"People were blowin’ their horns like crazy. Maybe the perp catches on— so he changes plans and dumps her."
The old cop pondered. In the span of seven minutes, the 911 operator received six calls on a rusty Plymouth beater with a woman’s arm hangin’ from the taillight. Now, one call— that’s probably a crank. But six? In Marsh Point, they were lucky to get six calls all night. ‘Course not a single damn caller got the plate number.
"What’d I tell you," Billy crowed. "Hell if that ain’t a woman."
Pete flicked the siren as they pulled up behind a limping woman. Leaving the engine idling, they approached cautiously. She turned to face them, swaying on her feet like a Friday night drunk.
"Holy Mother 'a God."
Blood oozed from an ugly laceration on the side of her head. Long, blond hair straggled from a fancy hairdo, covering half her battered face. Glowing in the moonless night, an icy blue sweater hung from one shoulder, covered in blood spatters and mud.
"Ma’am? I’m going to approach. Place your hands where I can see them." His gaze never leaving the woman, he muttered to Billy. "Get an ambulance. She ain’t gonna be standing much longer."
***
"You're sayin' she can't remember anything?" Captain Jonas paused for the hospital intercom, his weary eyes looking every minute of his fifty-nine years. "Amnesia’s in the movies, Jeb."
"Is it permanent?" Matt Barnes rose from his chair, relieved to suspend his argument with the small town cop. Jonas should have called yesterday. Since he’d landed in Marsh Point two months earlier, Steve had called him on just about everything. Instead, he'd received the news from the Boston drug team. A Jane Doe found in the middle of nowhere . . . his middle of nowhere. With distributor quality heroin under her nails.
"Too soon to tell." The doctor glanced from Jonas to him. "It’s a common side-effect from a blow to the head."
"How long?" Just because Matt was on medical leave from the agency didn't mean he had nothing better to do. Well— almost nothing. PT on his useless shoulder and . . . Cable wasn't exactly great out at the lake.
The doctor shrugged. "Memory usually returns in fragments. The more she can string together, the more enabled she'll be to remember."
"What's typical?" Jonas turned his attention to the doc.
"Everyone’s different. Could be days; maybe weeks. Some take longer."
"Could she be faking?" Matt voiced the question he and Jonas both wondered. It was pretty convenient the woman who'd rolled around in pure grade heroin couldn’t remember a damn thing.
Jeb grinned. "Anything's possible, but pressuring doesn't work— so don’t upset her." The paging system interrupted their discussion. "That’s for me." Waving, he headed down the corridor.
Jonas scratched his head. "So, DEA's taking over my case?"
"You've said you're spread too thin. Why would you want to take lead on this?" When you're seriously unqualified.
The old man shrugged. "It's a good case. Fifteen years of Friday night DVs after Gus or Ricky has too much to drink-" He sighed. "Wives never leave 'em . . . and every time I gotta worry about gettin' shot." He scratched his salt and pepper crew cut. "Wife beaters and DIBs. That's my life now."
"DIBs?" Matt stifled a yawn. He wanted coffee that didn't come from a nursing station pot.
"Drunk in daddy's boat." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "So, you got a lead then? This tie back to Boston?"
"Looks like it might." He pushed off the corridor wall, grimacing as pain lanced his shoulder. Ten weeks after surgery and he was still worthless.
"Okay, Mattie. Let's do this." Graying whiskers creased into a smile. "We don’t see many heroin dealers in Marsh Point. And I damn sure haven’t come across amnesia before."
Matt pushed through the door. "Can't help on the amnesia, but drugs . . . I know." A battered, sleeping woman met his gaze. Blonde. Late twenties. Maybe thirty, he corrected, his gaze methodical. An ugly purple bruise marred her right cheekbone, the color seeping into her eye socket, giving the appearance of a shiner. A sweep of dark lashes stood in stark relief against parchment skin, leaving him with a disturbing sense of innocence she couldn’t possibly live up to.
He drew closer. Bandages covered the head injury that had taken seventeen stitches to close. The contusion spreading into her hairline was a nasty rainbow of purple and yellow. Doc was right. She was lucky to have awakened at all.
"Ma’am? You awake?" Glancing at Jonas, he hauled a chair to her bedside.
When her eyes fluttered open, fear flared in their depths, warring with the arresting color for his attention. Terror, followed by confusion. Matt acknowledged both before conceding they were possibly the greenest eyes he’d ever seen.
"I’m Captain Jonas," Steve explained. "Marsh Point PD. This is my colleague, Matt Barnes. We’d like to ask a few questions, Miss-"
Her eyes widened. "Julie. That's all I remember."
