by Debra Webb
Sande gasped.
O’Brien hit the brakes.
The car skidded to a hard, jarring stop mere inches from the pedestrian, who had frozen in her tracks.
Silence vibrated inside the vehicle, and Sande’s heart bumped back into a frantic rhythm.
“You okay?”
She managed a jerky nod.
Then O’Brien did the last thing she expected; he put the car in Park, opened his door and climbed out. Before she could say a word, he’d stormed up to the vehicle idling behind them. The very same car that had been chasing them.
What the heck was he doing?
Twisting around in the seat, Sande watched as O’Brien waltzed right up to the driver’s door and said something through the window. Abruptly, the car backed up, cut around him and roared away.
Horns blasted at both the car speeding off and the one in which Sande sat, parked at the crosswalk and blocking an entire lane of traffic. O’Brien slid back behind the wheel.
“What did you do?” Sande glared at him. “That was…” She struggled to find the right word. “That was dangerous!”
He put the car in Drive and rolled forward. “Not really. I asked him a simple question.”
Was he trying to get himself run over or killed?
O’Brien glanced at her. “I asked him if I could help him.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Sande checked all directions to make sure the car wasn’t coming back.
“Nope.”
Her gaze settled on O’Brien once more. “What did he say?”
“That’s when he drove away.”
She shook her head. “You could’ve been shot or run over or something!” Did all Colby investigators take those kinds of risks? He could have been killed! He wouldn’t be able to help her if he was dead. Good grief!
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It’s daylight. The street was crowded, so there were lots of witnesses.” He checked the left lane before easing into it. “And there was a police cruiser half a dozen cars behind us.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth before she turned around to check. Sure enough, the cop car was still there, three or four cars behind.
She relaxed. Okay, so maybe he had known what he was doing. Sande closed her eyes and released a heavy breath. She had to trust someone. It might as well be him. Hadn’t she already decided that? Stay on track, girl. This is too important to be wishy-washy.
The buzz of a cell phone interrupted her thoughts. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew his phone.
“O’Brien.”
Sande considered his profile as he listened to the caller. Strong jaw. Firm mouth. Good hands, too, she noted as she studied the one holding the phone. He looked…reliable.
She shook her head. Hadn’t she already had this conversation with herself?
He closed the phone and tucked it back into his pocket. “That was Windy.”
Anticipation zinged along Sande’s nerve endings. “Has she found something?” That would be a step in the right direction. At this point Sande would be thrilled to hear any news about her past or the results of the drug test, good, bad or indifferent.
“We have to return to Nancy Childers’s home.”
“Has she changed her mind about knowing me?” That would be an about-face. Or maybe Alma had called with additional information.
“Not exactly.”
There was something different in O’Brien’s tone this time. Sande couldn’t quite label the inflection, but whatever it was made her uneasy. “What do you mean? If she doesn’t want to talk, why are we going back?”
He braked for a traffic light, then his gaze settled on hers. “Nancy Childers is dead, Sande.”
“Dead?” But they’d spoken with her just a few hours ago. Two, maybe three. How could she be dead? “What happened?”
“I don’t have details. All I know is that Alma Spears decided to pay her a visit. She found the front door ajar.”
Dread coiled in Sande’s stomach. “Nancy Childers was murdered.” Not a question. She knew deep in her gut that the woman had been murdered. The word tasted bitter on her tongue.
“Yes.”
Had Nancy Childers been murdered because they’d visited her? Was her killer someone trying to track down Sande? What a foolish question. Of course that was the reason the woman was dead.
Sande leaned back in her seat and fought the overwhelming emotions.
Not only was someone after her, they obviously wanted her dead.
How was she supposed to fight an enemy she couldn’t identify? Couldn’t hope to recognize? With a past she couldn’t remember?
If the bad guys were that close on her tail, how long would it be before they caught her in just the right situation?
Not long.
She twisted around and stared through the rear windshield. Prayed none of the cars on the street were following them like before. That chase had been just the beginning. The realization shuddered through her.
O’Brien had wanted a reaction. Sande was reasonably sure murder wasn’t the one he had been hoping for. It certainly wasn’t the one she’d wanted.
2422 Johnson Lane
DEFINITELY NOT the reaction Patrick had hoped for.
The brief car chase had been more than enough excitement for one day. A murder was way over the top. Particularly this early in the investigation.
If Sande Williams had been involved with people who thought nothing of killing a woman for simply talking to her, they were in for a hell of a bumpy ride.
Again he asked himself if he was up to this challenge. Might as well be. He was here. The client was here. He parked the car and got out. Giving up too early was not in his nature.
The last thing he wanted to do, however, was endanger Sande Williams. He glanced at her as she joined him at the front of the car. She was counting on him. Windy was counting on him.
Patrick surveyed the scene, silently steeled himself and pushed the uncertainty away. He could handle this.
Blue lights throbbed around the house where Nancy Childers had lived until a few hours ago. The array of official vehicles ranged from police to rescue squad and finally the coroner. The last stirred memories he’d prefer stay buried.
