his father in a matter of hours if he’d really wanted to do so.
Apparently not.
This morning, when he’d attempted to access his mother’s marriage license, he’d been told there wasn’t one. The records clerk who had been helping him suggested that his parents might have been married in another state.
Just damned fine.
Like the majority of U.S. states, Arizona was a closed record state, which meant that without the man’s name on his birth certificate, Jay had no legal way of accessing his father’s records—other than those that were public such as birth date, marriage or death. He couldn’t find any public records for the man in Arizona.
For all he knew, Jay Billingsley, Sr. could have been born in another state, as well.
Maybe he’d died at some point, too.
Jay had other avenues to check. He hadn’t developed the reputation he had for ferreting out the most hard to find facts in order to solve cold cases without learning a few hundred tricks.
But he hadn’t expected to need them this time. He’d figured he’d make a few simple inquiries, do a stake-out—similar to the one he’d done that morning—then, depending on what he found, plan his next move.
Typing usernames and passwords on various internet public document reporting agencies Jay searched U.S. marriage, birth and death records.
Surprised as hell, Jay came up with another dead end. Jay Billingsley, Sr. had obviously lied to Tammy about his real name. That could explain why the man had taken off without a backward glance.
Had he been in trouble?
A member of the underworld?
Living a double life with a wife and family elsewhere?
Or simply a scumbag con man?
Trying a different tactic, Jay gathered the articles he’d located this morning. He opened a can of soda and sat back to spend the time before preparing his poolside dinner of grilled shrimp with news stories from the Tucson Citizen and the Arizona Daily Star dating back thirty-two years ago.
Maybe a birth announcement would shed some light on the latest irritation in his life. Or maybe a piece of school sports trivia would. He already had the few brief pieces that had been printed about his mother’s death before the records had been sealed from the press.
There was no mention of his father having been on the scene at any time. During his years-long investigation to find his mother’s killer, he’d looked for any mention of his father. The only family listed had been his mother’s sister—the aunt who had raised Jay. The same woman who had told him that his father had abandoned Jay and his mother before she’d been murdered.
It was conceivable the man might not even know about the heinous crime that had robbed Jay of any semblance of a normal life.
He’d known about Jay, though. That much was quite clear. Billingsley, Sr. had put it in writing, giving sole custody of his son to Tammy Walton Billingsley. Jay’s aunt had kept the letter in a lockbox. Jay had it now.
But just because his father wasn’t mentioned at the time of his mother’s death, didn’t mean that the man hadn’t made the news in some other fashion. Jay had done the obvious—searched for any mention of Jay Billingsley—so now he was going to do the more tedious part of an investigator’s job. Read through layers and layers of unrelated detail attempting to find that one piece of information that would click with something he already knew but didn’t yet know was pertinent.
The man had lived in Tucson. That much was certain. His aunt had also mentioned—let slip was more like it—that his father had had some later ties to Shelter Valley.
The sooner Jay found his father, the sooner he could contact Cole’s mother and determine exactly how the next phase of his own life would unfold. It wouldn’t be a white picket fence in a small town—or anywhere. He knew that much. But if Cole’s mother had her way, the kid could end up living with Jay.
He picked up a sheet of paper with a shrunken news paper page copied to it. He took in the details of reported life in Tucson, Arizona. On January 13 some thirty years ago, Dr. Paul Fugate, a botanist and park ranger, left his office to check out a nature trail and never returned. Thumbing through pages, Jay found many references to the search for the bearded National Park Service employee, but couldn’t find any reference to the man being found.
Could the man’s disappearance have anything to do with his father? Could the man be his father? Sure…except for the name, and the age.
But what if his aunt had been mistaken about his father? What if Tammy Walton had been involved with, married to, an older man?
At his computer he typed the name Fugate into a secure database for public records. There was nothing linking Tammy Walton to any Fugate.
He searched the name Paul Fugate—and found an article dated 2010 about a memorial service for the man who had never been found. His wife, a woman who looked to be near seventy, had been in attendance.
Another dead end.
Jay’s day had been filled with them.
As his thoughts trailed over the past several hours, the obstacles he’d encountered at every step of his day, in his mind’s eye, Jay saw a set of eyes. Brown. Filled with panic.
His newest client.
He’d catapulted her into a very bad day.
When he’d given Shawna his word that he’d do all he could to help Ellen Moore, Jay’s goal, his purpose, was to help her feel better.
And because that hadn’t happened during their first encounter, he was worried about her. Did anyone outside of him, Ellen and Shawna know about the session? Would she seek help? Or comfort?
From what Shawna had told him about the woman, he suspected not.
He’d seen Ellen jogging the other day at four o’clock. It was almost four now. A person suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder often relied on the sameness of routine and schedule to maintain a sense of security. And that person might exercise religiously to relieve stress.
He knew at least a portion of her route and could figure out the rest. The town wasn’t that big.
Still, it was Friday. She probably had plans. A beautiful woman like her—she probably had a date.
Taking the chance that she’d take her run regardless of later plans, Jay decided to find her.