Relative Strangers (11 page)

"What are you talking about?"

"Our buds Turner and Dillon are tracking down a sweet thing in Florida that looks a lot like you but ain't you."

Margot's heart began to thud in her ears. "What?"

" 'Course, the boss didn't bother to fill them in on the details. They think they're hauling your ass back to him just like I'm supposed to. Shit, I'd love to see how this plays out, but we just made us a deal."

Shivering, she hugged her arms across her chest. "I need to use the bathroom before we go."

"You were just in the bathroom."

"What do you care? There's no way to get out, remember?"

His grin widened. "Take your time."

In the bathroom, Margot washed her face with shaking hands. Her ears were ringing, her mouth swollen where he had struck her. The water stung the split in her lip.

Bracing her hands on the sink, she stared into her own eyes in the mirror.
"Turner and Dillon are tracking down a sweet thing in Florida that looks a lot like you but ain't you."

Last year, Slater had asked her if there was anything, anything at all, she wanted that she didn't already have. She'd told him years before that she was adopted, but she'd never asked him to try to find the sister she'd never known. She'd always planned to do that on her own once she broke away from him, once she lived a life that wasn't criminal. At the time, that life no longer appeared to be imminent, so she'd asked him to do it.
"Find my sister for me, Slater. You would

make me the happiest woman in the world. "
A few months later, Beau Kama happened. Margot forced back the despair so she could concentrate on what she needed to do now. Jake thought he was smart, but Slater had taught her to be smarter than the average thug.

When she left the bathroom, Jake was standing by the door, the keys to Holly's Mustang dangling from his hand. "Looky what I found," he said. "New wheels."

Chapter 10

"I want a lawyer."

The man who'd arrested her, Special Agent Stan or Sam Loomis—Meg couldn't remember which—took his time removing his jacket, revealing a white, coffee-stained shirt. As he loosened the navy tie at his throat, he called out to no one in particular, "Somebody get the lady a lawyer."

Meg glanced at the large mirror on one wall of the room, which was about the size of a small walk-in closet. Apparently, they had an audience, and she wondered whether Ryan Kama was watching from behind that one-way glass.

The FBI agent sniffed hard as he flipped open a legal pad. "You don't mind if I ask you a few questions while we wait for your lawyer, do you, Miss . . . ," he made a big show of checking his notes, "Grant?"

She sat back in the creaky, gray metal folding chair, slouching in spite of herself. "Fine." She had nothing to hide, and she just wanted this to be over. The sooner she answered his questions, the sooner they would all find out who she was and she could get the hell out of here. And the sooner she Would be able to find out something more about Dayle. All she had been able to get out of him was that federal agents were scouring the beach area where she and Ryan had last seen her.

"Let's start with you telling me what you were doing October fifteenth," Loomis said.

The date—her birthday—startled her, but she had no trouble remembering what she did that day. "I spent most of the day at work, as a reporter in Arlington Heights, Illinois."

Loomis lit a cigarette, blowing a cloud of smoke into the already stuffy room. "You're awfully quick with that answer. Are you sure you don't want to think about it some more?"

"No. On October fifteenth, I worked. All day."

"We'll have to verify that, of course."

"Go ahead."

He narrowed bloodshot eyes. "Don't waste my time."

She didn't know how to respond, so she just stared at him, her gaze level.

Leaning forward, he tapped the end of his pen on the table in front of her. "I've been looking for you for a very long time. However long this takes is fine with me."

"I'm not her."

Sitting back, he cocked his head to one side. "Do you know what happens to pretty women in prison?"

"Don't tell me you're going to go down that street. It's such a cliche."

"You'll be popular, trust me," he said with a small smile.

"Except I'm not going to prison because I didn't do anything wrong. If you want to nail a criminal that bad, I'd suggest taking a look at Ryan Kama. He's committed all kinds of crimes. Kidnapping. Aggravated assault—"

"Harboring a fugitive," he said, blowing a stream of smoke through his nose.

She didn't look away because she knew that's what he wanted. He wanted her cowed. But she knew better than to show any sign of weakness that he could somehow exploit. "I don't suppose there's a lawyer waiting to see me."

He stubbed out his cigarette with controlled taps. "You know what will happen to you if you manage to convince me that you're not Margot Rhinehart, don't you?"

"I imagine you'll let me go."

"And where would you go?" he asked.

"Home sounds pretty good."

"There are some nasty people looking for you, Margot."

"I'm not Margot."

"One of those people put those bruises on your throat."

She swallowed against the soreness. "Lucky for me, he's in your custody."

"Maybe not for long."

"What does that mean?"

"It might work better for me to cut him loose, maybe see where he leads me," he said. "If I cut you loose, too, what do you think might happen?"

She didn't answer as she remembered the man's brutal hands on her throat, cutting off her air.
"You must think I'm stupid, Mags."

"The thing is," Loomis said, lowering his voice as if they were conspiring, "I can protect you from thugs like him. All you have to do is be straight with me. Tell me about Slater Nielsen."

"I don't know anyone by that name."

"He had your lover killed. Don't you want to fuck him over for that? This is your chance. Right here, right now."

"I don't have a lover," she said, chagrined to hear the tremor in her voice.

"Not now you don't. And if I were you, I'd be pretty damned pissed off."

Meg pushed herself out of the chair, clenching one hand into a tight fist.
Keep it together.
In the mirror's reflection, she saw the detective reach for a fresh cigarette. Helpless anger made drawing a breath difficult, and she told herself to ride it out. He'd realize his mistake. He had to.

Loomis sat back as he lit the cigarette, as relaxed as a man at a bar with a drink in his hand. Narrowing his eyes through the smoke that swirled around his head, he said, "How about this, Margot? I've got Turner Scott sitting in the next room. Before I came in here, he was eager to chat me up about you."

