Impostor's Lure

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Impostor's Lure Page 5

by Carla Neggers


  She paused in the middle of their tiny Boston living room. “I wonder if Tamara stopped at our offices before she stopped at our place. She looked as if she’d been walking at least a few blocks. Sam was working today, wasn’t he?”

  Colin got out his phone and called Sam Padgett, another HIT agent, and explained the situation. Emma’s instincts paid off. “Yeah, she came by at noon, unannounced but with proper credentials,” Sam said. “I showed her around. She thanked me and left. She didn’t say she planned to stop at your place next. She did mention she had a daughter in town who’d just turned twenty-one. Nothing about dinner. Maybe she didn’t want to hurt my feelings because I wasn’t invited.”

  Colin knew Sam’s feelings wouldn’t have been hurt. “She ask any questions?”

  “Usual small talk. She struck me as your basic driven prosecutor. She said she and the Yankowskis were friends, she wasn’t in town for long and wanted to seize the moment to see the HIT offices. She supports the idea of HIT. That’s it. I thought she might be up to something and figured I’d mention it to Yank in the morning. Should I not have waited?”

  “Doubt it would have made a difference if you hadn’t.”

  “She was definitely uptight. I could see her starting vacation early and blowing off her daughter’s birthday dinner. I could also see her trying to manage a rough situation on her own, without asking for help, and getting herself in deeper.”

  “Did her visit seem like a spur-of-the-moment thing?”

  “She said it was. I wondered why she didn’t have Yank meet her, but I didn’t ask. Why don’t I check with BPD, see if they have anything? I’ll call you back.”

  He was gone before Colin could respond. Sam had joined HIT last fall from his native Texas. He was an expert in numbers and had strong field experience. Except for its long winters, he said Boston was growing on him. He liked the current heat wave. Argued that it didn’t classify as a proper heat wave in his world since the temperature hadn’t hit triple digits.

  Colin sat next to Emma on the couch and relayed what Sam had told him. Two minutes later, Sam called back. “Zip. No Jane Doe in the hospital, no lost phone, no witnesses reporting anything unusual involving a woman fitting our prosecutor’s description. They’ll keep an eye out.”

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  “No problem. I’ll type up notes on my meeting with her. Make sure I didn’t forget something.”

  But he hadn’t. Colin knew that without seeing the notes. Sam Padgett was a dogged, thorough law enforcement officer—but he hated being called dogged, so Colin thanked him again and said good-night.

  He got up and splashed whiskey into two glasses. Redbreast 21, an Irish pot-still purchased on their honeymoon. He returned to the couch. “Yank’s threatening to give me my own office,” he said, handing Emma a glass.

  “Uh-oh. An office means you’ll be a full-fledged member of HIT.” She angled a look at him as she held her glass. “Do I hear a but in your tone?”

  “I might have to go to Washington soon.”

  It was his way of saying another undercover assignment was in the works, with or without HIT’s involvement. Regardless, it would be on a “need-to-know” basis. It could last months. Emma knew that. She clicked her glass against his. “Sláinte.”

  “Sláinte.”

  They sipped the expensive, rich whiskey, definitely one to savor. She edged closer to him, their thighs touching. “I doubt Washington’s any hotter than Boston right now.”

  “I’m not going to stay in undercover work forever.” He drank more of his whiskey. “I can clean the oven while you take a bath. There’s not much to it. Switch it to the cleaning setting and let it do its thing. Then I can come sit on the edge of the tub and read poetry to you while you relax under lavender-scented bubbles.”

  Emma sputtered into laughter. “I should call that bluff. I have poetry books on my bedside table, you know. William Butler Yeats, Oscar Wilde, Emily Dickinson—”

  “Do you have lavender-scented bubble bath?”

  “Lavender-scented bath salts. No bubbles.”

  “Then I can see through the water? No suds in the way? Even better.”

  “Colin...”