Windy waited at her car, well beyond the yellow tape that had been draped around the perimeter of the property. Alma Spears peered out a side window. Patrick’s gaze collided with hers just before she allowed the blind to snap back into place.
He had a feeling that lady knew far more than she was telling. Or maybe she was just afraid.
“My contact in homicide,” Windy said as she approached them, “said the victim had one shot to the back of the head. Ballistics will take awhile, but he’s guessing a silencer was used, since none of the neighbors appeared to have heard anything.”
“No sign of forced entry?” Patrick studied the proximity of the houses in the neighborhood. That someone had driven up to the home and walked in without drawing attention indicated the deceased hadn’t put up a fuss. Had Nancy Childers recognized her killer?
“No forced entry. Techs are lifting prints and trace evidence now, but it’s doubtful they’ll find anything connected to the killer.”
One shot to the back of the head. Most likely a professional hit. The killer would have used gloves and would have been in and out in a matter of minutes, if not seconds. Windy was right; there would be no evidence. Ballistics probably wouldn’t give them anything, either, with the exception of whether or not a silencer was used.
Patrick considered the client waiting next to him. Odds were that this murder was about her. Bringing her to the scene was a risk. If the killer or killers were still hanging around the neighborhood, she would be spotted. The sheer trauma could create additional psychological problems for her.
And yet exposure was the only way to trigger repressed memories.
Unless they went the hypnosis route, and that was another risky method.
He would need to discuss
it with Sande. The stakes had been seriously raised with this murder, not to mention the car chase, however short-lived.
He glanced at the window where he’d noticed Alma Spears peering out. “I think we’ll pay the neighbor another visit.” He looked back at Windy. “Let me know if you learn anything else from your contact.”
She withdrew her cell phone and checked the screen. “Will do.”
As Patrick and Sande headed for the house next door he heard Windy answer her cell. They were expecting results from the lab, but it was too early for that. Maybe tomorrow.
“Excuse me! Hold up one moment, sir!”
Patrick stopped and turned to face the man who had called out to him. Not a uniform, but definitely a cop. The trench coat if not the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth gave him away.
Patrick prepared for the usual territory battle. “Patrick O’Brien.” He extended his hand. “How can I help you?”
The cop shot a quick look at Sande, then met Patrick’s gaze as he reached to shake his hand. “Detective Carl Lyons. You’re with the Colby Agency?”
Patrick nodded. “That’s right.”
Lyons jerked his head in Windy’s direction. “You’re with her?”
“Right again.” Patrick braced for the next question.
“And this is…” Lyons gestured toward Sande.
“Sande Williams.” She didn’t offer her hand. Her expression announced just exactly how terrified she was at the moment.
Lyons nodded as he considered the name. “Did you know the victim?”
Sande glanced at Patrick before answering. “No.”
The cop bobbed his head again. “Really?”
Patrick’s instincts went on alert. “We have an interview to conduct, Detective Lyons. Do you have specific questions?”
Lyons studied him for several seconds before responding. “We’d like to talk to Ms. Williams downtown. Will that be a problem?”
“Not a problem at all.” Patrick gently grasped Sande’s elbow, primarily because she looked ready to bolt. “We can go now or later. Whatever’s convenient for you, Detective.”
That probing gaze searched Patrick’s again. “Don’t you want to know why we’d like to speak with her?”
Another warning fired in Patrick’s veins. “If you’re prepared to discuss the matter now, sure. We can do it here.”
Lyons took a final drag from his cigarette, then tossed it to the street and smashed it with the toe of his shoe. “Why not?” He looked from Patrick to Sande and back. “Ms. Williams is wanted in D.C. for identity theft.” His attention settled on her once more. “We’re going to need to straighten out this matter and any possible connection to the victim.” He hitched a thumb toward the Childers’s home. “The neighbor, a Ms. Alma Spears, told us the two of you had visited the victim today.”
“That’s correct. However, Ms. Williams was not acquainted with the victim,” Patrick countered. “Ms. Childers said as much during our visit.”
Lyons retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and tapped one out. “I find that very strange, since Nancy Childers was also using a stolen identity, and charges are pending against her in D.C. as well.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s just one big coincidence.”
Patrick started to argue, since a background check had been run on Sande Williams as well as Nancy Childers that very morning, and nothing had been found. No pending charges, nothing. But protesting at this point without evidence would be pointless. He would need the printout Windy had pulled that morning.
“I’ve never been to D.C.,” Sande interjected, her voice small and uncertain.
Lyons shrugged, then lit his cigarette. “Maybe not. We can clear that up easily enough. Why don’t I meet you at the precinct and get this settled so there’s no more confusion?”
“I’ll check in with my associate,” Patrick offered, “and then we’ll come straight to you.”
The cop’s gaze narrowed. “What about your interview?”
“My associate can handle that.”
Another one of those careless shrugs lifted the detective’s shoulders. “Half hour. I’ll be looking for you.” Detective Lyons did an about-face and headed back to his crime scene.
