The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 3

by Nora Roberts

  “If I don’t work for you, you have no say in it.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Lana, if this is connected to me, you don’t know what might happen next. You’ve got a kid to think about.”

  “Don’t presume to tell me how to be a mother or how to care for my son. And don’t assume I’ll step away from an agreement because it’s getting sticky. Somebody burned down my goddamn office, and I’m going to make sure they pay for it. One way or the other.”

  Callie sat back, drummed her fingers on the table. “So what the hell am I paying you for if you’re going to do the work anyway?”

  “Fair play.”

  “Graystone will tell you I don’t mind playing dirty.”

  “She loves it,” he agreed. “But she’ll play fair with you because she likes you. She’s just pissed off right now because I told her you wouldn’t shake off.”

  “Shut up.” Callie shot him a single hot glance. “Who asked you?”

  “You did.”

  “Children, no bickering at the table. What plane are you catching?”

  “I’m—we’re,” Callie corrected as Jake scowled, “heading down to Atlanta to talk to Carlyle’s son.”

  “Why do you think he’ll talk to you when he wouldn’t talk to the investigator?”

  “Because I’m not going to give him a choice.”

  Jake leaned down, spoke in a stage whisper close to Lana’s ear. “She nags until you either run screaming or give in.”

  “I do not nag. I persist.”

  “I hate to tell the two of you this, but you’re still very married.” She felt Jake’s fingers dig and jerk on her shoulders, and saw Callie grimace. “In any case, I think it’s a very good idea. It’ll be more difficult for him to refuse to give you information. If he wants to speak to me, give him my cell and the number here. I’ll be working at home until I can find other office space.”

  They didn’t speak on the drive to the airport. Had nothing but the most cursory conversation through the airport. The minute they were airborne, Jake kicked back his seat.

  He’d be asleep in about ten seconds, Callie knew. It was one of his most enviable skills, in her opinion. He could drop into sleep instantly on a flight, whether they were in a full-sized jet or in a five-seater tuna can with props. If he went by his usual pattern, he wouldn’t stir until they announced the final descent, then he’d sit up, alert, refreshed.

  It just killed her.

  She pushed her seat back, folded her arms and tried to think of something besides the next two hours in the air.

  Beside her, Jake kept his eyes closed. He was as aware of her thoughts as if she’d spoken them. And he knew in about two minutes she’d be sitting up again, restless with the inactivity. She’d flip through one of the in-flight magazines. She’d curse herself for forgetting a book, then poke around in his bag to see if he had one.

  She’d check her watch every five or six minutes, and think dark thoughts at him because he was asleep and she wasn’t.

  . . . you’re still very married.

  Lana, he thought, and tried to tune out his hyperawareness of the woman who sat beside him, you don’t know the half of it.

  Carlyle’s offices in tony Buckhead had the hue of Southern grace and pricey exclusivity. The reception area was done in dark wood and deep tones, appointed with antiques all polished to a glossy sheen.

  There was a hum of quiet efficiency in the air.

  The woman manning the huge oak desk looked as graceful and pricey as the furnishings. Her smile was warm, her tone molasses-sweet. And her spine steel.

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Carlyle’s calendar is completely full. I’d be happy to make an appointment for you. He has an opening on Thursday of next week.”

  “We’re only in town today,” Callie told her.

  “That’s very unfortunate. Perhaps I can schedule a phone consultation.”

  “Phone conversations can be so impersonal, don’t you think”—Jake glanced down at the brass nameplate on the desk, boosted up his smile, looked back at her—“Ms. Biddle?”

  “That would depend on who’s doing the talking. Maybe if you gave me an idea of the nature of your business, I could direct you to one of Mr. Carlyle’s associates.”

  “It’s personal business,” Callie snapped, and earned a mild glare of reproof from Ms. Biddle.

  “I’ll be happy to give Mr. Carlyle a message for you and, as I said, to make an appointment for you on Thursday of next week.”