  He knew this woman, could see the worry etched into her brow. “I know, Emma. We need to find Tamara McDermott. We will. Why don’t I draw your bath while you get out poems and bath salts?”

  “What about the oven?”

  “It can wait. I have you in warm water and bath salts on my mind.”

  “That works for me. We can save the poems for another night, though. I’m not sure I could concentrate on poetry with you sitting on the edge of the tub.”

  He set his glass on the side table. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  6

  Adalyn’s heart wasn’t in a drink with Rex. She thought he noticed, because he eased to his feet and claimed he was tired and wanted to get home. They’d met on the front porch of Jolie’s studio. She lived on the second floor but had declined to join them. Adalyn suspected her new boss and landlady might have ideas about her and Rex, but they were all wrong.

  “You could have stayed at your mother’s apartment,” he said. “No worries then about Jolie seeing you tipsy.”

  “I didn’t bring an overnight bag or anything to dinner. No—staying was my mother’s idea, not mine.”

  He smiled softly, the porch light catching his eyes. “I miss my mother giving me orders disguised as suggestions.”

  “Sorry, Rex. I’m being a brat.”

  “You’re worried.” He leaned toward her. “Underneath that aggrieved, spoiled-brat shell of yours is a smart, devoted daughter.”

  “Yeah, right. Safe travels back to your place.”

  “If I’d gotten drunk, would you have let me sleep on your couch?”

  “I wouldn’t have to. Jolie would. But of course I would.”

  “Happy birthday, Adalyn.”

  He and Jolie had turned down Adalyn’s invitation to join her and her mother for brunch that morning. Jolie had subtly expressed the need to keep a proper boundary between them now that Adalyn was an employee and tenant. They’d met a few weeks ago in England and didn’t know each other well, but they weren’t going to have a pseudo mother-daughter relationship. They hadn’t come right out and set those terms—they’d used code words that were crystal clear to Adalyn.

  She was less certain about her role with Rex. It struck her as squishier. He was a client of Jolie’s through his parents, both famous artists. Rex, who wasn’t an artist, managed their business affairs. His mother died in April and his father had Alzheimer’s. Rex lived at the old farmhouse the family owned in southeast New Hampshire, about an hour north of Boston, but he and Adalyn had met three weeks ago in Oxford, where his parents had a cottage. He’d already hired Jolie by then to salvage paintings after a fire at his father’s painting studio on the farm—a fire he’d inadvertently set, prompting Rex to insist on round-the-clock care for him.

  Adalyn thanked him and stood at the stop of the stairs as he descended to his car. He turned as he pulled open the driver’s door. She waved. He waved back.

  What a night, she thought, heading upstairs. Jolie’s work studio occupied the entire first floor of the former single-family house. The house was old but not that old—1930s, maybe? Adalyn didn’t know its history and wasn’t particularly curious. Finding an affordable apartment she wouldn’t have to share had been a feat, not that her parents would ever give her credit.

  There was no elevator, but walking up and down two flights of stairs multiple times a day was good exercise. Tonight she trudged up. She didn’t care about burning off the alcohol she’d consumed or getting her heart rate going or anything. It’d been a lousy night.

  She never should have mentioned Stefan’s death to her mother.

  That had to be what had driven her off tonight.
The last straw. She’d gone into fight-or-flight mode and had decided to flee. Clear out, skip dinner, let her daughter and friends figure it out. She was done.

  Adalyn unlocked the door to her attic-like apartment and went inside. A combo kitchen and living room, a bathroom, a bedroom. What more did she need? She’d looked forward to showing it to her mother. She’d been unimpressed with her last apartment in Allston. What, Adalyn? Are Boston rents so high this is the best you can do with the money your father and I send you, or are you pocketing the difference and buying drugs, playing the horses—what?

  Her mother hadn’t been serious about drugs and horses.

  Jolie had given Adalyn a break on rent on this place, saying she liked having a tenant she knew. She’d had some duds, apparently.

