by Sandra Brown
She reached for his hands and clasped them. “You’re invaluable to me. You were a stalwart friend during the most difficult period of my life. I love and admire you. I’m going to miss you like crazy. But you can’t continue being my safety net.”
“I’d rather be your husband.”
“Romance and marriage don’t fit into the picture right now. What I’m going to do deserves my full-time attention. Please give me your blessing and wish me well.”
He stared into her pleading eyes for several long moments. Eventually he smiled regretfully. “I’m certain that you’ll make Cat’s Kids an overnight success. You’ve got the talent, the ambition, and the know-how to achieve anything you want.”
“I appreciate your vote of confidence.”
“However,” he added sternly, “I’m a sore loser. I still think Bill Webster has dazzled you with his rhetoric about public service programming. It’s too bad about his daughter, but I think he took advantage of your sympathy to lure you to his TV station.
“With you there, his ratings will soar, and he damn well knows it. I doubt his interest in this project is entirely altruistic. My guess is that you’ll learn he’s fallible, as human and self-serving as the rest of us.”
“Bill has given me an opportunity,” she said. “But he’s not the reason for my decision. His motives have nothing to do with mine. I wanted to make a change in my life. If it wasn’t Cat’s Kids it would be something else.”
Dean declined to comment. Instead, he said, “My guess is that you’ll come to miss me and your life here so much that you’ll soon return.” He stroked her cheek. “When you do, I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Please don’t hold out for that.”
“One of these days, you’ll come around. In the meantime, I’ll do as you ask and wish you well.”
Chapter Twelve
January 1994
The clock on the desk was old-fashioned, with a round, white face and large, black, Arabic numbers. It had a red second hand that ticked off every second with a rhythmic click, remindful of a heartbeat.
The cover of the scrapbook was made of imitation leather, but it was a good imitation, with a realistic grain. Heavy and solid, the volume felt good against the palms that caressed it as one would a pet.
In a way it was just that—a pet. A friend who could be trusted to keep secrets. Something to coddle, to play with during idle moments, or when one felt the need for comfort and companionship. And unqualified approval.
The pages of the volume were filled with newspaper clippings. Many gave an account of young Jerry Ward’s life, his valiant struggle with a congenital heart defect, his transplant and recovery, and finally his untimely accidental death by drowning. Such a tragedy, after all the teen had been through.
Then there was the grandmother in Florida. She’d been eulogized by friends and family who were devastated by her unexpected death. The woman seemingly had not had a single enemy in her life. Everyone loved her. Following her transplant, her cardiologist said that her prognosis was good. She would likely have lived for many more years if not for that shard of glass that had pierced her lung when she fell through the patio door while watering a Boston fern. And of all days for such a hideous accident to occur—the second anniversary of her transplant.
A page in the volume was turned. Memory lane led to October 10, 1993. Three months ago. Another state. Another city. Another heart recipient. Another ghastly accident.
Messy, that business with the chain saw. Bad idea. But he’d been an outdoors type, so…
The mission had one glaring flaw—there was no way of knowing exactly when it was accomplished. It might have been already, with Jerry Ward’s death, or with one of the other two. But the mission couldn’t be assumed completed until all the possible recipients had been eliminated. Only then would it be certain that the heart and the spirit of the loved one had been reunited.
The scrapbook was closed reverently. The back cover received a loving pat before the volume was gently laid in the desk drawer and locked away from prying eyes. Not that there would be any. No one was ever invited here.
Before the drawer was locked, a thick, bulging manila envelope was removed. The metal clasp was worked open and the contents spread across the desk. Each article, photograph, and clipping had been carefully labeled to facilitate study. Every fact contained in this treasure trove of information had been memorized and analyzed.
Known were her height, weight, dress size, likes and dislikes, religious preference, favorite fragrance, pet peeves, California driver’s license number, Social Security number, political affiliations, ring size, and the telephone number of the maid service that cleaned her house in Malibu.
It had taken months to compile the information, but it was amazing how much could be learned about a person when one’s time was devoted solely to that undertaking. Of course, because she was a celebrity, there was much to be learned from the media, although the reliability of that information was sometimes questionable. Tabloids weren’t always accurate, so “facts” garnered from them had to be verified.
Interesting, this change of heart she’d had recently. She was leaving her fabulous life in Hollywood for what appeared to be charity work in San Antonio, Texas.
Cat Delaney would be an intriguing person to get to know.
And a real challenge to kill.
Chapter Thirteen
May 1994
“Say, this might sound crazy, but, well, I’ve been sitting in that booth over there, looking at you and thinking I know you from somewhere. All of a sudden it hit me like a ton of bricks. Aren’t you Alex Pearson?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Damn. I could’ve sworn you were him. You look just like him. The writer, you know? Wrote that crime novel that everybody’s reading? You’re a dead ringer.”
This had gone on long enough. Alex stuck out his right hand. “Alex Pierce.”