  “Personal family business,” Jake added. Deliberately he stepped on Callie’s foot, kept his boot planted there while he gave Ms. Biddle his full attention. “It has to do with Marcus Carlyle, Richard’s father. I think if you could free up just a few minutes for him today, he’ll want to talk to us.”

  “You’re family to Mr. Carlyle?”

  “There’s a connection. We’re only in Atlanta a short time. Those few minutes would make a big difference to us and, I think, to Richard. I’m sure he wouldn’t want us to fly all the way back to Maryland without seeing him.”

  “If you give me your names, I’ll tell him you’re here. That’s all I can do.”

  “Callie Dunbrook and Jacob Graystone. We certainly appreciate that, Ms. Biddle.”

  “If you’d like to wait, I’ll tell Mr. Carlyle as soon as he’s off his conference call.”

  The minute her foot was free, Callie gave Jake a quick kick in the ankle, then walked over to sit in one of the wing-back chairs. “I don’t see how lying’s going to get us through the door,” she grumbled at him.

  “I didn’t lie. I prevaricated. And it loosened her up enough to have her tell him we’re here.”

  She picked up a magazine, immediately tossed it down again. “Why do you have to flirt with every female you come in contact with?”

  “It’s genetic imprinting. I’m a victim of my own physiology. Come on, babe, you know you’re the only one for me.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”

  “You heard it, but you never listened. Callie, we’ve got a lot to straighten out. After you find the answers you need on this score, we’re going to find the answers between us.”

  “We found the answers between us.” But the trouble was, she thought on a spurt of panic, she was beginning to think some of the answers she’d found had been the wrong ones.

  “We never even asked the damn questions. I’ve spent the best part of a year asking them.”

  Anxiety curled up in the center of her chest. “Don’t start this with me, Jake. I’ve got enough messing up my head right now.”

  “I know. Callie, I want you to know—” He broke off as Ms. Biddle approached.

  Bad timing, he thought in disgust. It had been nothing but since he’d managed to get back to Callie again.

  “Mr. Carlyle can give you ten minutes. If you’ll take the stairs to the second floor, his assistant will show you in.”

  “Thank you.” Jake took Callie’s arm as they started up a staircase. “See? Never underestimate the power of prevarication.”

  The second floor was as graceful and charming as the first. She’d pegged Carlyle as rich, classy and successful.

  Both his appearance and that of his office seemed to bear that out.

  The office resembled a gentleman’s study. A large study, to be sure, but with what Callie thought of as a manly and intimate tone. Shelves of books and mementos lined two walls. There were paintings by American artists as well as American antiques.

  The masculine theme was continued in colors of burgundy and navy, the use of leather and brass.

  Richard Carlyle stood behind his desk. He was tall and well built. His hair, streaked with gray, was well cut and brushed back from a high forehead. Both his nose and mouth were thin. When he extended his hand she noted the mono-grammed cuffs. The Rolex. The glint of diamonds in his wedding ring.

  She remembered Henry Simpson describing Marcus Carlyle as a handsome man, a dynamic man of exquisite taste.

  Lik
e father, she decided, like son.

  “Ms. Dunbrook, Mr. Graystone. I’m afraid you have the advantage on me. I’m unaware of any family connection.”

  “The connection’s with your father,” Callie said. “And his involvement with my family. It’s very important that I locate him.”

  “I see.” He steepled his fingers, and over them his face lost its polite interest. “As this is the second inquiry about my father in the last few days, I have to assume they’re connected. I can’t help you, Ms. Dunbrook. And I’m very pressed for time, so—”

  “Don’t you want to know why?”

  He let out what might have been a sigh. “Quite frankly, Ms. Dunbrook, there’s little you could tell me about my father that would interest me. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

  “He arranged for babies to be stolen, transported, then sold to childless couples who paid him large fees without being aware of the kidnappings. He drew up fraudulent adoption papers in these cases, which he never filed with any court.”

  Richard stared at her without blinking. “That’s ludicrous. And I’ll warn you such an allegation is libelous as well as preposterous.”

