Deceived Page 21

  By the time he circled the car, tossed his jacket into the back, and joined her in the front seat, she’d started the car, cranked up the air, and done her best to switch gears.

  “Thanks for inviting me today.” He pulled the seat belt across his lap and clicked it into place. “The service was excellent, and you have a very welcoming congregation.”

  Especially the women—but she left that unsaid.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Now tell me the latest. I’ve been anxious to hear what you’ve discovered.”

  She put the car in reverse and prepared to back out, but he stopped her with a light touch on the arm. Surprised, she looked over at him.

  “Before we leave, let me give you the biggest piece of news. Sanders’s son died three and a half years ago.”

  Kate stared at him. Thank goodness he’d stopped her from exiting the parking space. Otherwise, she might have clipped the bumper of the car beside her when he dropped that bombshell.

  “Does this mean . . .” She took a deep breath and loosened her grip on the wheel. Better not to let her hopes soar until she got his take. “So what do you think all this means?”

  “I think it means we have more reason than ever to keep digging. The so-called accident on Braddock Bay is smelling less and less like an accident every day.”

  She digested that as she cautiously exited the parking spot and drove across the lot. “You’re thinking someone targeted my husband.” Even as she voiced the words, she couldn’t grasp that notion. The idea that anyone would want to hurt a kind, caring, generous man like John was surreal.

  “I’d say that’s a distinct possibility. And since the perpetrator could easily have chosen a different time and place to do that, I don’t think your son’s presence was a coincidence.”

  Pulling onto the road, she glanced over at him and frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Your son may be an integral part of this whole thing.”

  As she drove on autopilot toward her first delivery, she considered that theory. Dear, sweet Kevin in the midst of some kind of conspiracy?

  That didn’t compute, either.

  She sent him a quick look. “If Sanders lived in Cleveland, how could there be any connection between him and my husband or son?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to establish—and it’s why I need your help today. Now that we know David Sanders died young, I’m wondering if your husband’s work might be the link between him and Sanders. We’re going to try to establish a cause of death tomorrow, but did he ever treat patients from outside the Rochester area?”

  “A few. He was gaining quite a reputation for his research on neurological disorders—Batten disease in particular. A lot of parents from around the country who had children with that disorder came to him for a consultation.”

  “Tell me about that disease.”

  “It’s a terrible genetic illness that affects the central nervous system. In many cases it shows up when children are very young—sometimes by age two—and progresses rapidly. Long before victims reach adulthood, they become blind, bedridden . . . and die. There’s no treatment and no cure.”

  She paused to make a right turn onto a residential street, a pang echoing in her heart as she recalled the tragic stories John had told her of suffering children and their desperate parents. “I don’t know how John dealt with the heartbreak day after day. But he cared so much about his patients and their families—and they all loved him, even when he had to tell them the situation was hopeless.”

  Her voice choked as she pulled up beside the curb. Thank goodness this regular customer lived close to church. A couple of minutes’ break would give her a chance to regain control of her emotions.

  “First delivery.” She motioned toward the small bungalow.

  “Do you want me to carry the meal for you?”

  Leaving the car running, she opened her door. “No, thanks. It will be simpler to make a fast escape if I say someone is in the car—though I don’t expect that to be an issue today. Mr. Harrison will probably be glued to the Cardinals game, so it should be a quick handoff.”

  She slid out of the car, retrieved the dinner, and walked toward the front door, slowing her pace to give her emotions a chance to quiet down.

  The older man answered on the second ring, the muffled sound of the baseball game wafting out as he took the meal. After a quick thank-you, he shut the door in her face.

  At least some things were predictable.

  Back in the car, she handed Connor a sheet of printed directions from MapQuest and pulled away from the curb. “Could you guide me to the next place while we talk?”

  “Sure.” He gave the directions a scan, set them in his lap, and focused on her. “You up for this? Because it’s only going to get harder.”

  Great.

  But what had she expected? She’d known that day in the mall how difficult this could get—and crumbling now wasn’t an option. Not when the impossible hope that had seemed so misplaced a mere two weeks ago was slowly edging into the realm of possible.

  Gripping the wheel, she nodded. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “Then let’s talk some more about your husband. Do you still have any contacts in his office? Someone with access to records who could find out if he ever saw Sanders’s son?”

  “I exchange cards and occasional emails with the office manager from the group practice.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “But I don’t want to get her in trouble, and the privacy laws are very strict now.”

  “I know—and I don’t want to subvert the law, either. But I don’t think it would be a problem for her to tell you if he wasn’t a patient. If your husband did see him, she could reply with a no comment.”

  Meaning they would get the information either way.

  Clever.

  “That might work. I’ll email her as soon as I get home.”

  “Good.” He waited while she followed his direction for a turn, then made his next request. “What I’d like you to do is walk me through a typical day in your husband’s life.”

  Her heart began to pound. Talking about the day John died was easy compared to this. After rehashing that account so often for the authorities, she’d learned to tell it with an almost clinical detachment. Their daily life as husband and wife—different story. Did Connor have any idea how hard that would be?

