Deceived Page 3

  Relax, Kate. What’s the worst that can happen? If he thinks you’re crazy and shows you the door, so what? You’ll never see the man again.

  While that possible outcome bothered her more than seemed warranted, her respiration did even out.

  Better.

  Setting her briefcase on the floor beside her, she wiggled her fingers to get the blood flowing again as she did a sweep of his office. The mahogany furniture was nice—much more upscale than the mismatched stuff in her own work space—but standard issue. The framed family pictures on the credenza behind his desk yielded far more clues about the PI’s personality.

  In the first shot, two preteen boys were flanked by a pleasant-looking man and woman, a panoramic view of the Grand Canyon behind them. Based on the clothing, it had been taken decades ago.

  The closer-up picture beside it was more recent, though still at least fifteen years old. A grinning high-school-age Connor stood beside a slightly older version of himself, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders while the older boy balanced a basketball on his finger.

  Kate scanned the rest of the office. There were no recent photos anywhere; just these two from the past.

  Interesting.

  No evidence of a wife or children, either. And he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  Also interesting.

  The U2 mug on Connor’s desk tipped her off to his taste in music—and reinforced the Irish heritage implied by his name—but she was more curious about the small, three-sided wooden object on the far corner. Its oblong shape suggested it was a nameplate, but the side facing the door was blank.

  With a quick glance toward the hall, she rose and crossed to the desk, leaning sideways to see the slanted face. A star-shaped logo with a blue and red emblem in the center occupied the left side, the words United States Secret Service circling the emblem. So her conclusion about his credentials had been sound. To the right were five words: Worthy of Trust and Confidence. The Secret Service motto, perhaps?

  Returning to her seat, she inspected the citations on the walls. Lifesaving Award. Congressional Commendation. Valor Award. Impressive—and reassuring. A man who was worthy of trust and confidence in one life, whose exemplary service had earned him these kinds of honors, wouldn’t leave his core values behind when he moved on to a new profession.

  Connor Sullivan was the real deal.

  The throbbing in her temple dissipated as her last reservations vanished. She’d see this through, for better or worse. Connor Sullivan would give her as fair and impartial a hearing as she was likely to get anywhere. If he punched holes in her story, if he told her it was impossible to track down the little boy and to give it up, she’d take his advice.

  Because if this man couldn’t help her, she had a feeling no one could.

  Connor filled one of the sage-green guest mugs, set the coffeepot back on the warmer, and smiled. A great cup of coffee, an entertaining joust between Dev and Nikki, and now a beautiful blonde in his office.

  Not a bad way to start a Monday.

  She’s married, Sullivan. You saw the ring.

  Yeah, yeah. He didn’t need a reminder from his conscience to know she was off-limits, married or not, given Phoenix’s unofficial no-fraternizing-with-clients rule. But there was no law against appreciating beauty—and Kate Marshall had been blessed with more than her share. Tall and lithe—at least five-seven or five-eight—she had the build and classic features of a ballerina. Throw in shoulder-length wavy blonde hair parted to the side, jade-colored eyes, and the barest hint of a Southern accent . . . female beauty didn’t come any finer.

  But she was also in some kind of trouble or she wouldn’t be here.

  Connor tapped a finger against the mug balanced in his hands. Curious that she’d come alone—unless her husband was the cause of her distress. Yet he concurred with the word Nikki had written on the pad of paper at her desk. Kate Marshall seemed spooked, not angry or fearful. The absent husband likely wasn’t the problem.

  He pushed off from the counter and strolled toward the door. If she was half as sharp as he suspected, she’d used her three minutes alone to case his office. Hopefully the awards had served their purpose and reassured her he was competent and legit. Without her trust, they’d get nowhere.

  As he retraced his steps down the hall and rejoined her, she gestured toward the walls. “Impressive.”

  Yep. One smart cookie.

  Better yet, mission accomplished.

  He lifted one shoulder and deposited her coffee on the table. “Just doing my job. Let me grab a notebook and pen.” As he moved behind his desk and she took a sip of the brew, he cast her an apologetic look. “I hope that’s not too strong for you.”

  She cradled the mug in her hands, her features softening. “No. My husband liked it this way, and he eventually converted me.”

  Liked. Past tense. But not a divorce, based on her tender expression. A widow, perhaps?

  Connor took one of the two remaining chairs, uncapped his pen, and sent her an encouraging smile. “All right, Ms. Marshall. How can I help you?”

  As she tucked her hair behind her ear, his gaze flicked to her hand. The tremble in her fingers didn’t surprise him, given her obvious tension—but his sudden urge to give them a reassuring squeeze did.

  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. Thoug
h 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.<
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  “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.