Deceived (Private Justice Book #3): A Novel (3 page)

Instead, he leaned back to offer her—and himself—a little breathing space.

“I had a very weird experience last Friday. It was . . .” She
blew out a breath and shook her head. “There’s no way to make this sound reasonable. You’re going to think I’m crazy—just like mall security and the police did. This is probably a waste of time for both of us.”

He processed that new information—mall security, police—as he studied her. So she’d already sought help and been dismissed, her story discounted. But she wasn’t crazy. Her eyes might be guarded and troubled, but they were clear, alert, and focused. There was no guile or haziness in their depths, nor were her pupils dilated. She was tense but not hyper. Conclusion: she had, indeed, undergone some kind of traumatic experience, and she needed help making sense of it.

For whatever reason, he wanted to be the one to provide that help.

Based on the tight grip she had on her mug, however, and her ever-so-slight physical withdrawal, she was quickly getting cold feet. Again.

Time for damage control.

He set his pen on top of the lined tablet and folded his hands, pinning her with a direct look. “First of all, I see no evidence of mental instability in you—and I’ve done a fair amount of rapid personality assessment in my Secret Service work. Lives depended on my ability to scan crowds for potential threats, and I learned to read people fast, knowing one wrong judgment could lead to tragedy. I’ve also been responsible for investigating plenty of strange stories. I intend to approach yours the same way I approached those—with an assumption that it represents reality until proven otherwise. And if I can help you ferret out the truth, I will. Fair enough?”

Her fingers loosened, and there was an almost imperceptible softening in the rigid line of her shoulders. “Fair enough.”

He picked up his pen. “If you have the time, rather than start with the incident that triggered this visit, why don’t you
give me some background on why your mall experience was so upsetting? That will help me put it in context.”

She didn’t even consult her watch before responding, confirming that being late for a prior engagement had simply been an excuse to flee.

“I have a few minutes to spare.” She took a sip of her coffee, then carefully set the mug in front of her and focused on the dark depths. “Three years ago, on my husband’s thirty-sixth birthday, he and our four-year-old son, Kevin, went fishing. They never came home. According to the authorities, the boat capsized and my husband drowned. They never found my son’s body, but the assumption was he drowned too, since they did find his life jacket.”

She paused to rub her temple, giving him a moment to absorb her story and do another quick assessment. Though pain flickered in the depths of her eyes, her face was composed. Whatever toll that tragic loss had taken, she’d dealt with it and moved on. That took guts. And strength. And perhaps faith, if the simple charm bracelet with a single cross attached was more than a piece of jewelry.

So if she’d survived all that, what could have sent her into such a tailspin at the mall?

More intrigued than ever, he waited, giving her the time and space she needed to compose her thoughts.

At last she traced the rim of her coffee cup with a manicured but unpolished nail and continued. “As you might imagine, it took me months to get myself back on track after that. But I finally did. Two years ago, I moved to St. Louis, took a job I love, and have been doing my best to get on with my life.” She slanted him a look. “The crazy part is coming.”

He acknowledged her warning with a nod.

Her eyes never wavered from his as she delivered her next line. “Last Friday, I think I saw Kevin at West County Center.”

As her words resonated in the quiet office, Connor stared at her.

Kate thought she’d seen her dead son.

Whoa.

Struggling to maintain his neutral expression, stalling for time, he rolled his pen between his fingers. He’d heard some wild claims in his day, from the woman dressed like the Statue of Liberty who’d shown up at the White House gate, claiming she had a message for the president from God to the guy who’d believed he was a reincarnated former president and entitled to Secret Service protection, but this one was right up near the top.

No wonder the authorities she’d approached had dismissed her story.

Yet crazy as her claim sounded, he still picked up nothing in her demeanor to suggest she was unbalanced. There had to be some logical reason she’d come to this bewildering conclusion.

As he continued to search for an appropriate response, she leaned toward him, posture taut. “Look, I know it sounds off-the-wall. I understand why the authorities were skeptical on Friday. In their place, I would have been too. All the official documents say Kevin is dead. But there’s no proof of that.”

True. At least she wasn’t claiming she’d seen a child whose body she’d mourned over and buried.

“Where did this accident take place?” He positioned his pen over the tablet, still stalling.

“Braddock Bay, off Lake Ontario in upstate New York.”

Hundreds of miles from St Louis.

The credibility meter bottomed out again.

“I’m losing you, aren’t I?” Resignation dulled her voice.

“No.” Not yet, anyway. “But your story is on the . . . bizarre side. The odds of your path crossing in St. Louis with anyone—let alone a son who supposedly drowned—from upstate New
York are very, very small. And not all drowning victims are found, especially in large bodies of water.”

