Fatal Secrets

by Barbara Phinney

  “It wasn’t to call a girlfriend.” She looked exasperated. “It’s a long story.”

  He’d hurt her feelings, he noted. Still, she needed to see the police. “The police should know about it, Kristin.”

  Finally, she nodded. After starting the engine, she carefully eased from her parking spot and out onto the highway.

  He wanted to ask her a thousand questions, mostly sparked by his own curiosity, but common sense told him to report the incident in front of the café.

  And then walk away.

  Yes, Zane. Walk far away. You don’t need this hassle.

  And yet, he argued silently with himself, there was something earnest about her, a deep hurting quality that tugged at his protective instincts.

  The police station came into view, an ordinary brick-and-mortar building on the other side of the town. But after parking in the visitor spot, Kristin made no effort to climb out. Zane sat there patiently, staring out at the line of snow-topped mountains that trimmed the horizon behind the station. In front of them, the flag jerked about in the increasing wind.

  “You have to report what happened to you, Kristin.”

  “I don’t know. Jackson said—”

  This Jackson guy must have a title in the FBI, but he’d find that out later. “Never mind what he said. You think someone tried to kill you, so you need to talk to the police. If it has anything to do with the Martino family, you need to let them know even more.”

  She snapped her head over. “How do you know what I need? Or what I think, or anything?”

  “You have the face of an angel, Kristin. Every thought that runs through your head is displayed loud and clear to those who know how to read people. And I’ve made it my business to read people. You think what’s happened to you is related to the Martino family. And we both know you’re not telling me everything, but you will tell the police.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No maybes about it. You obviously don’t trust me, but surely, you’ll trust the local police force.”

  She sat ramrod still, not answering him for a few minutes. He had the time to wait her out, but when he looked up at her face, a tear rolled down her perfectly clear cheek. It dropped to her jeans.

  He groaned inwardly. “What’s wrong?”

  She hastily brushed the tear away. “The last time I was here was to pick up my adoptive parents’ things. The police had come to my door and taken me to the hospital.” She looked at him with hollow eyes. “Did you know that they have a morgue in the basement there? I had to identify my mother and father. They’d been in a car crash south of here. The police were actually willing to take me to where they died, but I… It was the worst thing to ever happen to me. I couldn’t do it.”

  She swallowed, obviously fighting back difficult emotions. “Then a policewoman took me home and spent the night with me, until one of the ladies from the church could come and stay. A couple of days later, I was asked to come here to collect my parents’ things. They handed me a box and two bags of stuff that was broken and splattered with—” She inhaled shakily. “Then the police were done with me. I haven’t been back since.”

  Zane slumped. He remembered a crash about five months ago. The roads were clear, but still the car had plunged over a short embankment into Lindbergh Lake. Both the husband and wife had died. The autopsies and even tearing apart the car couldn’t reveal any reason for the accident. The story fell off the radar shortly after their funeral.

  They were her parents?

  Abruptly, Kristin threw open the door and climbed out.

  “Kristin!” Zane scrambled out. “I had no idea. You should have said something.”

  She colored as she pulled her short vest closer around her neck. Outside the center of town, the wind was stronger and cooler. “I should be able to come to the police station without tears, right? I’m a big girl. Regardless of Jackson’s warning, I need to report what happened to me. I mean, he’d insist I tell the police if he knew I’d been pushed into traffic, right? They’d be able to investigate it better than he could.”

  She straightened her shoulders, obviously trying to look taller than she really was. As a petite, slender woman, she couldn’t really pull it off.

  Why wouldn’t this Jackson guy trust the police? Why even say that? Zane thought. Unless it had something to do with that phone call she’d received back in the café. The one he now figured came from Jackson.

  He was from the FBI, Kristin had said. He wouldn’t fool around with her life.

  Several government cars pulled into the parking lot. Kristin moved to one side to allow them to park. The wind raised a few strands of her hair, flicking them over to one side. His hand itched to set them back in place and cover that scar she hid so well. “You don’t have to go in there.”

  “I should. I should remember what my pastor told me. My parents are together with Jesus now. And the Lord wouldn’t give me any situation I can’t handle. I handled their deaths.” She looked over at the station, as if steeling herself. “I can do this.”

  Zane shifted uncomfortably. Another one like Jake Downs that believed God is good, even when He dumped on you. That was because they didn’t have the childhood Zane had.

  “Nonetheless, you don’t have to go in.”

  She wavered a bit, he could see. Then she shook her head. “I should. Someone pushed me in front of that truck and I wouldn’t be here right now if I hadn’t managed to roll away quickly. God was looking out for me.”

  “If God was looking out for you, He wouldn’t have put that truck on the road or that idiot on the sidewalk.”

  “He gave me the agility I needed.” A frown marked her forehead. “This isn’t the time to debate the merits of my faith. I need to go into this station sooner or later. I’m going in, now.” She lifted her chin. “And maybe I can show you that I’m sincere in doing this, so that you’ll help me find my biological mother.”