“Hot damn! I knew it was you! Recognized you from the picture on the back of your book. Lester Dobbs is the name.” The friendly stranger pumped his hand enthusiastically. “Pleased to meet you, Alex. Is it all right for me to call you Alex?”
“Of course.”
Without invitation, Dobbs slid into the booth across from Alex. It was breakfast time at Denny’s. The coffee shop was crowded with people on their way to work and those who’d just gotten off night shift.
Dobbs signaled the harried waitress for a fresh cup of coffee. “Don’t know why she’s acting so pissed,” he muttered after he got the refill. “By moving over here, I freed up a booth.”
Alex folded his morning newspaper and laid it on the seat beside him. It appeared he wouldn’t be returning to it anytime soon.
Dobbs said, “Read that you were a Texan. Didn’t know you still lived here in Houston.”
“I don’t. Not on a permanent basis anyway. I move from place to place.”
“Guess your line of work gives you the freedom to do that.”
“I can plug in my computer anywhere there’s a post office and a telephone.”
“Wouldn’t do me any good to get the wanderlust,” Dobbs said with regret. “I work in a refinery. Been there twenty-two years. It ain’t going nowhere and neither am I. The job keeps bread on the table, but that’s about all I can say for it. Got me a bastard of a supervisor. A real tight-ass when it comes to that time clock, know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know the type,” Alex replied sympathetically.
“Used to be a cop, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Traded in your handgun for a hard disk.”
Alex looked at him with surprise.
“Clever, huh? Didn’t make it up myself. Read it in an article about you in the Sunday supplement a few months back. Sorta stuck in my mind. Is this the nonsmoking section? Shit. Anyway, me and the wife are real fans.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I d
on’t read much, you understand. She’s always got her nose stuck in a book. Buys ’em at the secondhand place a dozen or more at a time. Me, I only like the kind of stuff you write. The bloodier the better.”
Alex nodded and took a sip of his coffee.
Dobbs leaned forward and lowered his voice to a man-to-man pitch. “The dirtier the better, too, know what I mean? Jesus, the things you came up with in that book of yours. I got a hard-on ’bout every twenty pages. The wife thanks you, too.” He added a broad wink.
Alex struggled to keep a straight face. “I’m glad you became so involved in the story.”
“Do you, uh, actually know broads like the one in your book? You ever had one pull that kinky feather trick on you like that gal did to your hero?”
The Lester Dobbses of the world wanted to believe that he wrote from experience. “I write fiction, remember?”
“Yeah, but you gotta know a little bit about what you’re puttin’ down on paper, right?”
Alex wanted neither to exaggerate his lone life nor to disappoint his fan, so he remained silent and let Dobbs draw his own conclusion. He reached the one that pleased him and chuckled, shaking loose smokers’ phlegm from his throat.
“Some sumbitches have all the luck. Ain’t no woman gonna do that for me, and that’s for damn sure. Guess it’s just as well,” he added philosophically. “I’d probably die of a heart attack, spread-eagle there in the bed, mother naked, my dick standing up straight as a flagpole, and—”
“More coffee, Mr. Pierce?” The waitress had the carafe poised over his cup.
“Oh, no thanks. You can bring my check. And add Mr. Dobbs’s tab to it.”
“Now that’s right decent of you. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“The wife’ll pee her pants when I tell her I met you. When’s your next book coming out?”
“In about a month.”
“Great! Is it as good as the first?”
“I think it’s better, although the writer is rarely a good judge of his own work.”
“Well, you can’t write ’em fast enough for me.”
“Thank you.” Alex picked up the check and his newspaper. “Sorry, I’ve gotta run. I enjoyed meeting you.”
Alex paid at the cash register and left the bustling coffee shop, although he would have enjoyed lingering over another cup of coffee. In a very real sense he’d been working when Dobbs joined him. His mind had been busy soaking up atmosphere, studying people, their unique mannerisms and distinctive facial features, making mental notes for future reference. He did all this unobstrusively, not wanting to call attention to himself. He was surprised that Dobbs had even noticed him.
He was still startled when he was recognized by his readers. It didn’t happen very often, though. His first novel, published a year ago in hardcover, had enjoyed only mediocre commercial success.
But when the paperback had come out, word-of-mouth endorsements and extra publicity from his publisher kicked in. Now it was on several bestseller lists and making the rounds in Hollywood for consideration as a TV movie. The reading public was eager for novel number two, due out next month.
For his third novel, his agent had demanded an enormous advance, which the publisher had paid. The book had been enthusiastically accepted by his editor and had generated much excitement within the publishing house. A knockout cover had been designed, and plans were being made for extensive prepublication promotion.
But for all his recent success in the publishing world, Alex Pierce was far from being a household name. He was still an unknown among nonreaders and those whose tastes lay outside his genre.
His crime novels were about men and women caught up in dangerous, sometimes brutal situations. His characters were drug lords, slum lords, pimps, whores, gang members, assassins, loan sharks, arsonists, rapists, thieves, extortionists, informers—the worst of society. The heroes were the cops who dealt with them inside or outside the law. In his stories the lines between right and wrong, good and evil, were so faintly drawn as to be virtually invisible.