“I know that.” Impatience nipped at her words, telling him she’d heard that lecture already. “But here’s a key point no one, in my opinion, ever paid enough attention to. When I was ten, I almost drowned in a boating accident, which left me deathly afraid of water. I wasn’t crazy about these fishing expeditions, so John—my husband—promised me they would never set foot in the boat without putting on their life vests. And he never, ever broke his promises. Yet he wasn’t wearing his life vest when they found him.”

Interesting—but not all that compelling.

“I’m sure he valued his promise, Ms. Marshall.” Connor chose his words with care. “But isn’t it possible he might have removed the jacket briefly for some practical reason? Maybe he spilled coffee or soda on it. Or a fishhook tangled in the back and he couldn’t reach it without taking the jacket off. Or he got hot and decided to remove a sweater he was wearing underneath.”

Frustration tightened her features. “I can’t argue with your logic. But this isn’t about logic. It’s about the heart. You didn’t know John. Neither did the police who investigated the incident. Only he understood how important that promise was to me. He knew the only way I’d have any peace of mind about the fishing trips he and Kevin started taking that summer was if I had absolute confidence they would both be wearing their jackets at all times. He would never, ever have violated my trust. Not even for two minutes, no matter how inconvenient it was to him. That’s what love’s all about.”

As her words rang with conviction in the quiet room, Connor shifted in his chair. He couldn’t dispute her claim about the life jackets, not after that little speech. Nor could he disagree with her comment about the importance of trust—and keeping promises—in a relationship.

He’d learned the truth of the latter the hard way.

Pushing those memories aside, he refocused on the woman beside him. “What did the authorities say when you told them your concerns about the life-jacket issue?”

“They listened—then blew me off. Assuming, as you did, that there was some logical reason he’d taken it off. But even if he did remove it for a few minutes, why would he take off Kevin’s jacket too? It never made any sense to me, and I told that to everyone who was investigating the case.”

“What was their response?”

“They didn’t have one.”

Connor tapped his pen on the tablet. “How long did it take them to find your husband?”

She swallowed. “Three days. They used some type of sonar equipment to locate him. He had a gash on his head, so they assumed he’d stood for some reason in the boat, lost his balance, and fallen. The theory was he’d hit his head on the outboard motor and lost consciousness, tipped the boat as he fell overboard, and drowned.”

The more he heard, the more questions he had about the investigation. But they could get to those later . . . if this went forward.

“Let’s switch gears for a minute and talk about Friday. Three years is a long time in a young child’s life. Your son could have changed dramatically. Why did this boy catch your attention?”

“It wasn’t his appearance, although once I spotted him, he did look exactly the way I’d expect Kevin to look now. I noticed him because he used the word
poppysicle
—a term I’ve never heard any other child use.” She leaned close again, her posture taut. “And this is even weirder. I spotted him on the up escalator as I was going down. When I called his name, he turned toward me—and there seemed to be a spark of recognition in his eyes.”

Intriguing—though not enough to pull her story back from the fringe of plausibility.

She frowned, her knuckles whitening around the cooling mug of coffee. “Look . . . I know this is a huge stretch. Do I think the odds are great that boy was my son? No. Do I think there’s a very remote chance he could be . . . maybe. That’s why I forced myself to come here today and risk more ridicule. I needed to get a professional, unbiased opinion. Yours—or one of your partners.” She watched him, skin pulled tight across her high cheekbones, eyes wary as she waited for his evaluation.

And what
was
his professional opinion?

He didn’t have a clue.

Time for evasive maneuvers.

“I’ll tell you what. Let me think about this, run it by my colleagues. Assuming we all concur it merits investigation, what would you like us to do?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Find the boy from the mall. If you can identify him, prove to me he’s not my son, I’ll be able to let this go. Otherwise, I have a feeling it will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

“Give me until tomorrow. Do you have a cell number where I can reach you?” He jotted down the digits as she recited them, then stood and crossed to his desk. “I’ll give you one of our client forms to take with you. I don’t want to delay you now, but if you could fill it out and fax it back later today, I’d appreciate it.” He withdrew one from his desk, retraced his steps, and handed it over, along with one of his business cards.

She gave the form a quick scan, tucked both items in her briefcase, and stood. “I’ll fit it in. Along with a few prayers.”

So her bracelet was more than jewelry, after all.

“Let me walk you out.”

Cal’s office was dark as they passed, but in his peripheral
vision he caught a glimpse of Dev on the other side of the hall. His partner leaned around the pile of files on the corner of his desk to follow their progress.