"You’ve sustained a serious head injury. You remember how you got that?"
"Someone— hit me." Eyes unfocused, she appeared to be concentrating on a memory. She raised her arm to mimic the action. "Maybe a pipe?"
Matt's imagination filled in the sound of the thud— a weapon against skin and delicate bone. Her shudder caught him off guard, crawling down his skin. He catalogued it— comparing it to the database in his head. Faking fear was easy, he reminded himself. After a decade in drug enforcement, he’d pretty much seen it all.
"Did you know him?" Steve's elder statesman voice encouraged.
"I don’t . . . remember." Grass green eyes went vacant. "My head feels— thick, like . . . it's not working right."
Her voice quavered on the last bit. Nice touch, Matt acknowledged. Avoiding him, her gaze remained on Jonas. Clearly, she preferred the fatherly figure she could trust. Or play.
"Where you from?"
Slender shoulders lifted, appearing helpless. "Not here." Restless fingers plucked at the sheets covering her. Once manicured, her nails were ragged. "Marsh Point is in the Berkshires?"
"Pretty much the last stop before the New York border," Steve offered.
Matt hid his smile. Already charmed, Jonas would be damn near useless. The old man may have started his career in the city, but after fifteen years in Marsh Point, he'd lost his edge. The tox report on Julie’s clothing indicated she’d rolled around on a carpet laced with dangerously pure heroin. A batch of drug that sure as hell hadn’t been cut to street grade yet. Her fancy sweater saturated in blood and drugs. Expensive black pants from Talbots— this season’s style. Hot lookin' designer shoes that probably cost a week's pay. All dusted with smack.
The paydirt had been under her nails— drugs and a drop of someone’s blood. Matt was eager to learn who owned the sample. "Do you remember anything about the night we found you?"
"Fragments— feeling late for . . . something." Her voice trailed off. "Maybe I was lost?"
Okay, so the scrunched nose thing was sorta charming, Matt admitted. Her gaze remained glued to the wall, leaving the impression she really couldn't remember what the hell had happened to her. Or she was damn good at trying to convince them.
"I remember the sound of the car . . . I thought he’d come back."
Jonas shot him a look. "Who?"
"The man in the ski mask." Her expression confused, she glanced up. "He put me in a closet. No— that doesn’t seem right," she muttered. "It was noisy. I think I was lying down."
When Steve glanced at him— none too subtly, Matt wanted to groan. The old man was seriously out of practice. Her memory of the trunk should be organic— confirming what they’d gleaned from 911 calls. "What else?"
She reluctantly shifted her focus to him. "I think I had a meeting."
"With the man?"
"I can’t believe I would associate with someone like him— yet . . . something felt familiar." Long lashes fluttered against translucent skin. "Is that crazy?"
Jonas muttered something reassuring. Matt remained silent, intrigued
by her choice of words. 'Associate' implied someone beneath her stature. Was she someone important? That tended to complicate things. Her tailored clothes sketched a picture of a comfortable, monied lifestyle— certainly not what a street dealer wore. He filed the question away for later.
Removing himself from the temptation of his downtown office— from the well-meaning, visits of family and co-workers, from the sorry-you-effed-up, Barnes expression in their eyes— he'd hunkered down at the lake house for the grueling months of physical therapy his rebuilt shoulder required. Nearly three months after surgery he wasn’t close to being duty-ready. At least not undercover. But sheer boredom had him consulting with the Marsh Point PD.
The call from State had been a godsend. They wanted him back— in some role. Lab analysis of Julie's clothes tied her to the Boston Harbor haul two months earlier. Their first real break since he'd been shot. But this wasn’t shaping up as a typical case. Julie was a beautiful woman with a suspect story. The drumbeat of warning hammered his brain. This time, his shields would remain firmly in place, immune to manipulating, green eyes. Instinct told him this woman spelled trouble.
***
"They found her?"
"Yeah." Matias fumbled for loose change as he inched through the drive thru line.
"You have confirmation she’s no longer . . . with the company?"
"Nothing in the paper yet." An icy warning whispered along Matias’ spine. He resisted the urge to explain his latest screw-up. "The job was handled as ordered," he lied.
"You followed the plan?"
The silky voice raised hair on his neck. Here it comes.
"Because I don't remember discussing driving the bitch all over town."
Matias' pulse ratcheted a notch. How was it his fault the boss lady surprised him? Like— no one coulda warned him? When she'd discovered him standing over the old man's body, the plan had gone out the window.
"She showed up unannounced," he reminded. Based on her— observations, I took action."