  Adalyn dropped onto the couch. She’d bought it for a pittance on Craigslist. She’d never tell her mother. She’d go on about bedbugs or something. She knew it would be easier on both her parents if she attended a tidy, isolated college with a picturesque campus in a pretty New England village, but it wasn’t as if Boston was new to them. It was a great student town but it was urban. Adalyn liked that about it. She was starting her last year in school. She’d have her master’s in archiving and be on her own soon. She sometimes thought her parents secretly wanted her to go to law school, despite their constant assurances they wanted her to live her own life, follow her own path. She had as much desire to be a lawyer as they did to preserve musty old books and documents.

  She heard cars driving by down on the street. She’d lived here for only two weeks and was still getting used to the sounds.

  She got her phone out and stared at the dark screen. “Call Dad,” she said finally. In a few seconds, he answered. “You haven’t heard from Mom, have you?” she asked.

  “I just talked to Matt Yankowski. No, I haven’t heard from her. I’ll let you know if I do.”

  “Are you worried?”

  “I’ve never worried about your mother except for the night you were born and her blood pressure spiked. But it all worked out. She knows how to take care of herself. I’m glad she’s taking this time if she needs it.”

  “It was selfish and inconsiderate not to tell me she was leaving early.”

  “Maybe right now she needs to be selfish, Adalyn.”

  “Her work is the most important thing to her. I know that. She’s making a huge contribution as a federal prosecutor. She jumps on the nasty cases. I think the only reason she wanted a daughter is because she liked the idea of giving me a cool name.”

  “Adalyn is a cool name, don’t you think?”

  He’d never bad-mouth his ex-wife in front of their only daughter. Adalyn supposed that was a good thing. “Did you have any say in my name?”

  “I could have vetoed it if I’d hated it.”

  “Mom would have argued you out of your veto.” Adalyn felt an unexpected rush of affection for her mother. “You know her, Dad. She never gives up without a fight.”

  He laughed. “She never gives up, period.”

  “I love and admire her, but I won’t lie and say I never wished she’d been a homemaker.”

  “She does her best by you every day, Adalyn. Never doubt that.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” she said. “I just wish she’d been there tonight.”

  “And you’re mad at me for walking out on our marriage,” her father said quietly.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. At least he wasn’t here with her to see them. “I was mad. I’m not anymore. I had no part in what happened.” The affair with a paralegal now no longer in his life was not her responsibility. “It’s between you and Mom.”

  “I’ll see you soon, okay? How are you settling in?”

  “Fine. I’m on the third floor. No rats.”

  “That’s something, anyway. Call me anytime. If I can’t answer, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  Adalyn thanked him, but she didn’t feel any relief or reassurance when she set her phone next to her on the couch. She’d learned at a young age she was expected to make her parents look good to their colleagues in law enforcement. To anyone, really. She’d failed tonight.

  Of course, her parents had always denied placing such pressure on her. Really, Adalyn, that’s all in your head. We want you to be you.

  Provided “you” was interesting, respectable, successful and a source of pride.

  She checked her messages again. Nothing from her mother.

  Adalyn wished she’d never agreed to tonight’s dinner. Her mother had blown into Boston and would blow out again, and it was obvious she was rushed, stressed and caught up in finally taking this vacation by herself. She had a high-powered job. She deserved a break. Adalyn had her own life, and while it wasn’t insanely busy at the moment, it soon would be with the start of school and her job ramping up. Jolie had promised her more hours. Adalyn wanted the rest of the summer to make a little money, hang out with friends, network with people in her field and have a good time.

  It’s one night, she’d told herself about the dinner.

  Then her mother hadn’t shown up.

  Adalyn stifled a surge of worry. Three FBI agents had been at dinner. If her mother was in some kind of trouble, they’d jump on it.

  She glanced around her apartment. It had potential. She’d add eclectic fabrics, plants—make it her space. If her parents wanted to check for rats, fleas and bedbugs, let them.

