Deceived Page 28

  But both the home and the people had been stolen from him. God hadn’t listened to his prayer for either Jen or David, nor had the high and mighty John Marshall deigned to authorize the one treatment that had any hope of extending his son’s life.

  And now the man’s wife was threatening to disrupt his world yet again.

  He crossed to the recycle bin by the back door and flung the empty bottle inside. It shattered . . . reminding him how he’d felt inside the day the nurse had quietly turned off all the machines that had been keeping David alive.

  And in the silence of that lonely hospital room, holding on to the cooling hand of his dead son, he’d vowed to get even.

  Months later, after a numbing detour into alcoholic stupor, he’d succeeded.

  Failure hadn’t been an option back then.

  Nor was it an option now.

  Clenching his fists, he forced himself to take a deep breath. To think with his mind, not his heart, as he resumed his pacing.

  Okay. So he didn’t know how Kate had gotten that photo of Todd. But if she had any proof to substantiate her suspicions, the authorities would be snooping around, asking questions. Since they weren’t, she must not have any credible evidence. Nor would she easily get it. He’d covered his tracks well.

  With the right people doing the tracking, however, there was a small possibility she could begin to make troublesome connections. And in light of that picture she had of Todd, there was a chance she had those kinds of people on the job.

  Yet Todd had never had a studio portrait taken.

  Unless . . .

  He stopped pacing. Maybe it wasn’t a photo of Todd at all. Maybe it was one of those age-progression images they talked about on the TV detective shows. That would explain the studio look. In fact, it might be the only way to explain the plain blue background Diane had described.

  But just because an age-progressed photo of her son resembled Todd didn’t prove anything. Lots of people had doubles.

  Still . . . he didn’t have a good feeling about any of this. And if Kate Marshall was on his trail, leaving town wouldn’t protect him. On the contrary. Taking a drastic step like that would only heighten suspicion.

  He dropped into a chair and raked his fingers through his hair. Would it be better to sit tight and hope she eventually gave up trying to prove her case, or was there something he could do to stop her from pursuing her quest?

  Like what?

  What did he know about her that might help him eliminate any threat?

  She was addicted to Valium.

  As Diane’s words echoed in his mind, Greg propped his elbows on the table. Could he use that knowledge to his advantage?

  Thirty seconds ticked by while he toyed with that question. No plan came to mind—but his gut told him the information had potential . . . and that he needed to be prepared to capitalize on it.

  At least he had Valium on hand. He’d only used a few of the pills his doctor prescribed after David died, since alcohol had done a much better job relieving his anxiety. Were they still potent after three years? A quick search on the Net later would give him that answer.

  But suppose the walls began to close in on him? Suppose the Marshall woman found some piece of evidence provocative enough to interest law enforcement before he had a chance to eliminate the threat?

  In that case, his options would be reduced to one.

  He’d have to disappear. Start over. Assume a new identity, like government-protected witnesses did in the WitSec program.

  To do that, though, he and Todd would need new documents. Birth certificates. Social security numbers. A driver’s license for him. It was important to have those on hand ASAP—just in case.

  Time to contact Emilio.

  Greg stood and grabbed his keys off the counter. On the off chance his phones were being monitored, calling the man from home or on his cell wouldn’t be smart. Better to use a pay phone—like the one in the hall near the DQ restrooms.

  He moved to the door into the living room, where his son remained focused on the cartoon mayhem splashed on the screen.

  “Hey, champ, want to go to DQ for a sundae?” He jiggled the keys.

  Todd twisted his neck to look back at him. “For real?”

  “Yep.”

  “Awesome!” He aimed the remote at the TV. A second later the screen went blank, and he began tugging on his shoes. “I wish Diane had stayed longer. She could have gone with us.”

  “Yeah. But I’m thinking about asking her to go out for pizza with us tomorrow night.”

  Todd stopped tying his shoes. “In the middle of the week?”

