Forget Me Not

by Fern Michaels

  “Adel is calling Dr. Lyons. She said she’ll call us back.”

  “Thank God for Adel and her forty years of nursing experience,” Luke said gruffly as he watched Lucy swallow the two little white pills Angie had handed her.

  Angie looked down at Lucy’s foot and gasped. It was twice the size of her right foot. “I didn’t know it was that swollen. Should I call Adel back?”

  “No, wait for her to return your call. I think she’ll figure it out on her own. Lucy jammed her foot. That’s the bottom line. When I played football in high school, it happened all the time, but mostly with the guys’ hands. Coach made them work through it. He used to say, ‘Ah, stop being a baby. You just stove your fingers.’ Meaning you jammed them straight on against a hard object. How’s it feel now, Lucy?”

  “Cold and numb. The pills are starting to work. We should call the FBI now, before I fall asleep.”

  “Screw the FBI,” Luke said indignantly. “Your foot is more important.”

  “Maybe so, but I want to do it and get it over with. Can you get me the phone, Angie?”

  “Can you wait till Adel calls back? I don’t know if this phone has call-waiting or not. She should be calling any minute now.”

  “I can call on my cell or your cell or Luke’s cell. Crap, no, I can’t. No sense giving them any more information than they need. Okay, we’ll wait till Adel calls, but then I’m calling. Luke, do me a favor and see if there’s a field office in Red Bank or Asbury Park and copy down the number.”

  The words were no sooner out of Lucy’s mouth than the phone rang. Angie listened and kept nodding. “Okay, I did that. And I did give her two pills. I just heard that term from Luke a minute ago. Yes, it means she jammed her foot head-on. I forgot to tell you, it’s swollen to twice the size of her right foot. Stove. It doesn’t matter if it’s an old-fashioned term or not. I understand it. Okay, twenty minutes on and twenty minutes off. Frozen peas . . . Yes, I got that, too. I’ll send Luke out to the store. Thanks, Adel. Of course I’ll call you. I will be sure to give Lucy a hug from you and Buddy.”

  Lucy was asleep before Angie could hang up the phone. “Ice is to be twenty minutes on and twenty minutes off until the swelling goes down. She said Dr. Lyons said she should be good in twenty-four hours. He said she might have some discomfort and some minor swelling, but that’s normal. Oh, and she is to stay off her foot for twenty-four hours. I’m sure that’s going to go over like a lead balloon when Lucy hears it.”

  “That’s it? That’s all she said?” Luke asked gruffly.

  “Of course that’s all she said. Why are you still standing here? You’re supposed to go to the store for the bags of frozen peas. Get two bags, so we can alternate. Stop looking like that. Lucy is going to be fine. Go already!”

  Luke beat feet and was back in exactly thirty minutes. He was breathless, and his eyes were glazed, which made Angie smile. Lucy slept peacefully in the recliner.

  “Now what?”

  Hands on her hips, Angie glared at the anxiety-driven man standing in front of her. “Do you think I’m an authority on everything? Now would be a good time to build up the fire so this room stays warm. Check out all that food you bought and prepare or start to prepare some dinner for us.”

  “Okay, okay. What are you going to do?”

  “Me? I’m going to sit here and watch the soaps.”

  “Is that another way of saying I’m in your hair, in the way?”

  Angie tried her best not to laugh. “Kind of. Sort of. Yeah.”

  “You are so cruel!” Luke walked over to the fireplace and sat down on the hearth. “I think I’m in love with Lucy,” he said in a dazed voice.

  “Ya think, Luke? Wow! Big revelation there, big guy,” Angie said as she turned on the television.

  Luke threw some logs on the already blazing fire. Sparks shot upward as the flames danced and shot in every direction. “Are you always such a wiseass?”

  Angie grinned. “The answer is no, I am not always a wiseass. Well, hardly ever. I was just jerking your chain. Let’s be clear on something right now. Lucy and I are survivors of a sort. If I think or get the feeling that you’re going to hurt my friend, I will personally slice off your balls and jam them up your ass without a second thought. How’s that for clear?”