“I thought the Colby Agency did a background search on me.”
Patrick kept an eye on Lyons until he’d disappeared into the victim’s home. “We did. There was nothing there.”
Sande considered the doorway that Lyons had entered, then met Patrick’s eyes again. “How is that possible?”
“I don’t know.” He surveyed the street and the signs screaming that a crime had been committed in the vicinity. “But I will find out.” He met his client’s eyes. “You have my word on that.”
The priority of the moment was keeping Sande Williams a free woman. If Lyons attempted to detain her, and succeeded, that would make this investigation exponentially more complicated.
Chapter Six
If Sande had had any questions about the Colby Agency’s influence, she had none now.
Detective Carl Lyons had wanted to detain her as a person of interest in his case as soon as she arrived at the precinct. Victoria Colby-Camp had made a single phone call and that idea had been nixed in a heartbeat.
No matter; Lyons had insisted on a thorough interview.
“Just stay calm and answer the questions to the best of your ability,” O’Brien assured her again.
But that was the thing. She couldn’t answer any questions because she had no idea what had happened in her life prior to about thirty-six hours ago.
Before she could say as much to O’Brien, Lyons entered the room with three cups of coffee. The detective settled a cup on the table in front of him, then offered the one in his right hand to Sande.
She shook her head. “I don’t like coffee.”
O’Brien held up a palm. “None for me, thanks.”
Sande watched Lyon’s response, but her mind was stalled on the one she’d made. The reaction had been instinctive. Alma Spears had served her tea, but Sande hadn’t thought anything of it. She’d been too caught up in the idea that she had been missing, according to Alma, for four days. And that two men had come looking for her.
But now, with the detective’s offer, the one thing Sande knew with absolute certainty was that she did not like coffee. Alma had known that.
Did that mean her memory was coming back? Would she recall some trivial something whenever her mind opted to allow a tiny fragment of the past to surface? Could it be that simple?
She prayed to God it would be.
When she snapped back to the present, Detective Lyons had already taken a seat and was analyzing her far too closely for comfort.
He set his coffee aside and leaned back in his chair, not allowing that probing gaze to waver an iota. “When did you move from D.C.?”
Sande glanced at O’Brien. He nodded. She was to answer to the best of her ability. Okay. That was easy enough. There was nothing to tell. “I have no recall of ever having lived in D.C.”
The detective’s eyebrows winged upward. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“When did you move to Chicago?”
Sande moistened her lips and did what she had no choice but to do. She told the truth. “I have no idea, Detective Lyons. Who I was or what I did prior to yesterday morning is gone. I don’t remember anything at all.”
Eyes tapered with mounting doubt, Lyons took another long sip of his coffee. “You don’t remember a thing, you say?”
Sande shook her head. “Nothing.”
He turned his attention to O’Brien. “You believe her story?”
“I do.” He stared the detective directly in the eyes. “Ms. Williams came to the Colby Agency requesting help in determining her identity. We’re attempting to piece together her past. The driver’s license and social security number are the extent of what we’ve been able to find so far. We visited Childers’s residence only because that was the address listed on the
driver’s license issued to my client.”
Lyons spread his arms wide. “I’m gonna be right up front with you, O’Brien. In all my years on the force, I’ve never encountered a real amnesia case. It’s usually fake. Do you really expect me to believe that your client has no idea who she is or where she comes from?” He snorted. “Gimme a break.”
Patrick chose his words carefully. “I expect you to understand that what my client is telling you is the truth to the best of her knowledge.”
His fatigue showing for the first time, Lyons rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, then leveled his gaze on Sande once more. “Then it’s safe to assume you don’t know if you stole someone else’s identity back in D.C.? Or if you murdered the vic Nancy Childers, for that matter?”
Before Sande could protest, O’Brien spoke up. “Ms. Williams has been in my presence without exception since early this morning. Ms. Childers was very much alive when we left her today.”
“Detective Lyons,” Sande interjected. She needed more details. O’Brien had tiptoed around the issue when discussing it with the detective, probably to avoid the possibility of self-incrimination on her part. But Sande wanted all the details. She needed to know. “Can you be a little clearer about what happened in D.C.? I’m not sure I understand exactly what went on there. What is it you are accusing me of?”
Again Lyons scrutinized her at length, then said, “I’m not at liberty to disclose those details at this time.”
“Wait!” That wasn’t fair. Sande wanted to scream! “You can’t do that.”
A rap on the door drew the detective’s attention and prevented his having to respond to Sande. Another detective, one she had been introduced to, but whose name she couldn’t recall just now, stepped into the room. He passed Lyons a single sheet of paper and then slipped out again.
Lyons reviewed what appeared to be a report or lengthy note. When he lifted his attention to Sande once more he offered another of those careless shrugs. “I guess we can talk about those details, after all.”
“Is there a reason you can talk about the case now when you couldn’t two minutes ago?” O’Brien asked, his tone openly impatient.
Reaching across the table, Lyons passed the report to O’Brien. “Sure. Your client is not the woman we’re looking for. The prints don’t match.”