The Truth About Comfort Cove

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  She opened the car door, feeling a little panicky. Excitement over the case transferred to excitement over Ramsey. He opened his car door, too, but didn’t get out. Lucy looked over. He was watching her.

  Jack. Claire. The cases.

  “What we have here makes sense,” she blurted. “But we have no proof. Other than that hair ribbon which ties Claire to Gladys’s house but doesn’t tie Jack to Claire or to Gladys.”

  Ramsey held up the folder they’d been working on over dinner. “We’ve got six professors, five of whom are men and not possible girlfriends, but who may know if Colton was involved with a teacher other than one of his own. And one, the female English professor, is still there and is of an age to have been in a relationship with him. We’ll go see her in the morning before our meeting with Wakerby. Then we call the other five. And we’ll find out everything they know about Jack Colton. Maybe someone saw this guy with Gladys, or someone who knows Gladys, or someone who adopted a baby or wanted a baby or…”

  They were out of the car. Lucy unlocked the back of the Rendezvous. Ramsey lifted the hatch and pulled out his carryon-size suitcase and garment bag.

  He’d have personal items in there. Like underwear. Because he’d be stepping out of his in her house.

  She was sick. Really sick.

  And now it was time to take him—and his luggage—inside.

  T he first thing Ramsey did when Lucy left him alone at the door of the spare bedroom of her home was close it. Firmly behind him. He didn’t look around. Didn’t take in his surroundings, didn’t note the location of every piece of furniture, every window and door and hinge and lock. He went straight for the bathroom.

  He saw the towels on the rack in his peripheral vision. She’d mentioned something about having put them out. Not taking the time to dig into his bag for his toiletries, he pulled off his gun, setting it on the counter just outside the shower, turned on the cold water, stripped off his clothes and stepped into the spray.

  It had probably been rude to excuse himself from her company the second they got home. It would have been far worse to accept her offer of a hot-chocolate nightcap and further conversation in the intimacy of her living room with his body hard in response to her closeness.

  Tonight, Lucy Hayes’s spare bedroom was a hotel room. One that was convenient for her to chauffeur to and from. No more. No less.

  He was not her personal guest. Didn’t want to be her personal guest.

  And she was not one of his casual, one-night stands.

  Looking down at himself under the stinging spray, Ramsey wondered how long it was going to take to convince his body of that fact.

  H e’d packed sweats and a T-shirt for sleeping. With his laptop on his chest, Ramsey lay on top of the rose coverlet on the queen-size bed, settled in for the night. Best that he not climb in between the soft sheets. Not tease his libido with images of Lucy Hayes making the bed, or lying on the sheets.

  Best that he not give her more work by having to wash sheets and remake a bed when he was gone.

  One o’clock in the morning and he wasn’t sleeping, anyway. There’d been two other abductions in Massachusetts on delivery truck routes not long before Claire Sanderson had been taken. Both toddlers. Neither had ever been found. Jack had been cleared of any suspicion in those abductions—they weren’t on his route, and during the first one, he hadn’t even been driving a truck yet.

  But maybe there was some other connection. Jack could have come back from Cincinnati, armed with Gladys’s information and a plan. He could have originally started as the middleman between the delivery truck drivers and Gladys, and then determined that he could make more money by cutting out the portion he had to pay to the delivery-truck man by handling that part of the job himself. Every piece of that puzzle fit.

  Now all he needed to do was prove it.

  And find out what had happened to those three children.

  He searched the three routes, marking all the similarities he could find, right down to fast-food places from the same chains. It was only two in the morning.

  And the phone rang.

  Ramsey waited. If Lucy was being called in to work, she’d let him know she was leaving.

  Maybe he could ride along. Be of assistance.

  And if she wasn’t…

  He listened for her voice. Heard nothing. And went back to work.

  At three, he awoke from a doze and sat instantly upright.

  He’d heard something. A shuffle? A…

  Cupboard. In the kitchen. Lucy was up.

  Settling back against the pillows, Ramsey willed himself to ignore the fact that someone else was in the house. It didn’t matter what she slept in. Or if she’d pulled on a robe for his benefit.

  Didn’t matter if she was having a sleepless night. Or if the phone call had upset her.

  She had his cell-phone number. She’d call if she needed him. She always did.

  Or…she could always knock on his door.

  Pulling the computer to his chest once again, he went back to work.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  J ack Colton’s English professor, Melissa Beck, had just been starting her career twenty-seven years before. Now she was the head of the English department and, with an eight o’clock class, Lucy and Ramsey figured the best time to get her was before that. Which meant that they were leaving Lucy’s house before six in order to make it to UC in time.

  They were leaving before Sandy would be up, Lucy thought as she pulled out of her driveway and confirmed that there were no lights on in her mother’s small bungalow across the street.

  “Is that your mother’s place?” Ramsey was following the direction of her gaze.

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t say anything more. Didn’t ask to meet Sandy. And Lucy was thankful for his lack of interest. She’d learned early in life to keep Sandy off-limits from the rest of her associations.