  Ever since her father’s affair and the shock of her parents’ divorce, she’d gone back and forth between hating and loving them, but she was confident—at least for the moment—that love would win out. Eventually. Seeing them as real people, with virtues and flaws, was part of the process of truly becoming an adult.

  She laughed to herself. “Welcome to being a full-fledged adult.”

  * * *

  Adalyn took a shower, hoping it would settle her mind and help her sleep. She’d been looking forward to having a proper, legal drink with family and friends, and her mother had gone and ruined the evening. She knew she had to get off that subject. Her mother’s behavior wasn’t her fault or her responsibility. Adalyn didn’t want to stay worked up, and was sorry she’d let it happen. She didn’t want to give her mother that power over her.

  “I have my own life to live now.”

  She sniffled back tears and let the hot, soothing water course down her back and front. She didn’t wash her hair, but the ends got wet anyway. She’d found a circular shower curtain since there was a window above the tub, the showerhead a late addition to the bathroom. She’d put special film on the panes so no one could see in through the window, but she didn’t trust it. The shower curtain was new, a bright, tropical theme complete with parrots. It was inexpensive, but perfect for cheering up the small bathroom and its old fixtures.

  When she stepped out of the shower, she wobbled slightly—from unfamiliarity with her new space, not unsteadiness and her raw emotions. She wrapped up in a fuchsia towel—it went well with the parrots—and returned to her bedroom.

  She smiled when she saw she had a text from Rex. He was such a pal. Home on the farm. Quiet here on my own. I hope you’re not passed out on your kitchen floor.

  She laughed as she typed her answer. I didn’t drink as much as everyone thinks.

  I wouldn’t blame you if you were dipping into a fifth of Scotch after tonight. You’re okay?

  I’m fine. Thanks for checking in.

  I’ll be at the studio tomorrow. See you then.

  G’night.

  She had a comfortable feeling when she placed her phone on her bedside table and sat cross-legged on her bed, the towel still mostly around her. She had no siblings, and Rex felt like an older brother to her, their ten-year age difference enough for him to have solid life experience but not so much they had nothing in common. She could talk to him. He understood her. She was glad he didn’t
want more from her. That would ruin their friendship. If only her father had realized that sex wasn’t everything. He wouldn’t have destroyed his family over a tawdry affair.

  “Skank,” Adalyn muttered, picturing his ex-girlfriend—younger than her mother, of course, and not nearly as accomplished.

  She’d met Rex and Jolie at a dinner party in Oxford hosted by mutual friends, Verity and Graham Blackwood. It had been Adalyn’s first visit to Oxford. She’d taken an early train from London and spent the day soaking up the historic city’s atmosphere and checking out some of its well-known sites. She could have wandered around for days but had only hours before arriving at the Blackwood home. She and Verity had run into each other and become instant friends at an exhibit at the National Gallery, where Verity used to work and where Adalyn had an internship. They’d have coffee or lunch whenever Verity was in London. It wasn’t often, but Adalyn got the impression Verity missed her life there. She and Graham had been married only a year and a half. He’d joined her in London twice after she and Adalyn met, but he’d had other things to do when it came to coffee or lunch with his wife’s young American friend. Adalyn didn’t mind. He was her parents’ age, and her three months in London had been a time to get away from them. Still, when Verity had extended the invitation to Oxford, Adalyn had accepted without a second thought.

  She’d met Stefan Petrescu that night at the Blackwoods’ home, too. Such a kind, interesting man. To think he’d been murdered...

  Adalyn dried off, cast her towel onto the floor and grabbed an oversize T-shirt off another pile on the floor. She put it on. She had a feeling tonight’s outfit hadn’t worked well. She’d wanted to come off as artistic and bohemian but probably had looked like a slob.

  She could see Stefan that evening in Oxford, a short, plump Romanian linguist who lectured at Oxford and did occasional work for Graham’s think tank. Translations, mostly, Adalyn assumed, since the think tank focused on foreign policy analysis. Such a different world from the one she knew as a student in Boston and with her lawyer parents in Washington, DC.

 

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