The only time he’d gone against his gut he’d paid heavily for it. He’d trusted someone dear to him. So dear that Ray had begun to think of Paul as the son he’d never had. He’d opened his heart to Paul McAffee. Shared his secrets. His hopes. And, his idea for a drug that would make them both richer than any oil sheik.
“What do people desire more than money? More than sex? More than a luxury vehicle in the driveway of their five-thousand-square-foot house?” he’d asked the chemist he’d taken under his wing right out of college.
“Eternal youth.” That was the answer. “Give them something that slowed—possibly even reversed—the aging process and people would gobble it up like candy. They’d mortgage their children’s inheritances to pay for it.”
True, there had been setbacks in the development. A few tragic losses during the experimental tests. But a certain loss-to-benefit ratio was to be expected. Everyone knew that. How could Paul not have seen that the overall benefit outweighed the risks? Why hadn’t Paul trusted him? Believed in him?
Paul, the scientist, had read the research data differently. He’d theorized that the drug would be responsible for more birth defects than thalidomide—horrible, multi-generational birth defects that ultimately would cost the company every penny the drug earned and then some.
“We’ll be paying for this forever,” Paul had cried.
Forever?
How stupid was that? How could Paul have failed to see that the initial gain would have given them nine months’ worth of profit before any supposed birth defects showed up? It would have taken another three to five years in litigation before any court proved their drug had been responsible for the birth defects. Even if the Federal Drug Administration took their miracle cure off the shelves, the world market and black market would have continued to line their pockets with gold. In the time the courts would have taken to find either of them personally responsible, Ray and Paul would have reaped fortunes that could easily have insulated them from any fallout. They could have lived like kings in places that had never heard of their drug and didn’t believe in extradition.
But Paul hadn’t seen it that way. He’d gone to the government with his research—the proof, he’d claimed—that the test results the company had provided the FDA were falsified.
Betrayal came in many forms.
As did retribution.
“Prepare the jet. I want to check this out myself. I would recognize Paul no matter what he did to disguise himself.”
Chapter 7
Liz was glad Zeke had suggested meeting for coffee, instead of at his office. She didn’t carry the same antipathy toward law enforcement as some members of her family did, but she didn’t want to make a big deal over this. She’d done her part by reporting the incident, right? The rest was up to the families of the three boys who had hassled her.
“So, what happened to them? Some public service, I hear.”
They were sharing a table near the back of the room. No window seat for Zeke. From the first day she met him, she’d privately likened him to an old-West marshal. Not that he resembled one—his close-cropped hairstyle was very modern, but he carried himself with a certain dignity that went with a badge and a gun.
“Lip service for the judge’s benefit. Junior is a piece of work, just like his old man. The other two snots left my office crying. I’m pretty sure I got through to them. That Eli kid, though? I have a feeling I’ll be seeing him again.”
She watched him drink from the clunky white mug he’d asked for. Despite its trendy name, the Bean Pod wasn’t a hip place with forty versions of some microclimate coffee. It was a coffee/donut/sandwich shop that was popular with members of the police and fire departments.
“You know, I blame myself for this. I should have kept walking, but I sorta…snapped. Something happened to me in Iraq, and I guess I’ve been harboring a lot of anger.” She gave him an abbreviated version of the incident, but she had a feeling Zeke could supply plenty of details on his own.
He set down his cup and let out a sigh. “If these kids fail to comply with our agreement, I’m filing this complaint. It would be up to the D.A. to decide if Eli gets tried as an adult. A trial could get ugly—for you. And we’d probably need to subpoena your friend.”
Your friend. Would David call himself that?
“Speaking of David, I need to get in touch with him and he doesn’t have a phone. I don’t suppose you still have his address, do you?”
Zeke’s look said he saw through her overly casual tone. She didn’t know whether to mention the black car or not. What if David was behind on his credit-card payments or owed some bookie money for a bad bet on the ponies?
She realized anything she shared with Zeke came down to trust. She and her sisters had adopted a sort of breathless wait-and-see policy where Zeke and their mother were concerned. Yetta deserved to move on with her life, but could they trust a gadjo cop to fit into their world? The jury was still out on that one.
“So, you need his address.” It wasn’t a question. “That’s why you called me.”
“Y-yes. And Mom suggested I talk to you about the incident so that I could get some closure. W-was that the wrong thing to do?”
He took another drink of coffee and let out a sigh before answering. “No, not at all. I was just a little surprised when you called. I know your family doesn’t reach out to the police easily, despite—or maybe because,” he added with a faint grin, “of what happened with Grace. But, I guess, I might have been hoping this was a social call, too.”
“Because of you and Mom?”
He nodded. “I like your mother.”
“I know you do. I think she likes you, too.”
Neither said anything for several moments, then Zeke said softly, “She invited me to Kate’s wedding.”
Liz hadn’t heard about that. She wondered if her sisters knew. Zeke obviously found this a significant development, and no doubt the rest of the Romani family would, too. She wasn’t sure what to say, so she went with her gut. “I’m glad. She’ll enjoy herself more with a date. Wish I had one.”