  “You have a problem with that?” He conjured up a grin.

  “No way! That’d be cool!” He finished tying the laces and jumped to his feet, face beaming. “I sure like it when we do stuff together, Dad.”

  “Me too.” And he planned to keep doing father/son things for a long time to come. “Why don’t you wash your hands and change that shirt, then we’ll head out?”

  “Awesome.” Todd zoomed toward the hall, and a moment later the sound of running water filtered into the living room.

  Greg returned to the kitchen, grabbed some change out of the bowl on the counter, and retrieved Emilio’s letter from the address book in the desk. The man would come through for him, of that he had no doubt. And after this, he’d consider their debt fully paid. Because if he had to disappear, he’d never again contact anyone from his former life. It would be too risky.

  But that was fine. He’d have Todd, and in the end, that’s all that mattered. Giving up Diane would be hard—but maybe someday, down the road, he’d find someone else to love. There had to be more Dianes out there.

  “I’m ready, Dad.” Todd dashed into the kitchen.

  Greg’s jaw compressed into a firm line. “So am I.”

  As her doorbell rang at nine-thirty, Kate adjusted the belt on the capris she’d donned after her quick shower and tried to ignore the small mic taped to her skin, under her blouse. This still felt deceitful—but Connor was right. If she’d read Diane wrong and the woman was trying to get information for Sanders, Connor needed to hear what was being said.

  On the other hand, if Diane was here to help, that should be obvious very early in the conversation and she could bring Connor in, keeping everything aboveboard.

  A quick peek through the peephole confirmed the identity of her visitor. After unlocking the deadbolt, she took a calming breath and pulled open the door.

  “Hi, Diane. Sorry this had to be so late.”

  “I’m just glad you were willing to see me.” The woman entered, Coach purse gripped in her fingers, eyes troubled. John had always said money didn’t buy happiness, and her visitor was living proof of that.

  “Let’s sit in the living room.” She gestured to her left and ushered the woman in. “Can I offer you a soda or some tea?”

  “No, thanks.” Diane chose one of the upholstered chairs beside the fireplace.

  Kate sat on the couch, a few feet away. Connor had told her the mic was powerful and she didn’t need to worry about staying too close, but why take chances?

  “You have a nice place.” The woman looked around.

  “Thanks. It feels a bit big sometimes for one person, but I do like the layout.”

  Silence fell between them, and Kate crossed her legs while Diane fidgeted with her purse, her body language spelling tension in capital letters—shoulders hunched, face taut, respiration shallow. She was in far worse shape than she’d been during their session yesterday in the office.

  Her first instinct as a counselor was to spend a few minutes trying to put the woman at ease. But this was Diane’s show. So she waited her out.

  “I need to tell you something. Then I have a question.” Diane’s knuckles whitened around her bag. “The first time I visited your office . . . while you were making us some tea . . . I got up to stretch my legs. I walked past your desk, and I accidentally knocked a file off your desk. A picture of a li
ttle boy slid out.”

  A surge of adrenaline zipped through Kate. Given Diane’s visit to Sanders’s house tonight, she had to have seen the resemblance to his son—and had likely told the man about the picture, putting him on alert.

  Not good.

  Who knew what he might do if he thought they were closing in?

  Trying to rein in her panic, Kate leaned forward, reminding herself she wasn’t supposed to know about the connection between her new client and Sanders. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “After we talked yesterday . . . after you told me about your son . . . a lot of things started to add up.”

  Her adrenaline spiked again. “What do you mean?”

  Diane twisted her hands in her lap. “That boy in the picture in your office . . . he looks just like the son of a friend of mine. This friend . . . he said Todd was adopted, but . . .” She combed trembling fingers through her hair, distress darkening her eyes. “I’m not sure I believe that anymore. He asked me to visit you again, to see if I could find out anything about the picture. But when I went over to Greg’s tonight—that’s my friend—and told him what you said yesterday, I got really bad vibes. I also got the feeling he knew more than he was telling me. This thing is driving me crazy, and I hoped you might be able to clear up the mystery about how you’re connected to Greg’s son.”