No surprise there. Kate was a head turner.

As they entered the lobby, Nikki looked up from her computer screen, raised an eyebrow, and glanced at her watch.

He ignored her.

At the front door, Kate turned to him and extended her hand. “Thank you for not writing my story off as just a strange coincidence.”

The temptation to cocoon her hand between his and warm her cold fingers was strong. Too strong. Again. How bizarre was that? He didn’t typically have problems keeping his emotional distance from clients.

Then again, not many of his clients looked like Kate.

“I learned in the Secret Service to take every story seriously until it was proven otherwise. As for coincidences—I like that old saying about them being small miracles in which God chooses to remain anonymous.”

Her sudden full-watt smile almost short-circuited his brain. “I’ll hold that thought. Talk to you tomorrow.”

She tugged her hand free from his and slipped through the door. As she started down the sidewalk, he leaned sideways to keep her in sight as long as possible.

When he at last turned back to the lobby, Nikki was watching him with a smug expression. The kind she usually reserved for Dev when her uncanny intuitive abilities were fully engaged. He’d always been amused by it. Now that it was directed at him, however, he found it far less humorous.

“What?” A faint edge of irritation crept into his voice.

“You tell me.”

“No. You tell me. I’ve had enough riddles for one day.”

“Our new client brought you a riddle?”

“Let’s just say she has an intriguing story. And she’s not a client yet.”

“She will be.” Nikki swiveled back to her computer screen.

Connor thought about debating that conclusion. Decided against it. In all likelihood, Nikki would trump him, just as she routinely trumped Dev.

Besides, assuming Cal and Dev concurred, Kate Marshall might very well become their next client—at least for a preliminary investigation. The case interested him.

As did the woman.

A fact he did not intend to share with any of his colleagues.

E
verything was going to be okay.

It had to be.

But how in the world had Kate Marshall ended up in St. Louis?

And it was her, no question about it. The white pages didn’t lie. Neither did the
Post-Dispatch
article he’d found on the Net that mentioned her. Besides, the face he’d seen on the escalator last Friday had matched the one buried in the recesses of his memory.

Keeping his son in sight through the kitchen window, Greg Sanders took a swig from his daily predinner beer. He’d prefer something stronger tonight, but he wasn’t going to let his drinking get out of hand again. Been there, done that, big mistake. Alcohol might numb the pain for a while, but the hollow ache always came back. Better to stay sober and deal with problems straight up as he’d done last time—
after
he’d dried himself out and gotten his act together.

Besides, this problem should be much easier to solve. It was really just a waiting game. In a week or two, the incident would fade from Todd’s memory. Although the Marshall woman wasn’t likely to forget it that fast, the odds of her trying to track them down—let alone finding them—were minuscule, and there was
little chance their paths would ever cross again in a city the size of St. Louis. As for the insomnia once again plaguing him—that, too, would pass.

He watched as Todd and the boy from next door dashed from the swing set to the tree house he’d designed and built in the spring with the permission of his landlord, the two kids oblivious to the summer heat. That was youth for you. Too bad he couldn’t tap into their endurance. It would come in handy on the scorching construction sites where he spent his days.

The microwave beeped, and Greg set his beer on the counter. Pot roast tonight, from Trader Joe’s. One of Todd’s favorites. The frozen oven fries he loved would be done in a minute too. And DQ sundaes were on the menu for dessert. Maybe a special meal like this would help distract him from asking any more questions about last Friday.

If it didn’t . . . he’d just have to keep tap-dancing.

After setting the roast on the table, he moved toward the oven—but when his cell began to ring, he detoured to the charger on the built-in desk and scanned caller ID.

Diane.

Shoving his fingers through his hair, he expelled a breath.

This would require a whole different tap-dance routine.

The phone trilled again, and he rested his hand on it. He needed to keep his distance from Diane until Todd stopped asking questions—and remembering stuff he should have forgotten long ago—but he couldn’t lose her. She was the best thing that had happened to him in years. Canceling the standing Saturday night pizza outing for the three of them had about killed him, though his upset-stomach excuse hadn’t been a lie. He’d been queasy since Friday.

He picked up on the third ring and walked back to the window. “How’s the prettiest woman in St. Louis?”

“Lonely.”

The affection in her voice took the edge off her reproach. “Me too.”

“I was thinking about making some of those chocolate chip pecan cookies you and Todd like. I could stop by and drop them off later.”

“Boy, I’d love that.” He put as much warmth into that statement as he could—because she wasn’t going to like the rest of what he had to say. “But the heat zapped me today. By the time we finish dinner and I spend some time with Todd, I’ll be ready to crash. Acclimating to the high temperatures and humidity that kicked in over Fourth of July has been a lot tougher than I expected.”