That almost-grin returned. For a second. Then he took his notepad, scribbled something and ripped out a page. He hesitated just a second before placing the note, facedown, on the table between them.
Liz reached for the paper, but he kept his index finger on it until she looked up to meet his gaze. “Before I give this to you, I want you to understand a few things. This man is not necessarily who he says he is. For one thing, he seems to have materialized out of nowhere four years ago. There are a number of possible explanations for this—mostly, bad.”
“How bad?”
“Anywhere from escaped felon to someone hooked up with WITSEC. That’s what most people call the Witness Protection Program. But I checked and David Baines is not on any list that I could find. Hell, for all I know he’s a dead-beat dad on the lam from child support payments or a mental patient who walked away from the funny farm or a serial killer…”
Liz’s heart stopped for half a second then she laughed out loud. She couldn’t help herself. She let go of the paper and patted Zeke’s hand. “Zeke, one thing you should have figured out by now about my mother is her ability to read people. She’s had a couple of misses over the years—Kate’s ex-husband, for one—but I guarantee you that she would have picked up on anything that awful about David.”
He didn’t say anything, but he did push the note a little closer. “I hope you and Yetta are both right about this guy. But I want you to promise you’ll be careful. David Baines is a mystery, and mysteries don’t always work out the way you want them to.”
“Scar, if you don’t stay out my way, you’re going to end with even more cuts.”
In a week, the beast had gone from wary to pest. As if he’d made up his mind that David—purveyor of fine fish and kibble—could be trusted. Now the foolish animal wouldn’t leave him alone. A dangerous situation when David was hacking apart boxes with a very sharp blade.
&nb
sp; Whisk. Swish. The box cutter sliced through the cardboard.
He tossed the excess pieces into a pile he’d later recycle or shred for mulch. He’d been to seven stores in the area earlier that morning to collect boxes after stopping for a quick bite at his favorite deli. For the first couple of years after he’d moved to Vegas, David had made a point never to frequent any particular store, bar or restaurant too regularly. Lately, he’d slipped into patterns that might spell trouble if anyone was looking for him.
The waitress at the deli knew him by name. A couple of guys in the neighborhood pub had recruited David for their dart league. He was on a nodding basis with a number of store clerks. He’d gotten comfortable.
So far, that hadn’t been a problem, but this past week he’d started feeling a growing unease. He couldn’t decide whether it was from fear of discovery or dissatisfaction with his life in general. He’d thought about Liz Parlier a lot. Too much. He hadn’t seen her. Partly because he was no longer working on her street. He’d moved on to a new neighborhood.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Was she okay? Had she bounced back after her altercation that night? How was she handling contact with her neighbor? He’d called the next day, as promised, but her roommate had told him Liz was asleep. He hadn’t left his name or tried again.
Cowardly, he knew. Certainly nowhere near as brave as Liz herself. She was a fighter. She didn’t turn tail when faced with a couple of loudmouthed punks. She stood up for what she believed in, what was right. She’d confronted the parents even though she’d known that she would have to live next door to them. He’d also stood up for his principles, but in his case, fleeing had been his only option.
Or was that a lie I told myself to assuage my ego? He’d asked himself that question a million times over the years. What if I’d stayed? Would the police have been able to protect him during the course of a trial—if they’d been able to find Ray, his former boss and mentor?
The what-ifs haunted him. But even the bravest among us have their demons, he reminded himself. He’d caught a glimpse of Liz’s when he’d driven her home that night. Liz had secrets, too, and she kept them well hidden.
“Meow.”
“Scar, has anyone ever told you that you have a really horrible voice? That is the most mangled meow I’ve ever heard.”
“Meow.” Louder this time.
David gave a full-body shudder and pocketed his box cutter. “Fine. I’m done with the prep work. I’ll feed you before I start loading up the plants.”
As he’d told Liz, he had a big order to fill for one of his largest nurseries. The company had recently started an online operation in addition to the local retail store and was planning to feature exotic cacti for an entire month on their Web site. Not only were they buying the plants from David, they’d hired him to write little blurbs about each variety. Not cut-and-dried facts, but the history and/or myths surrounding the plant. Since he didn’t have a computer, he’d had to type each factoid on a recipe card using the manual typewriter he’d found at a thrift shop.
The cards were stacked on the front seat of his truck. The extra two hundred bucks the store was paying him for the cards would come in handy since a couple of days earlier he’d noticed that one of his caps was loose. He ran his tongue over the tooth in question as he selected a can of cat food.
“Meow.”
“Worse than fingernails on a blackboard.”
He’d just started turning the manual opener when he heard the buzzer that he’d rigged up across his driveway go off. The noise happened so rarely that he reacted unconsciously, dropping the can and grabbing the box cutter from his pocket. Scar yelped and disappeared under the workbench.
David hurried to the single window of the potting shed, which sat at a right angle to his greenhouse. His cottage was directly across from him. He had no trouble making out the car that pulled to a stop in front of his porch. Liz’s little, dark green Honda SUV.
His racing heart returned to normal as he let out the breath he’d been holding. He retracted the blade and set down the cutter then brushed off his hands and jeans and walked outside.