  He hated her intuition, not to mention the guilt she was dumping on him. But before he could say anything, she added with a soft, sweet smile, “I appreciate all you’ve done so far.”

  “I haven’t done anything,” he growled.

  “You were there for me at the café.”

  He took her arm and steered her toward the front door. He hadn’t done a single thing for her yet, nor had he promised to do anything. And yet she was thanking him.

  He should help her.

  But still, a voice within him whispered, she hasn’t told you much. All you’ve heard is a sad, little story.

  He glanced down at her as she tugged free of his grip and moved forward. He watched her straighten up and stiffen her spine.

  Across the back of her vest were two faint smears of something dark and iridescent. Some kind of grease? From the hands of the man who pushed her?

  Before he could say anything, she strode toward the front door. With a frown, he took the few long steps needed to catch up with her.

  Inside the station, a police officer recognized Kristin, and led them down to a small office. She hesitated in the doorway before pushing inside. They sat down and Kristin began to speak.

  She told her story, haltingly, he thought.

  And leaving out, he noticed, the part of why she had asked to meet Zane.

  And the part about Martino’s trial. Zane kept his mouth shut, deciding he would say something only if it became necessary. Maybe she was rethinking that just because she’d attended a trial did not necessarily mean the convicted felon would go after her.

  The officer recorded it all, getting the statement written up quickly for her to sign.

  “You should take her vest,” Zane suggested to the man when all was done.

  The officer frowned. “Why?”

  Zane answered by asking Kristin to remove the vest. With a small frown, she peeled it off, and Zane spread it out on the table between him and the officer. The dark smudges he’d seen earlier stood out starkly in the cool fluorescent lights. They shimmered like some kind of speci
al automotive grease. The two marks were shaped like fingerprints.

  “Whoever pushed her left those marks. They may reveal fingerprints.”

  The officer retrieved a large paper bag and set the vest in it, then wrote out a receipt for her. “I’ll have a look at it later, but you must remember that this is a college town, and students do stupid things, even early in the morning. Someone could have just jostled you, Ms. Perry, and then slipped back into the crowd so he wouldn’t be accused of anything.”

  “I distinctly felt two hands on my back.”

  “This is a thick vest. Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” She stiffened her shoulders. “Why would I lie?”

  The officer shook his head. “I’m not saying you’re lying. You may be mistaken. We often get reports of students jumping the gun on things that later prove to be just an accident, or not real at all.”

  She glared. “I know what I felt.”

  “You just lost both parents, Ms. Perry,” the officer continued calmly. “It can have a devastating effect on people.”

  Zane’s hand shot out to stop Kristin before she did or said something stupid. He could feel her muscles tighten under his fingers. “Can you just check the vest?”

  “Sure.” The officer looked doubtful, but then shrugged. “We’ll see what we can find, but don’t expect too much.”

  “I understand.” Rising, she shoved out her hand. “Thank you. I hope you can find something useful on that vest. And I hope you find who did this to me.”

  “You said no one saw anything. It may be hard to do.”

  “Surely if you ask around, someone will remember something. People aren’t going to accuse others right in public, but they may be willing to talk in private.” Kristin looked hopefully at the man.

  The officer shrugged before shaking her hand and then Zane’s. They left the office, passing several plainclothes officers who watched Kristin closely. Was she known to them because of her adoptive parents’ untimely deaths? Minutes later, she and Zane were outside again.

  She sighed. “That felt like a waste of my time.”

  Zane stopped her as she walked toward his car. “Why didn’t you say anything about the trial?”

  “Because of the way Jackson was talking. Like I shouldn’t trust anyone. Plus, it may not have been related.”

  “You thought it was a few minutes ago.”

  “I know.” She looked uncertain. “I had second thoughts. I wanted to go in there. I wanted to tell him, but I thought of my parents, and Jackson, and even my mother, then when that officer first looked at me, remembering me from the crash, I just lost all…strength. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You’ve been through some rough times.”

  She blinked. “Have you ever lost someone you love?”

  He thought of his parents, and the beatings, the way his mother wouldn’t look at him for days on end. When he was young, he thought she was mad at him. Later, he realized she was saving her own skin. He didn’t miss them when they died, and he hated that truth.

  “I need to call Jackson back before I say anything more to the police,” she said when he didn’t answer her.

  “How do you know you can trust him?”

  “He works for the FBI. I was even in his office, and that building is like a fortress.” She paused, tossing her hand out. “Okay, I trust him, that’s all. He seems to be very careful dealing with me. It’s almost as though he treats me like a princess or something really delicate.” Her hands flew up in defense. “I know that sounds egotistical, but it’s not. I think he genuinely wants what’s best for me, and is determined to find my mother. But he’s afraid my mother and I will both be killed.”

  Pausing, she shook her head. “I don’t even know if I’m remembering his words correctly. I’ll call him back to make sure. He sounded as though he thought Vincent Martino was planning to come after me. That guy might already know where I am because of the trial.” She started walking again. “I realize that I’m not making any sense, but it’s hard to explain.”

  Zane stopped them. Holding out his hand, he said, “Give me the car keys. I need to do something.”