  And to keep her associations off-limits from Sandy. If her mother had any idea she’d had a man spend the night with her, Sandy wouldn’t rest until she met him and knew for certain that he wasn’t going to take Lucy away from Aurora. Away from her.

  “I heard your phone ring last night.”

  “Oh.” She’d felt like an interloper in her own home the night before. “Sorry. I was hoping it didn’t wake you.” Because what she’d wanted to do as soon as she’d hung up the phone was to knock on the spare-bedroom door and ask Ramsey Miller if he’d…what? Be her one-night stand? Lucy hadn’t had sex since she’d slept with her guns instructor at the academy. He’d been a mistake. She’d thought that she and the thirty-yearold bachelor had something. The arrogant jackass had talked about her in the locker room.

  “Was it work?”

  “No.” Two could play Ramsey’s game—one word or less when it came to answering personal questions.

  But then, he didn’t ask personal questions. Until now.

  Was he feeling a change in their relationship, too? Was her attraction to him reciprocated? At least a little?

  Would he have opened the door the night before if she’d knocked? Invited her in?

  Could be he was just making conversation. They had an hour sitting in small confines ahead of them.

  “Everything okay?” He was looking out his passenger window. Maybe following the progress of the barge that was making its way slowly upriver.

  Sandy had had another nightmare. They’d handled it. “It’s fine.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  His gaze turned toward her. “Was she drinking?”

  She never should have told him about Sandy’s drinking. It was a part of her life that was between her and her mother and Marie. Outsiders didn’t understand. They judged.

  But Ramsey Miller had been safely removed several states away, with no cause to ever be in Aurora, or anyplace close to her personal life, the night several months before then when she’d first found out Sandy was drinking again. She’d been tired. And discouraged
. And he’d called to tell her that another missing toddler had fallen into Peter Walters’s clutches.

  They’d both been having low moments and had traded woes. No big deal.

  “I don’t think she was drinking,” she said in answer to his question. If he judged he judged. He was going back to Massachusetts, anyhow. “She had a nightmare.”

  “Wakerby induced?”

  “They all are, in one fashion or another.”

  “She has them often?”

  They were passing the time it took to drive to their next business meeting. What was it going to hurt to be honest with him? He saw too much, anyway.

  And, she reminded herself again, he was leaving.

  “All my life. When I was little she used to come into my room whenever she had a nightmare and wake me up just so that she could make certain that I was okay.”

  Maybe if people saw Sandy’s pain, they wouldn’t judge her as harshly as her teachers at school had. The guidance counselor in junior high who’d tried to sic child protective services on them. The mothers of schoolmates—potential friends— who wouldn’t let their children play at Lucy’s house, or, in later years, hang out there, because of Sandy’s influence.

  “We’d play games. Or watch television. When I was a little older, we’d watch movies on the VCR.”

  “On school nights?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That must have made it rough at school the next day.”

  “I graduated with a three point six.” She’d shown the naysayers that she could thrive just fine living with her mother. “My mother lost a child in a brutal fashion,” she said, turning onto the freeway that would take them into Cincinnati and back to UC. “It’s something she’s going to live with for the rest of her life. You don’t go through something like that and get over it.”

  “I’m not suggesting you do.”

  His tone suggested that she might have come on a bit too strong. Defensiveness where Sandy was concerned was inbred.

  “I can’t take away the horrors my mom lives with, but I can make the worst times easier to bear,” she said, softening her tone. “Talking to me, connecting with me, eases her panic. Calms her. I bring her a measure of peace.”

  “That’s a hard cross for a child to bear.”

  “I turned out okay.”

  He didn’t respond and his silence bothered her. Did he think there was something wrong with her?

  Was he judging her, too?

  Was that why he wasn’t interested in kissing her?

  Shaking off the residuals of a lifetime of warding off others’ negative reactions to her mother, Lucy thought about Jack Colton. About Professor Melissa Beck. About…

  “Have you always lived in Aurora?”

  What was with the personal questions?

  Did he realize that turnaround was fair play? They had another forty-five minutes in the car and Lucy wanted to know some things about him, too. Just to file away in the box labeled A Guy I Used to Work With.

  “Yes, I’ve always lived here…” she said. “Though I was born in Newport, Kentucky, which is where my dad was living and working until his death.”

  “He was a cop, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Killed in the line of duty?”

  “Yep. He was working undercover, part of a drug sting. My dad went for a drop. His dealer made him and came out of the car shooting. I have copies of the newspaper articles about it. He was given a posthumous commendation.”

  “Was this before or after you were born?”

  “Before. Mama couldn’t catch a break, you know?”

  “Were they married?”