“This is a…surprise.”
Liz, who had one hand raised to knock on his door, gasped. She turned to follow his voice. “Oh, there you are. I saw your truck by that building back there, but I didn’t want to just wander around looking for you.”
He watched her walk back down the steps then come toward where he was standing. He’d never seen her quite so polished. Khaki crop pants. A butter-yellow tank top with a vibrant beaded necklace that looked like she might have brought it back from some exotic land. Her same hippie sandals, in black.
She brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and smiled. “Sorry to barge in like this. Am I catching you at a bad time?”
Yes. A bad time in my life. “I have a big order to get out today.”
“Oh, that’s right. You mentioned that the last time we talked. Um…do you need some help? I’m free until three-thirty. Then I have to meet with a loan officer. I think she’s going to tell me I don’t qualify for my refinancing.”
She sounded pretty down about that. He’d owned a house once. I wonder what Kay did with it? He’d never changed his wife’s name as sole beneficiary if anything happened to him. She was also executrix of his will.
“All I have left to do is load up,” he said, starting toward the greenhouse. Maybe if he kept things chilly between them she’d take the hint and leave.
“I’m stronger than I look.” She followed after him. “And I know how to lift without compromising my lumbar muscles.”
Her upbeat tone was so cheerful and inviting that David’s immediate inclination was to ask her to stay. But he knew he had to end this—whatever it was—between them before somebody got hurt. He stopped abruptly. Without his sunglasses, the bright desert sun was punishingly bright. “Listen, Liz, I don’t know why you’re here, but…”
“I owe you.”
“No, you don’t.”
She crossed her arms. “I’m not talking money. I don’t have a dime to spare. But you helped me last week and—”
“I’m not the hero you’re trying to make me out to be.”
She made a wobbling motion with her hand. “I don’t mean you saved my life, exactly, but the situation might have gotten out of hand if you hadn’t shown up. Plus, you reminded me about post-traumatic stress. This has been a rough week. The incident with the boys dug up a memory of something I thought I’d gotten over.”
He wasn’t surprised by her admission. He’d seen how vulnerable she’d looked, how haunted. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not asking for sympathy. I’m feeling better now. But visiting that dark hole reminded me that we never really escape the past. Not completely.”
He had to work to keep from shivering. Her words sounded ominous.
She went on. “My sister Kate is a perfect example. I probably mentioned that my family background is Romani. My mother has a gift, and many people trust her to make predictions about their futures. When we were kids, she claimed to see a certain prophecy for each of us girls. Kate’s was something about trying to outrun the past. I can’t remember the exact wording, but when she met her fiancé—about the same time as her ex-husband got out of jail—the prophecy seemed to make sense.”
“What’s yours?”
Her gaze dropped to the ground. “Mine’s already happened. Well, the first part of it, anyway.” Her usual animation was replaced by a look of such despondency he almost reached out to comfort her, but she rallied before he could react. “The only reason I mentioned this is because I think things happen for a reason. You and I have a connection. Maybe it’s as simple as you helped me and I’m supposed to help you in return. I don’t know, but I can’t just ignore it.”
“Maybe you should.” He turned away and resumed walking. He was a scientist. He didn’t believe in preordained fate. But even if he did, what kind of perverse cosmic devil would weave a plot that r
emoved him from a family he loved and dropped him in the desert to fall for a beautiful Gypsy—only to have to leave her, too?
“I’m not interested in a relationship, Liz,” he said. Blunt and brutal. Not his usual style, but still…this was the way it had to be.
“Me, either. Lord, if you could see what I have on my plate at the moment, you’d think I was some kind of masochistic freak. But I…um…I did something that might…well, I…”
He stopped abruptly. He’d never seen her at such a loss for words. “What?”
“After we met—when you bawled me out for running over your cactus, I called Zeke—the detective who came to my house the other night—and asked him to get me your address.” Her cheeks flushed with color. “I…uh, gave him your license-plate number.”
David’s stomach turned over.
“I know that was wrong. Zeke scolded me, but he…well, he did it, anyway.”
“Why would you do that?”
She blushed.
“It was an unforgivable intrusion into your privacy. You intrigued me and I was trying to avoid talking to Crissy—which I ended up doing anyway. Nuts, right? Juvenile. I really am sorry.”
She seemed as repentant as she was embarrassed. “What did Zeke tell you?”
“That you have a very good driving record,” she said brightly, then her gaze shifted to some point over his shoulder. “For the four years that you’ve been in Nevada.”
“And…”
“And there appeared to be some, um…inconsistencies in your past.”
Inconsistencies? Of course there were inconsistencies. The real David Baines, grandson of one of his grandmother’s friends, had died at age eleven. David didn’t know why he’d never forgotten the kid’s name, but when he decided to create a new identity, that was the name that popped into his head. Borrowing the dead boy’s social security number, place and date of birth had proven fairly simple to do.
He couldn’t stifle the curse word that slipped out.
“I’m sorry, David. I acted impulsively and I shouldn’t have. I treasure my privacy, yet didn’t think twice about invading yours. I really can’t apologize enough.”
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