“I imagine St. Louis is quite a shock after living in Montana.” Her voice cooled a few degrees. “I won’t keep you, then. Why don’t you call me when you’re up for a visitor?”

“Yeah, I will.” The microwave sent out another piercing reminder that dinner was ready, and he jabbed the cancel button. “Listen, Diane, in case you’re worried, I’m not seeing anyone else. But Todd . . . he’s been having some bad dreams, and between that and this upset stomach thing I have going on, I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep. The move was a big change for both of us, and we’re still adjusting. I know life will get back to normal soon, if you can just hang in there a few more days. I promise I’ll make it up to you. We’ll try out that fancy new restaurant you were telling me about last week.”

A few moments of silence ticked by before a soft sigh came over the line. “I’d like that. Sorry if I sounded put out or distrustful, but a philandering husband can do that to a girl.”

The thread of tension in his shoulders eased. “I totally get that—and you don’t have to worry about me on that score. I never once even thought about cheating on my wife. I’m a one-woman-at-a-time man. I’ll call you tomorrow—and maybe by next weekend things will calm down around here so we can make up for the pizza we missed last Saturday.”

“That would be great.” The usual friendliness was back in her voice. “In the meantime, try to stay cool.”

“Good advice.” In more ways than one. “Talk to you later.”

After dropping the phone back in the charger, he moved to the door and pulled it open. “Todd! Dinner’s ready.”

His son acknowledged the summons with a wave, then descended from the tree house by swinging down from a branch monkey-style rather than using the sturdy ladder. Greg started to call out a warning. Caught himself. Instead, he gripped the edge of the door, holding his breath until Todd was on the ground. One of these days he’d get past the urge to overreact whenever his son took risks typical for any kid his age. Todd was healthy and strong and resilient—the way an almost-seven-year-old should be. He didn’t need to be coddled.

Todd called good-bye to his buddy and sprinted toward the house, legs pumping. He skidded to a stop on the stoop as Greg pushed the door wider, then squeezed under his arm.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Nothing until you clean up. Hands, face, and—” Greg eyed the smudges of dirt on his T-shirt—“let’s change this.” He tweaked the sleeve.

“Aw, Dad.”

“I’d hurry if I were you. Otherwise the fries will get cold.”

Todd’s eyes lit up. “You made fries? For real?”

“Yep. Pot roast too.” Not homemade, like the meals Jen used to prepare—but a step up from frozen pizza.

“Whoa! Awesome! I’ll be right back!”

To the background sound of water running and drawers slamming, Greg removed the plastic wrap from the pot roast, slid the oven fries onto a plate, and drained the water from the packaged corn on the cob.

Seconds later, as he removed a baking sheet from the oven, Todd zoomed back in.

“Wow! Rolls too!” His son slid into his chair. “This is almost as good as Thanksgiving. How come you cooked all this stuff?”

As Greg took his seat, guilt crashed over him. Had it been that long since they’d had a nice meal during the week?

Yeah, it had.

And the steady diet of fast food and macaroni and cheese they’d been relying on since he’d taken the construction job and moved them to St. Louis was getting old. He needed to do better, even if he was beat at the end of a full day in the unaccustomed heat.

“I just thought we deserved a treat.” He cut the meat and put several slices on Todd’s plate while the boy helped himself to a generous serving of fries. “And how does a DQ sundae sound for dessert?”

“Yeah! I love those almost as much as poppysicles.”

Greg froze for a split second as he reached for an ear of corn, reliving again that stomach-dropping, this-is-impossible moment on the escalator at the mall.

Time for diversionary tactics, before his son remembered the incident too.

But as he picked up his corn and prepared to switch the topic to baseball, Todd spoke first. “Dad, you remember that lady I asked you about at the mall the other day?”

Too late.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure we don’t know her?”

It was the same question he’d asked a dozen times in the past seventy-two hours. And Greg gave the same answer. “We’re new in town, champ. We don’t know that many people here yet.”

“But we might have met her somewhere else, right?”

“The only other place we’ve been is Montana, and we didn’t see all that many people there.” He chewed a bite of meat, hop
ing it didn’t stick in his craw when he tried to swallow. “Besides, I didn’t get a very good look at her.”

“I did. She had pretty hair, the same color as mine. And she looked right at me, like she knew who I was. I keep thinking I’ve seen her before.” He screwed up his face and twirled a fry in the ketchup he’d squirted on his plate. “Maybe if I think real hard, I’ll remember where.”