  “It’s neither when it’s the truth. It’s neither when there’s proof.”

  He continued to watch her with that cool blue gaze that told her he must have been a killer in court.

  “What proof could you possibly have?”

  “Myself, for a start. I was stolen as an infant and sold to a couple who were clients of your father. The exchange was made in his Boston office in December of 1974.”

  “You have misinformation,” he countered.

  “No I don’t. What I have are a lot of questions for your father. Where is he?”

  He was silent for a moment, so silent she heard him draw in a breath. “You can’t expect me to believe these criminal accusations, to stand here and take your word.”

  Callie reached in her bag. “Copies of the adoption papers. You can check. They were never filed with the court. Copies of the fees your father charged for my placement. Copies of the initial tests run to substantiate that I am the biological daughter of Jay and Suzanne Cullen, whose infant daughter was stolen, December of ’seventy-four. Police reports,” she added, nodding at the pile of papers she put on his desk. “Newspaper accounts.”

  “You should read them,” Jake suggested, then took a seat. “Take your time.”

  Richard’s fingers trembled lightly as he reached in his pocket for gold-framed reading glasses. Saying nothing, he began to go through the file.

  “This is hardly proof,” he said after a time. “You’re accusing a man of trafficking in children, of kidnapping, fraud.” He took the glasses off, set them aside. “Whatever personal problems my father and I might have, I don’t believe this of him. If you persist in these accusations, I’ll take legal action.”

  “Take it then,” Callie invited. “Because I’m not going to stop until I have all the answers. I’m not going to stop until the people responsible for what happened to the Cullens, and other families, are punished. Where’s your father?”

  “I haven’t seen my father in more than fifteen years,” Carlyle shot back angrily. “If I knew where he was, I wouldn’t tell you. I intend to look into this personally, of that you can be quite sure. I don’t believe there’s any validity in your allegations. But if I find differently, I’ll do what I can to locate my father and . . . I’ll do what I can.”

  “There have been some attempts to stop us from finding him, and those answers,” Jake stated calmly. “Physical attacks, arson.”

  “For God’s sake, he’s ninety.” As Richard’s composure wavered, he patted a hand over his hair. “The last time I saw him he was recovering from a heart attack. His health is poor. He’d hardly be in any shape to physically attack anyone or start fires.”

  “Anyone who could organize a black-market system for babies could easily hire someone to do the heavy work.”

  “I haven’t agreed that my father had anything to do with a black market. Everything I see here is supposition and circumstantial. The man I knew was a mediocre father, a complete failure as a husband and often a difficult human being. But he was a good lawyer, with a strong respect for the system and a dedication to the institution of adoption. He helped create families. He was proud of that.”

  “Proud enough to destroy some families to make others?” Callie put in. “Proud enough to play God?”

  “I said I’d look into it. I’m going to insist you cease and desist making any libelous or slanderous statements about my father. If you’ll give my assistant numbers where you can be reached, I’ll be in touch once I’ve made a determination.”

  Jake got to his feet before Callie could speak. “It’s strange, isn’t it, Carlyle, to have your perception of your family, your sense of self shaken in one blinding moment?”

  He took Callie’s hand, drew her to her feet. “That’s exactly what happened to her. We’ll see if you have half the guts she does. Half the spine. So you look into it, you make your determination. And you remember this: We’ll find him. I’ll make it my goddamn life’s work to find him. Because nobody’s going to get away with making Callie unhappy.”

  He squeezed her hand as she stared at him. “Except me. Let’s go.”

  She didn’t say anything to him until they were outside. “That was some closing speech, Graystone.”

  “You liked it?”

  “Pretty effective. I haven’t thought much about being unhappy. Mad, determined, confused, but not unhappy.”

  “But you are.”

  “Doesn’t seem like the most important thing, in the big scheme.”

  “I made you unhappy. That’s something I’ve thought about quite a bit over the last year.”

  “We made each other unhappy.”