She faced him. "I don't know who he is."

"Turner Scott's the man who tried to strangle you, Margot."

"Because he tried to kill me, that means I'm supposed to know him?" Hysteria crept forward, and she struggled to hold it back.

Loomis rapped a thick knuckle on his legal pad. "Thanks to Mr. Scott, I've got fourteen pages here about you. I've got stuff on you that would put you away so long that the only way you'd leave the slammer is in a pine box." He flipped through the pages. "Jewel heists, cons, home burglaries, museum thefts, insurance fraud. Shall I continue?"

"That's not about
me.
It's about a woman who apparently looks a lot like me."

"That's an old line, Margot. Why don't you try something new?"

"Why don't you try doing your job? You've got the wrong woman."

He rose, unperturbed. "I'm going to show you something that might persuade you to reconsider your level of cooperation."

He opened the door, and as a young man in a suit wheeled in a TV and VCR, Loomis gestured for her to sit. She did because exhaustion and fear had made her legs weak.

He pressed play on the VCR, and Meg watched the black-and-white tape with mounting alarm. The woman on the TV worked fast, her expression determined, unaware that a security camera placed above her head was recording her crime.

Anyone unfamiliar with every angle and nuance of Meg's face could easily have mistaken her for this woman. The hair had the same curls, the same wisps that aggravated Meg every day. The eyes were the same shape. She imagined that if the tape were in color, those eyes would be the same deep-sea emerald green, the hair the same dark auburn-brown.

When the tape was over, Loomis ejected it and popped in another one. Now, the same woman stumbled out of what appeared to be the front door of a house, her face contorted with terror, her hands dark and wet, her hair wild. She half-fell, half-leapt off the porch and was gone. All that she left behind was a smeared hand print on the front wall.

Loomis hit the pause button and looked down at Meg, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. "Both tapes were made at Beau Kama's home on October fifteenth, the first in the early hours of the afternoon, using a fancy, new-fangled camera designed by KamaTech's security chief. Perhaps your lover, Mr. Beau Kama, told you about him. Nick Costello?"

Meg shook her head, numb.

"Right," Loomis said, his tone laden with sarcasm. "The second tape was made later that night, just after a woman called nine-one-one." Sitting across from her, he slipped back into his conspiratorial manner. "You called for help. That works in your favor."

"That isn't me," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "I don't know who that is." The possibilities tumbled through her exhausted brain. "I was adopted. Maybe she's ..." She trailed off, staring at the frozen image on the TV screen. "Maybe we're related."

He gave her a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "This is the deal, Margot. I'm only going to offer it once. Give me Slater Nielsen, and there's a chance you could score immunity."

Meg shot to her feet, slamming a fist on the table. "Damn it, I'm not jerking you around here. Call the newspaper in Fort Myers, talk to my editor. Check my fingerprints against hers. Go to my house. I have yearbooks from high school with pictures of me, with my name—Meg Grant—all over them."

Bored now, Loomis fished in his pocket for a lighter. "I suppose I could let the newspapers know the FBI has secured the testimony of a woman with intimate knowledge of Nielsen's crime syndicate. Perhaps I could give them a nice little mug shot of you to run with the story. Then let's just say I let you go. Hell, I'm not going to need your testimony for a few months at least. I'll give you a minute to picture it, Margot."

Meg began to pace, raking her hands back through her hair. Perspiration had plastered ringlets of it to the sides of her neck.
Shit shit shit.

The agent blew more smoke into the smoke-choked room, content to let her pace.

Meg, her heart pounding in fury, in fear, took a deep breath and faced him. "I'm done talking," she said, her voice low with tension. "I want a lawyer. Now."

"You're making a mistake, Margot," he said.

"You're making the mistake if you don't get me a fucking lawyer now."

The chair legs screeched against the floor as he stood. Glaring at her for a moment, he seemed to be considering another tack. Then, shaking his head in disgust, he went to the door.

Alone and shaking, Meg tried to talk herself back into control. Her head ached, and her brain felt as if it were short-circuiting.

The room was too close and warm.

Dayle was probably dead.

Close to caving in on herself, Meg lowered herself to a chair and cradled her head in her hands.

As Special Agent Loomis walked into his tiny, dusty office, Ryan rose from the chair he had occupied for the past two hours.

"How is she?" he asked.

"She's not talking," Loomis said, tossing his cigarettes onto his cluttered desk. "Other than to insist that she's not Margot Rhinehart."

"Maybe she's telling the truth. What I saw at her house was pretty convincing."

"Don't let her fool you, Mr. Kama. People like her are experts." He sat in the worn leather chair behind the desk. "We'll know soon enough anyway. I've got people checking her story in Fort Myers and Illinois, and we'll have a read on the fingerprints any minute."

"I want to see her."

"Sorry, Mr. Kama. Only person who's going to see the lady is a lawyer."

Ryan nodded. "I called someone in Tampa. She should be here soon."

Loomis leaned way back, seeming to test the strength of the chair, and propped his feet on the desk. "Now why would you go to the trouble of doing that when we've already summoned a lawyer?"

Ryan had no clue. Other than he worried he'd made a horrible mistake getting the FBI involved. Not only had he given up control of the situation, but he feared for Meg's safety. Slater Nielsen was a powerful man. Arranging a hit at a small FBI field office like this one might be even easier than Ryan could imagine.

He told himself that he was being paranoid. But, damn it, he had a right to be. He'd underestimated Nielsen and his people. One woman might already be dead because of it. And the thug who'd attacked Meg had had no problem finding her on the yacht.