  “Crystal,” Luke said, turning his head so he wouldn’t laugh out loud.

  “So, what’s for dinner?” Angie asked sweetly.

  Luke made a mental note never to cross the young woman sitting in the recliner next to Lucy’s chair. “How does grilled chicken, Tater Tots, and a spinach salad with my own special dressing sound? The dressing is pretty much vinegar and sesame oil with a little ginger.”

  “Sounds good, except I don’t eat chicken.”

  Luke sucked in his breath. “Okay, how does grilled shrimp, Tater Tots, and a spinach salad with my own special dressing sound?”

  “Go for it. Shhh, this is getting good now,” Angie said, pointing to two people with clenched fists preparing to square off on the wide-screen TV.

  Luke threw his hands in the air and sat down at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in front of him. He needed to think. For some reason, he always did his best thinking at the kitchen table, with a cup of coffee in hand. His thoughts took him to the magnificent house he’d built for the Brightons and the misery it was now causing. Now he understood why Lucy had said she might take a wrecking ball to it. He felt the same way.

  His cell phone found its way to his hand, and he called Bud, who picked up on the second ring. He identified himself and asked for a favor.

  “Sure. What can I do for you? I checked on your dad a little while ago, and he’s fine.”

  “No, Bud, it’s not Pop. I want you to call Zeke and have him install top-of-the-line security locks on the Brighton house. That’s an upgrade from the ones we installed when we built the house. They cost a small fortune. Just have them put it on the Kingston account. Can you do that for me?”

  “Well, sure, son. But why do you want me to call Zeke? First of all, God alone knows where he is, so I’d probably waste hours trying to find him. I can do it. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll get right on it. Luke, what the hell is going on with that house?”

  “If I knew, I’d tell you, but the fact of the matter is that I just don’t know. Go to Denby’s. We have an account there. Get what you need, and do it as quick as you can. One other thing. Do you know anyone who could dust the inside of the house for fingerprints?”

  “I know a guy, Lionel Atmore, who is in this line of work. I’ll give him a call.”

  “Thanks, Bud. Call me when it’s all done, okay?”

  “Look, Luke, I’m not trying to be nosy here, but does this have anything to do with Jonah and what he said at the poker game last night? You mixed up with the FBI somehow?”

  “Not me, Bud. It’s Lucy, and through no fault of her own. It was her parents’ house. When I get this figured out, you’ll be the first to know. Don’t say anything to Pop, okay?”

  “Gotcha. Okay, I’m on my way. I should have it all done before dark. I’ll call you.”

  Luke shoved the cell phone back in his pocket. He looked up to see Angie standing in the doorway.

  “I heard. You’re worried, aren’t you?” Angie asked as she poured the last of the coffee into a cup. She sat down and stared across the table at Luke.

  “I am. I just cannot wrap my brain around any of this. What’s your feeling on the people who lived in the house? Do you think they were Lucy’s parents or not?”

  “I’m inclined to believe Lucy,” Angie said quietly. “She’s their daughter. That didn’t sound right. You know what I mean. She said she didn’t feel anything. Lucy is very intuitive. She has strong feelings about everything, and she’s usually right. She can get emotional like the rest of us, but she can sift through the crap, if you know what I mean. Look at how she figured out the combination that finally opened the safe. If she says they aren’t her parents, then they aren’t her pare
nts. End of story.”

  “No, it’s not the end of the story. If they weren’t her parents, then who the hell were they? And why were they masquerading as Helene and Fritz Brighton?”

  “If I knew that, we wouldn’t be sitting here having this discussion now. Would we, Luke?”

  “I think I know how we might be able to figure out who they were. They must have left fingerprints in the house. If we can find someone who knows how to dust for prints, we might be able to find out. The problem is, I don’t know anyone like that. From what I’ve read and seen in movies and on TV, there is this gigantic database that can be accessed. And guess where it is?”

  “Where?”

  “The FBI. That’s where.”

  “Let’s go on the Internet and see what we can find out. Someone out there will know how to dust for fingerprints. We can find out, and Bud said he knew someone who could do it in Palm Royal. Then we can go back and check the house we just moved out of. I’m on it! I’m on it!” Angie said. “I just have to find my laptop.”