His stories had a tough veneer and an even tougher core. He wrote with a jaundiced eye and a cast-iron stomach, sparing his readers’ sensibilities nothing, packing his narrative and dialogue with as much realism as possible.
Although no words in the English language could adequately describe a grisly homicide, he tried to capture on paper the sights, sounds, and smells of the atrocities that one human being was capable of inflicting on another and the psychology behind the commission of such crimes.
Using the vernacular of the streets, he wrote the sexual passages as graphically as those detailing autopsies. His books had impact. They weren’t for the squeamish, the fastidious, or the prudish.
In spite of its crudity, one critic had said that his writing had “…heart. [Pierce] has uncanny insight into the human experience. He cuts to the bone in order to expose the soul.”
Alex was skeptical of the praise. He feared that these first three books were a fluke. He questioned his talent daily. He wasn’t as good as he wanted to be and had come to the dismal conclusion that writing and success—insofar as how successful the writer perceives his work—were incompatible.
Despite these self-doubts, he was cultivating an expanding and loyal reading audience. His publisher had deemed him a rising star, but he hadn’t let the praise go to his head. He mistrusted fame. His previous experience in the media spotlight had been the most turbulent period of his life. Much as he wanted to succeed as a novelist, he was content living in anonymity. He’d had more than his share of notoriety.
He climbed into his sports car and within minutes was speeding along the freeway, one of the most fearless of the fearsome shark-drivers. He kept the windows open, listening to the whiz of traffic, liking the feel of the wind in his hair, even enjoying the pervasive smell of auto exhaust.
He reveled in such simple sensations. He’d been amazed at how sensually stimulating the world was, once his senses were no longer dulled by alcohol.
He’d kicked his drinking habit by checking himself into a dry-out hospital. After weeks of pure hell, he’d emerged, pale, skeletal, and shaking, but stone cold sober. He’d been sober for more than two years now.
No matter what kind of pressure he came under in the future, he was determined not to fall back on that crutch. Those blackouts had scared the shit out of him.
He arrived at his apartment, but it wasn’t like coming home. The Spartan rooms were filled with packing crates. His research required frequent travel and periodic stays in a variety of locales. There was no point in nesting. In fact, he’d already made arrangements for his next move.
He weaved through the boxes, making his way toward the bedroom, which also served as his office. This was the only room in the apartment that looked lived in—an unmade bed in one corner, a desk and worktable taking up most of the floor space.
And there was paper everywhere. Reams of printed material were stacked on every conceivable surface and tacked to the walls. This chaotic, haphazard library was a grim reminder of his deadline. He glanced at the wall calendar. May. Time was passing quickly. Too quickly.
And he had an awful lot to do.
Chapter Fourteen
“What’s it going to take to get this kid on TV and into a permanent home?”
Exasperated, Cat thumbed through the case file. At four years old, Danny had already received more hard knocks than most people experienced in a lifetime.
She scanned the reports, paraphrasing aloud as she went. “His mother’s boyfriend beats him repeatedly, so he’s removed from her custody and placed in a foster home where there are already several other children.”
She glanced up and addressed the rest of her remarks to Sherry Parks, a child protection specialist with the Texas Department of Human Services.
“Thank God he’s no longer serving as a punching bag for the boyfriend, but Danny needs full-time, one-on-one attention. He needs to be adopted, Sherry.”
“So what’s the problem? Let’s do a segment on him and get some families interested in adopting him.”
“The glitch is the judge, Cat. If you like, I can plead Danny’s case with him again, but I can’t promise that his decision will be any different the second time around. Danny’s abuse caseworker is arguing just as strenuously that he belongs in a foster home. So far the judge has ruled in favor of that.”
Since the inception of Cat’s Kids, Sherry Parks, who was middle-aged and motherly, had been Cat’s liaison with the state agency. She strived to get abused or special children out of the foster care system and into permanent adoptive homes.
It wasn’t an easy undertaking. There were miles of red tape involved. Sherry frequently butted heads with abuse caseworkers and judges who, like everyone else, had biases and opinions that governed their decisions. Once a victim at home, the child sometimes became a victim of the sluggish system.
Cat said, “I’m certain the caseworker’s heart is in the right place, but I strongly believe that Danny needs to be placed in a permanent home. He lacks security and needs parents he can count on to be around for a long time.”
“The caseworker insists that he needs more therapy before he’s ready for adoption,” Sherry Parks argued, playing devil’s advocate. “He was neglected from the day he was brought home from the hospital. He needs to learn to live within a family structure. Recommending him for adoption now is premature and doomed to failure, she says. We’d be moving him through the system too quickly.”
Cat’s auburn eyebrows pulled into a frown above the bridge of her nose. “Meanwhile, the message to him is coming through loud and clear—nobody wants you. ‘Your foster parents are only housing you until you prove yourself worthy enough to be adopted.’