  Unless the woman was an Academy-Award-quality actress, her distress—and doubts—were real. She was on their side, Kate was certain of it.

  But before she tipped their hand, she needed to make certain Connor concurred.

  Standing, she spoke their agreed-upon affirmative code phrase as she moved to the front window. “I’m glad you came. Let me shut the drapes so we have more privacy.”

  She reached for the pull, looking across the street to where Connor had parked. A lighter flicked on. Burned for a moment. Went out.

  One light.

  He agreed they should both talk to the woman.

  Kate closed the drapes, retook her seat, and leaned toward Diane.

  “The photo you saw in my office is an age-progressed image of my son, showing how he would look today. You’re obviously friends with Greg Sanders. I saw him and the boy in the mall three weeks ago, and was so shaken by the encounter I hired a private investigator. After a lot of digging, he was able to identify your friend. We suspect the boy he calls his son may be my Kevin. I talked to the PI about your call tonight, and he’s outside now, in his car. I’d like to bring him in so he can hear what you have to say.”

  All the color had drained from Diane’s cheeks. “I don’t want to get Greg in trouble.”

  “If he’s in trouble, you’re not the cause.” Kate touched her hand. “I want my son back, Diane. I’ve already lost three precious years with him. Years that can never be made up. I’ve mourned for him, night after night. Even now, I sometimes wake up and think I hear his voice calling me, like he used to. Wanting a drink of water or his blankie or . . .” Her words choked, and the room blurred as moisture clouded her vision.

  Compassion flooded Diane’s face, and she touched her hand. “I’ll talk to your PI.”

  “Thank you.” Fighting to regain her composure, Kate dug her cell out of the pocket of her capris and tapped in Connor’s number. He picked it up instantly.

  “She says you can come in.”

  “I’m already on my way.”

  Kate set the phone on the coffee table. “He’ll be right here.”

  As she started to rise, Diane restrained her with a touch, her features strained. “If Todd is your son, how do you think . . .” She swallowed. “Do you know how Greg got him?”

  “No.” She’d leave it to Connor to get into theories if he thought that was wise.

  “So it’s possible he’s just an innocent party in all this? I mean, except for the past few weeks when he hasn’t been all that attentive, he’s been a nice guy.”

  The desperate hope in the woman’s eyes tugged at Kate’s heart. Innocent, however, wasn’t a word she’d use to describe Sanders—no matter how this played out. Not after the furtive look he’d cast her direction in the mall and the way he’d hustled the boy out of sight.

  “I don’t know.” It was the best she could offer, but from the droop of Diane’s shoulders, it wasn’t sufficient.

  The doorbell rang, and she turned away to answer it, leaving the other woman slumped in her chair. Though Diane had been concerned enough to seek answers late on this Tuesday night, it was also obvious she still cared about Sanders. And disillusioned or not, if her heart was involved, she could shift her loyalty back to him unless they convinced her the man might be guilty of far worse crimes than neglecting a girlfriend.

  She could only hope her instincts about the woman were sound, and that Diane would realize it was in her own best interest to play it cool with Sanders until this thing was resolved.

  If she didn’t, if she told Sanders he was being investigated, the man might take off before they could get their DNA sample.

  But Connor wouldn’t let that happen. He was a pro. A man used to assessing risks, protecting people, keeping the enemy in his sights. Sanders wouldn’t be able to elude him. Everything would be fine.

  It had to be.

  Because she’d already set her heart on welcoming a seven-year-old boy who liked poppysicles into her home—and her arms.

  Connor read the concern on Kate’s face the instant she opened the door—and it wasn’t misplaced.

  They were taking a risk trusting Diane Koenig.