  He put a hand under her chin, turned her face to his. “Maybe we did. But I know one thing for damn sure. I was happier with you than I was without you.”

  Thoughts tumbled together in her head, refused to make sense. “Damnit, Jake,” was all she could say.

  “Figured you should know. Being a smart woman you’ll be able to conclude I prefer being happy to unhappy. So I’m going to get you back.”

  “I’m not a . . . a yo-yo.”

  “A yo-yo comes back, if you’ve got the right hand-eye coordination. You’re no toy, Dunbrook. You’re work. Now, do you want to stand here on the sidewalk in Atlanta discussing my future happiness?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “We can hang around, try to give this guy another push—or let him simmer. Braves are in town. We might be able to catch a game. Or we can go back north and back to work.”

  “What’s this? You’re not going to tell me what I’m supposed to do?”

  He winced. “I’m trying to cut down on that. How’m I doing?”

  “Actually, not too bad.” She gave in to impulse, touched his face, then immediately turned away to stare back at Richard Carlyle’s office. “He said he hadn’t seen his father in over fifteen years, but his first instinct was to stand up for him.”

  “It is instinct—cultural, societal, familial. Close ranks against the outsider.”

  “I don’t believe he doesn’t know where his father is. Maybe he doesn’t have the exact address stored in his head, but he has to know how to get to him. If we push, his instinct would be to barricade, wouldn’t it?”

  “Probably. Following that, to either confront his father with the information we just put in his hands, or to warn him.”

  “We don’t have to worry about the warning, because Carlyle already knows we’re looking. I’m sure of that. Let’s give him a few days. I say we go back to work, on the site and on the list of names Suzanne gave me.”

  “I guess that shoots any chance of a suite at the Ritz here, and my fantasy of getting you drunk and naked.”

  “Pretty much.” Maybe she was an idiot, she thought, but she, too, was happier with him than she was without him. “But you can buy me a
drink at the airport bar and make sexual innuendos.”

  “If that’s the best I can do, let’s find a cab and get started.”

  You’re back.” Bill McDowell trotted up to Callie the minute he arrived at the dig. His young, earnest face was still shiny from its morning scrub.

  Callie grunted as she looked through the dumpy level to the surveyor’s staff West Virginia Frannie held. “We were only gone a day, Bill.”

  “Yeah, I know, but nobody was sure when you’d be back. I had a dentist appointment first thing this morning or I’d’ve been here sooner.”

  “Um-hmm. How’d it go?”

  “Good. Great. No problems. You’ve got really nice teeth.”

  She managed to swallow the chuckle. “Thanks.” She noted the height on the staff that gave her vertical distance. “Next point, Frannie.”

  Jake had been right, again, about the couple from West Virginia. Frannie was skinny, silly and obsessed with Chuck, but willing to follow instructions.

  And unlike Bill, didn’t breathe down her neck and continually ask questions.

  She rotated the movable telescope until she focused on the new position, took the second reading. All the while Bill hovered behind her.

  She could smell his aftershave, the lacing of bug repellant and a whiff of Listerine.

  “I found potsherds yesterday,” he told her. “I got the photographs if you want to see. I took Polaroids for my own records. Dory took the others. Hey, Dory! How’s it going?”

  “Hi, Bill. Any cavities?”

  “Nah. Anyway . . . um, Callie?”

  “Huh?”

  “I wrote up the report last night. They’re really cool—the potsherds. Digger said they were probably from a cooking pot. They were scribed and everything.”

  “That’s good.” She noted down the measurements. “That’s got it, Frannie. Thanks.” She began scribbling the calculations on her clipboard, and spoke absently to Bill. “Stick with the same location today, see what else you turn up.”

  “I was kind of hoping I could work with you.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Well, okay. Sure. Anyway, this is all so much cooler than I thought it was going to be. I mean, it takes forever, but then bam! you get something and it’s great. But whenever you need a hand, I could work with you over there.” He gestured toward the area marked off for the cemetery. “With the bones. I figure I can learn more in one day with you than a month with anybody else.”