  Kristin handed him his keys. “Like what?”

  He looked at her. She stopped halfway to the car, holding herself close and rubbing her arms. The cold wind, now coming down from Canada, defiantly tossed around her hair. The flag nearby fluttered even more noisily. “I have to get you home so you can get a coat to wear. You do own a decent jacket, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. But the vest was cute and I wasn’t cold this morning. And I certainly didn’t expect to surrender it to the police today.”

  Zane peeled off his sheepskin jacket and handed it to her. She was about to decline it, he could tell, but caught his stern look and changed her mind.

  “Now you’ll get cold,” she said as she slipped into it. The ends of the sleeves dangled beyond her fingers until she hugged herself.

  “I’ll be okay. This won’t take long. I’m going to collect my own forensic samples.”

  “But you already made me surrender my vest.”

  “You leaned back onto my car seat,” he answered. “There should be some residue there.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “I’m trained to collect evidence and have it still be legally admissible in court.” He unlocked the doors and dug a small kit from the backseat. He then took a photograph of the mess she’d smeared on the back of the driver’s seat. Once he examined it again, he lifted the smear and then swabbed what was left.

  Over his shoulder, Kristin peered at his handiwork. “Do you think you’ll find fingerprints in that?”

  Zane shook his head. “They probably didn’t transfer, especially considering how much it’s smeared. But I might find some trace DNA.”

  “Do you have your own lab? How long will it take?”

  He laughed, and then straightened out of the car. “I’m guessing you watch too many crime shows on TV.”

  She reddened. “I’m a full-time student trying to major in business and minor in science. I don’t have time to watch much TV.”

  “Sorry,” he answered her berate. “Anyway, to answer your question, no, I don’t have my own lab. I’ll use that independent lab you mentioned before.”

  “Good. I’ve never been in it. I wasn’t a chem minor until this past year. I did art history until I realized that I couldn’t tell a Vermeer from a Van Gogh, even if the artists were telling me which was which. But with Maggie working there, we may be able to get it done quickly.”

  “Excellent. We’ll go over just as soon as you pick up your jacket. Try to get a warmer one than your vest.”

  She glanced up at the sky. “The day was supposed to be warm.”

  “I’ve only been here two years, but I’ve already noticed how unpredictable spring can be.”

  “You’ve only been here two years? Why did you come here?”

  He packed away his collection kit and draped a car blanket over the driver’s seat before answering. “I came here to find my brother. I was adopted and when I learned I had a full brother who might be in Montana, I decided to move here and look for him. I just didn’t think I’d still be looking for him two years later.”

  She looked crestfallen. “Two years! I was hoping to find my mother within a few weeks.”

  “I hope you do, too.” He felt the urge to draw her into his arms, but checked it quickly. He hadn’t even decided to accept her case yet, so getting mixed up with her too much would not only be a waste of time, but highly unprofessional, as well. “Let’s get your jacket.”

  With Kristin directing him, Zane drove to her house. The small, well-kept bungalow was slightly outside of town on a quiet street that intersected a tertiary highway.

  Zane glanced around. There was no other traffic at the moment, he saw. But for a place this quiet, the feeling of being watched lingered heavily on him.

  Way too heavily.

  THREE

  Zane
watched Kristin slip into the modest bungalow, only to exit a few seconds later with a faux suede tailored jacket in a dark blue color. She’d also chosen a long, thin scarf to ward off the cool breeze. She’d wrapped it once around her neck.

  He let out a long breath as he shook his head. She obviously did not know how to protect herself. If someone wanted to harm her, a long scarf would be a perfect weapon.

  She’d been pushed into traffic; he believed that, not only because of the smudges, but also because to trip right at that moment was simply too coincidental.

  And he didn’t believe in coincidences. Nor did he believe in wearing things that an attacker could use against a person.

  Patience, he told himself. She’s not as cynical as you are. She probably hadn’t seen her father try to strangle her mother.

  “I’ve got to teach you how to dress,” he muttered as she climbed in his car again.

  “I beg your pardon!”

  He had to smile at her shocked but polite words. She had excellent diction, though her accent was definitely northwestern. “I mean that you need to choose clothes that can’t be used as weapons.”

  She looked down at herself. “Like what?”

  “Your scarf. If someone is after you, then you must not give them anything they can use against you.” He paused, then added, “And you need to not act so…” He fought for the right words, then knowing they’d never come, he said, “regally.”

  She tightened her jaw. “I’m not a princess.” She eased off on the outraged expression, looking more hurt than anything else. “My adoptive mother, Anna, was an English teacher, born of British parents. My father was a lawyer here in town and, before that, in Billings. He was good at his job. Projecting an air of confidence was important to him.”

  “Your mother was a teacher?”

  Looking sad, she said, “Well, yes, until I was—came along. She retired to stay home with me. She loved being a mother.”

  He softened. He knew he’d hurt her, but she needed to hear what he’d said for her own safety. And suddenly, her safety meant a lot to him. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I don’t want you hurt, that’s all.”