  “Lucy’s okay?”

  “Yes, she’s sleeping soundly. Two more hours, and the pills will wear off. I checked the swelling, and it’s started to go down a little.” Angie looked at her watch. “Time to put the frozen peas on again.”

  “I’ll do it. You do the Internet thing.”

  “So it’s shrimp and those crummy potatoes and salad for dinner?”

  “I’m revising my menu. What was I thinking with Tater Tots? I’m going to make shrimp scampi. And salad, of course. I might whip up something for dessert,” Luke quipped as he opened the freezer section of the refrigerator.

  Angie lounged in the doorway. “Just out of curiosity, where did you learn to cook?” Luke thought it sounded like the most serious question on earth.

  “From my mother. She made sure Marie—that’s my sister—and I both knew how to cook, how to wash clothes, clean a house, and do the marketing. When I was in college, I was the only one who had white T-shirts and underwear, because I knew you didn’t wash your whites with blue jeans or red shirts. One of my friends went through four years of wearing pink socks and pink underwear. I also had the fluffiest towels, because I knew you had to put fabric softener into the last rinse. Because I knew how to cook, I aced free food for the last three years, when I shared a house with five other guys. They paid for the food, and I cooked it.”

  “Bet that looks good on a résumé,” Angie said, a big grin on her face.

  “Now you are being a wiseass.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  Luke sprinted into the family room and checked on Lucy. She was still sleeping, but he knew she was going to have a stiff neck when she woke up. He didn’t disturb her, though, other than to brush her hair back and stroke her cheek. She didn’t so much as twitch. He nestled the frozen peas around her ankle. Angie was right—it did look like some of the initial swelling was receding. Satisfied that all was as well as could be expected with the new love of his life, he added another log to the fire before he returned to the kitchen. No sense in Angie telling him he was like a lovesick teenager, even if he was acting and feeling like one.

  Back in the kitchen, Luke cleaned two pounds of shrimp and returned them to the fridge. He did his prep work for the salad. Remembering his promise to whip up something for dessert, he pulled a frozen coconut cream pie, one of his favorites, from the freezer and set it on the counter to thaw. That would have to constitute whipping something up.

  Now all he had to do was wait. Unfortunately, waiting had never been one of his passions in life. In fact, he downright sucked at waiting and had the scars to prove it. He realized he was way too wired to stay there in the farmhouse, so he put on his jacket and decided to go for a fifteen-minute run. When he got outside, he was stunned to see that it had begun to snow very lightly. Flurries. He made a mental note to check on the weather report when he got back inside. What could be better than being snowbound with the woman he was falling in love with? Silly, silly, silly.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Zaretsky and Associates was located in a one-story building on a busy street in a suburb of Fort Myers. It was not clear from the sign outside exactly what sort of business was carried on inside. Once one entered the building, one encountered a very long corridor leading to a room at the very end. From the outside, at first glance, that room could have passed for a storage room. There was no nameplate on the door to designate what it was used for. What there was, was an eyeball scanner on the left side of the massive door, which pretty much said no admittance unless your eyeball scan was on record.

  Inside the room, it was a different story. There were no windows, but the room was filled with brilliant fluorescent lighting. The room was also soundproof. The carpet was deep and lush. The table, which could seat eighteen, was solid mahogany and highly polished. The chairs were covered in buttery-soft beige leather. They were the kind of chairs in which a person could easily fall asleep. But no one ever fell asleep in the chairs, for the simple reason the people sitting on them couldn’t relax. There wasn’t so much as a piece of paper or a paper clip to be seen. Everything in the room was as high tech as the government could make it. Although there was a sideboard covered with delectable pastries and a variety of drinks, not a single one of those seated around the table would eat or drink.

  Entrance to the room was by invitation only. Those who had the good fortune, or in this case, the misfortune, to be invited into the room referred to it as the chicken coop.

  Four agents, whose official jobs were handlers, sat quietly as they waited for their host to appear. They were on time. Their host was not. Each was thinking the man’s lateness was not a good sign. And they were right.