  As if he’d read her mind, he reached out and stroked one long, lean finger across her whitened knuckles. “I’m sorry to have to ask you to do this, Kate. I know dredging up those memories will be painful, but it’s possible some activity you mention, even one that seems ordinary to you, might suggest a line of investigation that will help me establish a connection to Sanders.”

  She looked over at him as she stopped at a red light. Caring, compassionate eyes met hers—and gave her the courage to venture into territory she’d vowed never to revisit. “I’ll do my best.”

  So as they drove to the second house, Connor occasionally interrupting to feed her directions, she told him how she and John had always had breakfast together despite the early hours he kept. How he divided his workweek between seeing patients and doing research. How he often came home late but always made time to chat with her about their respective days. How, once Kevin came along, he cut back on his patient load to have more time for his son.

  She also told him about the accolades and honors he’d received for his work. How he was loved by his patients—even the ones he couldn’t help. How every child he lost to the terrible illnesses ate at his gut. And she talked about the weekly fishing outings during the last summer of his life, a father-son interlude both he and Kevin had cherished.

  When she pulled up in front of the second house, her hands were trembling as she pried them off the wheel.

  The quick glance he cut that direction told her he’d noticed.

  Fighting against the sudden pressure behind her eyes, she fumbled with the door handle. “I’ll be back in a minute. This is a new delivery, so I�
�ll introduce myself and make a fast exit.”

  Without waiting for a response, she slid out of the car, grabbed the insulated container from the backseat, and walked toward the front door of the small house. She was not going to cry. Not now. Later, in the privacy of her condo, maybe. One last time.

  For all that had been . . . and would never be again.

  Two minutes later, after removing the meal from the container and handing it over to the woman recovering from hip surgery, she returned to the car to find Connor behind the wheel.

  When she opened the back door to deposit the insulated case on the seat, he looked over his shoulder. “Why don’t I take the last lap?”

  She thought about arguing. How often had she driven while in much worse emotional shape? But in those instances, she’d had no choice. Today she did. Why not take advantage of a strong shoulder to lean on, if only for a few minutes?

  Capitulating, she slid into the passenger seat. “Thank you.”

  “Not a problem.” He pulled away from the curb. “If you’re wondering about where we go from here, first thing tomorrow I plan to dig deeper into Sanders’s background. We might also get some helpful information from the woman in your husband’s office.”

  “But will it be enough to give law enforcement the evidence it needs to demand a DNA test?”

  “Not likely. I’m just hoping we get a few more leads—because every lead brings us a step closer to solving the case. If we end up needing DNA, though, we’ll find a way to get that hair sample I mentioned before.” He wove through the traffic on the road, his hands on the wheel steady, confident and capable.

  Kind of like the man himself.

  “I’d be happy to help you go through Sanders’s trash, if it comes down to that.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Now why don’t we switch gears for the last few minutes and talk about more pleasant things? Like that yoga reference Pauline Andrews made. Is there a lotus position in your future?”

  Her PI didn’t miss much—even offhand remarks.

  “Not a chance. I prefer my lotuses in the form of flowers. Besides, I can’t fit it in with the demands of my job.”

  “I already know you work long hours. So what’s your typical day like?”

  Prodded by his questions, she told him more about her job than she’d told anyone other than Pauline. The man had amazing listening skills, and based on his astute, insightful questions, he was attuned to things both said and left unspoken. He was also a master at reading between the lines—a skill that no doubt had served him well as a Secret Service agent and was just as valuable in his current profession.

  When at last he pulled back into the church parking lot and stopped beside a white utility van, she was sorry to see her weekly food delivery gig come to an end.

  “Where’s your Taurus?”

  He set the brake. “We play musical vehicles at Phoenix. The van is my wheels for this month.” He shifted around to snag his jacket off the backseat. “I’d invite you to Starbucks for a quick drink if I didn’t have to be at my own church in half an hour to coach our middle-school basketball team.”

  A guy who not only went to church but volunteered for a youth activity.

  The man got better and better.

  “I’ll take a rain check.”

  “I’ll remember that. Shall we brave the heat?”

  “I guess so. I climbed over the gearshift once to get to the drivers’ seat after someone parked too close to me at a shopping mall, but I was wearing sweats. I’m not dressed for those kinds of maneuvers today.”

  “I noticed.” The appreciative perusal he gave her belted silk dress and open-toed high heels more than validated her decision to sacrifice comfort for fashion, despite the heat.

  After a few charged seconds, he angled away and opened his door.

  She did the same, though the muggy air did nothing to cool her down as she circled behind the car.

  He was waiting beside the driver’s door as she approached—jacket hooked over his shoulder, dark sunglasses now hiding his eyes. “Better get inside before you melt.”

  Excellent advice.

  Yet as she looked up at him, the spark of electricity that jumped between them—more sizzling than the waves of heat radiating up from the pavement—held her in place.

  Had he felt that high-voltage jolt too?