  But his client had excellent instincts, and from what he’d heard, he was comfortable she’d made the right call. Diane didn’t sound as if she was solidly in Sanders’s camp, and after they finished speaking with her, he hoped any lingering loyalty she felt for the man would evaporate.

  “Everything’s going to be fine.” He kept his voice low as he gave her arm a reassuring squeeze.

  With a nod, she stepped back to usher him in, then led the way to the living room, where she made the introductions.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Diane.” He smiled and held out his hand to the blonde.

  Eyes guarded, she stood to return his greeting. Her fingers were ice cold, and a pulse thumped in the hollow of her neck, but as she gave him a once-over, the taut line of her shoulders relaxed slightly. Stopping at home to change clothes had paid dividends, as he’d expected. A woman who wore designer labels and drove an expensive car was apt to be a lot more impressed by the Armani sport jacket, Ralph Lauren dress shirt, and Gucci tie he kept in reserve for meetings with well-heeled clients than the jeans and T-shirt he’d been wearing when they’d spotted her leaving Sanders’s house.

  “Diane, Connor is a former Secret Service agent. His partners at the PI firm are an ex-ATF agent and a former St. Louis County police detective.”

  As Kate added that bit of information, the wariness in the woman’s eyes diminished.

  “Why don’t we sit?” Connor gestured toward the chairs and sofa.

  Kate took a seat across from Diane, leaving him the sofa—the closest spot to the woman.

  “Diane said when she saw Greg Sanders earlier tonight, she got some bad vibes. I already filled her in on the basics of the case.” Kate gave him an abbreviated recap of the conversation he’d already heard.

  After she finished, he took over. “Why don’t you tell me more about these bad vibes, Diane?”

  Her throat worked. “It’s just that some . . . weird . . . things have been happening, and Greg didn’t address any of them.”

  “What kind of weird things?”

  As she told her story, including Todd’s escalator nightmare and the incident at the lake, he glanced at Kate—and read her thoughts in her eyes.

  With or without DNA, I know that boy is my son.

  He agreed.

  But they needed the DNA before law enforcement would step back in.

  “Even though Greg’s been acting kind of odd lately, I can’t believe he would be involved in anything
. . . illegal.” Diane rubbed at the frown lines embedded in her forehead as she finished.

  “What do you mean by odd?”

  She shrugged. “We had a good thing going for the past couple of months, then all of a sudden he pulled back. I was afraid maybe he’d met someone else, but he says he hasn’t. He claims Todd is having some adjustment problems and they need more one-on-one time together . . . but now I’m thinking his withdrawal may be related to all of this.”

  “That would be my guess.” Connor leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “How much do you know about Sanders?”

  “I know he lived in Montana for a while, after his wife passed away. He moved there from Cleveland. And he told me Todd was adopted.”

  “Did you know that a year and a half after his wife died, he also lost his young son to a fatal neurological disease?”

  Diane’s eyes widened. “No.”

  “We also have reason to believe Kate’s husband, who was a physician and an expert on that disease, didn’t endorse an experimental treatment in China for Sanders’s son when he was contacted by your friend’s insurance company.”

  Her mouth slackened, and he gave her a few moments to digest that new information.

  “Are you suggesting that . . . do you think Greg was involved in . . .” She looked at Kate. Back toward him. Swallowed. “You don’t think the drowning was an accident, do you?”

  “Not anymore. We have evidence Sanders was in the vicinity of Braddock Bay when Kate’s husband died.”

  The woman’s face lost its last vestige of color. “Then why aren’t you going to the police?”

  “Everything we have is circumstantial. Once we have definitive proof, we’ll hand it over to the FBI.”

  A tear leaked out of Diane’s eye. “Boy, I know how to pick winners, don’t I? First an abuser, now a . . . criminal. What’s that old saying—fool me once . . . ?”

  “Don’t blame yourself for this one.” Connor touched her hand. “From everything we’ve been able to learn about Sanders, he loved his family deeply and has taken excellent care of the boy he calls his son. He isn’t a career criminal.”