  Their host roared into the room like a lion, justifying the fact that, among his staff, he was referred to as a lion. He was tall, six-foot-four in his bare feet. He had a mane of snow-white hair that hung to his shoulders. It was full and lush. He was deeply tanned, with incredible blue eyes, and his teeth were strong, even, and pearl white. It was impossible to tell the man’s age. He could have been sixty, or he could have been forty. The man exuded power and confidence in his custom five-thousand-dollar suit, designer tie, and handcrafted shoes. He wore an expensive Rolex and a three-carat diamond in his right ear. It was rumored among the staff that he had a fleet of cars, a yacht, and his own Gulfstream. He came from old money—so old, it was moldy. His current job for the government paid him one dollar a year. To date, he had collected a total of twenty-two dollars for his years of service. And he always cashed the check when it was issued on December 30 and bought a roll of antacid Tums with his yearly salary.

  The man went by the name of Julian Metcalf, but only a fool would think it was the name on his birth certificate. Just as the names the guests in the room went by were aliases.

  Metcalf’s voice was deep and melodious when he said, “Talk to me, ladies and gentlemen. Time is money, and our government is running so far in the red that you need to make every word count.” He pointed to the man on his right, who went by the name Ken Blevins. “You’re up, Blevins.”

  Ken Blevins spoke. His voice sounded confident when he said, “The assets checked in at 4:02, as usual. There were no problems. I recorded the conversation per instructions, as I have done every day at the same time for the last five years. Nothing happened that day prior to the check-in call. I did my two drive-bys at ten A.M. and again at three A.M. Both covered in my report. I signed off, and Charlene Davis came on duty.”

  “Charlene?”

  “I did my two drive-bys, one at ten P.M. and the second at five A.M. Everything was normal. We didn’t know anything was wrong until the daughter showed up late that morning. The assets did not indicate they were expecting the daughter to visit at any time prior to the check-in calls. We just assumed it was a spur-of-the-moment visit. I called Ken and informed him and tried to figure out why she was there. That’s how we found out the assets had been killed in a head-on car crash late the day before. The daught
er met with the detective assigned to the case on her arrival, then went to the mortuary. She returned to the assets’ house, and that’s all the information we have on her arrival. There was no way to get into the house, so we just waited it out. I called Don Henderson in New Jersey, and he verified that Lucy Brighton had left the house, gone to the airport, and flown to Florida that same morning.”

  “Don?”

  Don Henderson looked across at their host. “I checked with the airline. Lucy Brighton booked her flight the night before on the Internet. She flew in first class, rented a car at the airport, and that’s all I know about her trip. I confirmed with Charlene. Then I called Ellie, and we met up, entered the house, and checked everything, just as we have done numerous times before when Ms. Brighton would leave the premises. We perceived everything to be normal.

  “Once we apprised Ken and Charlene about what we had seen, we faded into the background and waited to see what would shake out. When they told us the assets had been killed in a car crash, we made out our report and waited for further orders, and here we are. I should add that two days later, a young woman named Angela Powell showed up at the house, her car packed to the rafters, as though she were moving in. She was there overnight. Then she booked a flight to Florida, leaving her car and belongings behind. Everything in the house at that point was intact and normal. That’s the end of my report,” Henderson said.

  Julian Metcalf stood up and swung his head from left to right, his mane of white hair swirling about so that he looked like an avenging lion on the prowl. “There is nothing normal about this at all. Ken?”

  “There was no way to get into the enclave, sir. The Kingstons have security that rivals the White House, and the residents pay for it. Our visitor’s passes, compliments of the assets, were rescinded at the time of the assets’ death, so we were not able to enter the community. At least we assume they were rescinded, because when we tried to go through, we were denied, and the guards confiscated our passes. The guards are not rent-a-cops or the kind you find at Walmart. These guys pack heat and aren’t afraid to show it. They’re all ex-paramilitary. They make more in salary a year than some bankers. Not to mention their medical benefits are off the charts. And they get bonuses at the end of the year. The rich know how to live,” Ken Blevins said. “Short of a warrant, no one gets into that enclave.”