  Hard to tell, with those sunglasses—until he lifted his hand, touched her cheek . . . and spoke in a voice that had gone a shade deeper. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Innocuous words. Businesslike, even.

  But as she slid behind the wheel, as he closed her door and strode toward his van, she suspected his air conditioner was about to be cranked up as high as hers.

  No question about it; romance was in the air.

  Yet until she had definitive answers about the little boy in the mall, her love life was low priority.

  In the meantime, she would do everything she could to help find those answers—including sending a very important email.

  ASAP.

  17

  Out of the corner of his eye, Connor saw Nikki come to an abrupt halt at his door on her way from the back entrance to the lobby.

  “You’re either picking up Dev’s messy habits or you got a very early start on your Monday.” She surveyed his littered desk. “Please tell me it’s the latter.”

  “It’s the latter.”

  “Whew. What a relief. One like Dev is enough.”

  “Enough for what?” Dev’s question was followed by the bang of the back door.

  Nikki sent him a withering look. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “Good morning to you too.” Dev stopped behind her and inspected Connor’s desk over her shoulder. “Did you stop in over the weekend?”

  “No, but I did work on the case a lot since Friday. I’ve been focusing on Sanders this morning. As soon as Cal gets here, I’d like to have a powwow. You too, Nikki.”

  Dev groaned. “That means he has a job for you. There goes my filing. Again.”

  “Quit complaining. I swung by on Saturday and got you caught up.” As Dev’s expression grew sheepish, she narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell me. You came in over the weekend too, and pulled out a mound of stuff that now needs refiling.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a mound.”

  Nikki glowered at him, and Connor reined in his grin as she turned his way. “I’ll be ready for the meeting whenever you are.” After directing another dark look toward her nemesis, she disappeared down the hall. A few seconds later, a muttered “Oh, good grief!” came from the vicinity of Dev’s door.

  Dev leaned back and called down the hall, “If you cut the dramatics, I’ll bring you a latte tomorrow.”

  “That hardly makes up for ruining my Monday morning . . . but I’ll take it.” The door to the lobby banged shut behind her.

  “Women.” Grumbling under his breath, Dev propped a shoulder against the door. “You want to give your basketball buddy a preview of what you found?”

  “Nope. I need to dig through some more material that just came in. Let’s plan on nine.”

  “Fine. Make me wait.” He looked down the hall after Nikki. “Maybe I’ll get a present for the kid. That might put me back in her good graces.”

  “Until the next time you dump a bunch of filing on her first thing on a Monday morning.”

  “Yeah. Probably not the best timing.”

  “You know . . . you might want to work on that timing thing before you get married. How did the housecleaning go, by the way? Was Laura impressed?”

  “I dazzled her with my barbecuing instead.”

  “Meaning you didn’t finish the vacuuming?”

  “Almost. See you at nine.”

  As Dev made a fast exit, Connor shook his head and shifted his attention to the stacks of material on his desk.

  By the time the Phoenix team assembled fifty minutes later, he’d organized his notes—and come up with an investigative plan that involved all of t
hem.

  He brought them up to speed on his weekend work, ending with the call he’d put in to the Ohio Vital Statistics office first thing this morning. Then he distributed a printout of the timeline he’d created, beginning with the death of Sanders’s wife.

  “As you can see, our guy had some serious back-to-back setbacks. His wife dies. Three months later, his employment ends for reasons unknown. A year and a half after that, his son dies. Weeks later, his house is foreclosed on—not long before the so-called accident in New York. He then drops off the radar for four months, resurfacing in Montana. There’s no record of employment from the construction job in Cleveland to the one in St. Louis last March.”

  Cal took a sip of coffee as he reviewed the timeline. “No apparent income for five years. What was he living on?”

  “Fumes.” Connor pulled another sheet of paper out of the stack in front of him. “Since we’re all ex–law enforcement types who try to abide by the rules as much as possible, I contacted our data broker in the UK in the early hours of the morning to see what kind of credit information he could dig up on Sanders.”

  When Cal squinted at him, Connor jumped back in before the senior partner could deliver the anticipated lecture. “You don’t need to say it. I know that’s pushing the boundaries of the Fair Credit Reporting Act.”

  “Pushing might be an understatement.”

  “I consider it a gray area—unlike Dev’s blatant vandalism when he was working his fiancée’s case.”

  “Hey.” Dev straightened up in his seat. “Breaking a window isn’t a federal offense. And it was life or death.”

  “Only verified after the fact. And my gut tells me this information may be life or death too. If Sanders killed my client’s husband and kidnapped her child, I feel no compunction about stretching the margins of the law to the max to gather data that will lead us to the proof we need.”

  Cal looked at him for a moment, then settled back in his chair. “Fine. Cut to the chase. What did our UK guy dig up?”

  Consulting the paper in front of him, Connor exhaled. As straitlaced as Cal was about legalities, he could have taken him to task for jumping the gun. Their offshore information broker was always a last resort, and in truth he could have tried a few other avenues first. But he was anxious to move this case along for both personal and professional reasons—and he suspected Cal knew that.