Greg’s stomach kinked. That was the last thing he wanted his son to do.

Still . . . how much could Todd possibly call up from memory? According to his research, kids didn’t retain much from such a young age. But could an incident like the one on Friday trigger flashbacks of some sort?

Something to search out on the Net later tonight, after his son was asleep.

In the meantime, he needed to shift this conversation into more neutral territory.

“After we get our sundaes tonight, I thought we might watch the Cardinals game on TV.”

“Yeah!” Todd chomped on the fry. “Who’s pitching?”

They launched into a discussion about the team they’d adopted since moving to St. Louis, the incident on the escalator forgotten.

For now.

But Greg had a sinking feeling the respite would be short-lived.

“So . . .” Dev followed Cal into Connor’s office, shamrock-bedecked mug in hand, and dropped into one of the two chairs across from the desk. “Since you avoided me yesterday until I had to cut out for that surveillance gig, you can tell us both about your hot new client at the same time.”

Connor unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out a file, shooting his auburn-haired partner a disgruntled look as he tossed the keys onto the corner of his desk. “I haven’t even had a chance to get my coffee yet. And what’s with this hot stuff? You’re engaged.”

“But not blind.” Eyes twinkling, Dev lifted his mug in a mock salute and took a sip.

“I’ll get your coffee for you.” Nikki paused in the hall as she passed by the doorway, mug in hand. “I need some more hot water. As for you . . .” She pointed at Dev. “That’s what you’ll be in if I tell Laura what you just said.”

“It was a joke, okay?” Dev sent her a peeved look, then went on the offense. “And how come you’re getting Connor’s coffee? The one time I asked you to refill my mug, I got an earful about political correctness.”

“He didn’t ask. I offered. Big difference.” Nikki swung toward Connor. “Back in a minute with your caffeine fix.”

Cal glanced at his watch. “Not that I want to be a wet blanket, but I’ve got a nine o’clock meeting, so maybe we could move this along?”

“Right.” Leave it to the Phoenix founding partner to rein in the staff and keep things on track. Cal was even more organized than he’d been in their college-buddy days. “My visitor yesterday isn’t a client yet. I wanted to get your take before I pursue this. Her story is unusual, to say the least.”

“Couldn’t be any more unusual than Moira’s vanishing person tale last year—and look what happened in that case. Not only did it turn out to be true, but you two got married.” Dev nudged Cal with his elbow.

Connor folded his hands on the file. “It’s at least as unusual as that.”

“Now I’m intrigued too.” Cal leaned back and crossed an ankle over a knee as he sipped his coffee.

“Here you go.” Nikki sailed back in and set his mug on the desk—along with a plate of coffee cake and some paper napkins.

Dev’s eyes lit up and he leaned closer. “Is that my all-time favorite caramel pecan stollen from McArthur’s?”

Nikki pressed a finger against a stray crumb that had fallen on the desk and shrugged. “I stopped at Great Harvest for a whole-wheat bagel on my way in, and since I was passing by I decided to indulge all of you with this coronary-waiting-to-happen.” She gave the three of them a dark look. “It’s not like my eat-healthy campaign has had much impact on this group, anyway.”

“You are my favorite person in the whole world. And it’s not even my birthday.” Dev helped himself to the largest slice.

She snorted. “Don’t get used to it.”

As she flounced out, Dev grinned after her and took a big bite. “So where were we?”

“Trying to focus on business.” Cal raised an eyebrow at him as he picked up a smaller piece, then turned his attention to Connor.

Taking the cue, Connor jumped back in. “I’m going to give it to you the way Kate Marshall gave it to me. After I get your reactions, I’ll fill you in on what I learned after she faxed me back the completed client questionnaire and Nikki and I did some additional research.” He tapped the file in front of him and launched into her story.

By the time he finished, Cal was frowning and Dev was staring at him, his stollen lying forgotten on the napkin in his lap.

“That’s a peculiar one, all right.” Cal sipped his coffee, his comment measured, thoughtful, and nonjudgmental. Classic Cal.

“Is she a nut, or what?” Typical Dev.

“She’s not a nut.” His reply came out terse. Too terse, based on Dev’s speculative expression. Buying himself a moment to
regain control, he opened the file—even though he’d already committed the key facts to memory. “Kate Stewart was born and raised in Nashville. She attended college on an academic scholarship and went on to get a master’s degree in psychology, emphasis in counseling. Following graduation, she worked as a high school counselor in Chicago until she married Dr. John Marshall and they moved to Hilton, New York. Her husband had a private pediatric practice specializing in neural disorders and conducted internationally recognized research at the University of Rochester.”