  “No. He was recently divorced. They met when he was called in to work a lead on her case—someone turned in a surveillance tape from a bank. The camera caught a woman and child that matched the description of Mama and Allie during the time Mama can’t remember anything. It turned out not to be them, but all it took was that one meeting. He made her feel safe. When she was with him, she felt less panicked. And he drank with her. Anyway, she fell for him. Things got out of hand. Mama thinks he would have married her.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “After he died, there was money. It all went to his ex-wife who turned out not to be quite so ex. He was separated, the divorce papers had been filed, but nothing was final.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. I was never acknowledged as his child. Mama wanted them to do blood tests after I was born, to prove that I was his and therefore entitled to some of the settlement, but she was threatened with a harassment charge. They said that she was an emotionally unstable woman trying to make trouble for a fallen officer. The guy had kids of his own. Friends in high places. And Mama didn’t have money to get an attorney and pursue things.”

  “Is he listed on your birth certificate?”

  “No. She was afraid someone would file charges against her if she did. She let them intimidate her into putting Father Unknown.”

  “Have you ever tried to find your half siblings?”

  “No. Why would I? I didn’t know their father. He’s no more than a biological set of chemicals to me. Not that there’s any proof of that. And I already know I wouldn’t be well received.”

  She and Sandy were a family.

  “All my mother ever wanted was to love and be loved,” Lucy said, needing him to understand, even while she knew it didn’t matter. “She just made some bad choices where the men in her life were concerned.”

  “What about while you were growing up? Were there men, then, too?”

  “One. He finally gave up on her and moved to Arizona.” “Only one? Your mom never dated after that?”

  “Nope. After the rape…and then my father… Mama doesn’t have much faith in men.”

  “How about you? Do you share her feelings?”

  Did he think she was gay? Was the chemistry that absent for him?

  They should be discussing Jack Colton. A guy she most definitely didn’t trust.

  “I like men just fine,” Lucy said, wishing the miles between them and UC would pass more quickly. I especially like you, Ramsey Miller, and I don’t like that at all.

  P rofessor Melissa Beck wasn’t sure she remembered Jack Colton. His picture “rang a bell,” but she’d had so many students over the years they’d blended together. She most definitely had never had anything but professional relationships with any of her students—was happily married, thank you— and only knew of one teacher/student relationship at UC during her tenure, and that had involved a male teacher with a female student and the two were now married.

  “That was a bust,” Lucy said as she and Ramsey got back into the Rendezvous. Her stomach was in knots. Wakerby was next.

  “Maybe not,” Ramsey’s reply surprised her. “I’ve been thinking about this. Colton lived under the radar. He never gave anyone any reason to suspect him of anything. Never drew attention to himself, except as a good worker. What we just heard fits that character type.”

  “He obviously was a good employee.” “And what better cover for getting away with something illegal?”

  Colton’s time at UC was probably before his involvement with baby stealing. “You’re saying his personality fits the profile.”

  “Exactly. Or that he was purposely under the radar so no one would suspect him of anything.”

  “Or remember him.”

  Again Ramsey’s theory made sense. They were closing in on this guy. They just had to keep looking.

  And what about Wakerby? Were they still closing in on him? Or was he on the road to getting away from them?

  “You want to stop anyplace before we head out to the prison?” They’d had coffee while they’d waited for Professor Beck to arrive, but he was at her mercy so it was polite to offer.

  And a stop could distract her for a moment or two.

  “What time is our appointment?”

&nbs
p; “Ten-thirty.” She wasn’t afraid of Sloan Wakerby. She was afraid of his effect on her.

  The only way to rid herself of fear was to face it. Head-on.

  Ramsey settled back in his seat. “I’m good, then.”

  He smiled at her, an expression filled with concern. And she had fears to face. Not all of them Wakerby related.

  “Where were you born?” She’d have liked not to blurt the question so boldly, or with such a lack of finesse, but she was taking care of business now. If she was going to give up her information, he had to give up his.

  “Vienna, Kentucky.”

  He put it right out there. No prevarication. Maybe she’d been going at this all wrong.

  She asked where Vienna was and found out that it was a small town in the southern part of the state.

  “Did you grow up there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are your parents still alive?” She felt as if they were playing twenty questions. Except that the answers were far more interesting than any game she’d ever played.

  “Yes.”

  “Still in Vienna?”

  “Yes.” He was staring out the front windshield, somewhat intimidating in his navy suit and polished shoes. Funny, his holster didn’t intimidate her a bit. The polished shoes did.

  “What does your father do for a living? Was he a cop, too?”

  “No, a tobacco farmer. He’s retired.”

  She took the ramp for the state highway that would lead to Wakerby’s temporary residence until he was sent to prison for the rest of his life. No need for GPS assistance on this trip. She could get to the jail in her sleep.

  And she didn’t have to think of Wakerby right now, either.

  “You grew up on a farm?” Lucy chanced a look at Ramsey, appearing so official as he sat there in his suit with a black portfolio folder balancing on one thigh.

  “I grew up working on the farm alongside my father.”

  Yesterday the man had told her nothing. Today he was giving her his world. Or at least a part of it. What had changed?

  “How far is it to the jail?”

  “Another half hour or so.” Along a stretch of sparsely populated Indiana farmland.