"This was an immaculately planned operation-"
How the hell could he predict her wakin’ up in the trunk? The bitch kicks out a tail light, waving at every hayseed in the stupid town? He shoulda just capped her at the warehouse. Instead, his dick had gotten in the way. The plan involved doin' Blondie in the woods. His hands tightened on the wheel . . . feeling her throat. Her pleading with him. Tryin' to run. No one to hear her scream. . .
Heat rolled over him, his breath quickening. Dios, his luck sucked. "I thought-"
"We don’t pay you to think."
Matias' blood pressure spiked with the desire to reach through the phone and choke the bastard ’til his eyes popped. He was sick of takin' orders-
"Provide verification on her status by tomorrow. Otherwise our employment arrangement will experience a rather abrupt end."
***
Fog surrounded Julie, the thick, powdery clouds nearly suffocating. When she stumbled over the body, her phone flew from her hand. Cold, black eyes behind the mask mocked as he raised a hand to silence her-
"Tori . . ." She jolted awake, her eyes wet.
"Was that a memory?"
Caught in the wispy tentacles of her dream, Julie shrank from the familiar voice.
"Ma’am, I won’t hurt you."
It was Barnes. The one who didn’t like her. Sensing him standing over her, she blinked to clear her eyes. "A dream." Brain still hazy, her shudder was involuntary. "He’s still out there-"
"What's he look like?"
Julie hesitated. How to explain the ominous sense of dread without sounding crazy? Barnes’ casual demeanor was betrayed by the wariness in his eyes. Despite his relaxed perch on the chair near her bed, she sensed a readiness to spring into action if required. "I see his eyes— they’re dark. Scary."
"Is he white? Black? Hispanic?"
She summoned the memory she wished to forget. "He has olive skin."
"If he wore a mask-"
She raised fingers to her lips. "Around the mouth hole." Absorbing his scrutiny, she stared back. "You're with the police, too?"
"I’m consulting with Captain Jonas."
Consultant. She inhaled at the singe of memory. Straining for more, it dissolved in the air between them.
"What was that?"
Frustrated, she ignored his sudden interest. "That word— means something."
"Consulting?"
Something about Barnes didn’t add up. His uniform- a polo shirt and faded jeans. "Where's your Tom Ford briefcase?"
Intense blue eyes studied her, this time from behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses, reminding her more of a disgruntled professor than a small town cop. Ignoring her, he picked up his phone.
"You’re pretty good at not answering questions."
He smiled. "I could say the same about you."
"For the record, I don’t believe I’m usually this difficult." She hoisted herself into a sitting position so he wouldn’t tower over her. "Were you wearing glasses yesterday?"
"I forgot to order new contacts. My luck ran out this morning." After scrolling through his phone, he slid it in his pocket. "Who’s Tori?"
Call Tori. "My dream— I was trying to call Tori— but there was so much white dust- I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see the numbers. Then ski mask guy showed up."
"The officer who found you three nights ago indicated you said the name Tori several times."
Her pulse rocketed. "What about a last name? It must be someone I know."
Barnes flipped open a pad, scanning several items before speaking again. "He said it sounded like stash. You said 'cake' several times, too."
Frosting side down. Her smile was fleeting. "I was thinking about cake."
Barnes glanced up, closing the pad. "Stash refers to drugs. Maybe that's what you meant."
Drugs? She frowned. "No."
"How can you be sure?"
Because it seemed completely foreign? Was that a valid answer? "I just . . . know."
"Clouds of white dust? Doesn't that sound strange?"
"It was a dream," she emphasized. "I dreamt I tripped over a bod-" A shudder rippled through her. His eyes narrowing with interest, Julie realized too late it was probably the last thing she should have confessed. "Forget I said that."
His gaze intensified. "Not sure I can do that."
Great. By the time she finished blabbing, he'd have her under arrest for a murder she couldn't even remember. "It's been three days. Doesn't anyone miss me?"
"Not so far." His fingers drummed a restless beat on the bed frame.
She winced over his matter-of-fact tone. Voicing her fear only smothered the hope she'd carried. It didn’t feel as though she were alone in the world. "I have no clothes, no money. I don’t know where . . ." Forcing back the knot of fear clogging her throat, she turned to the window. "How do I get home when I don't know where home is?"
"You've got a little Fenway in your voice. Maybe Boston?"
Sensing his gaze challenging her, she didn't want to confirm the cynicism in his eyes. Barnes didn't trust her. Hell, he'd already convicted her— of something. "The doctor says I might be released tomorrow."
"They're not likely to dump you on the highway."
Frustrated tears burned behind her eyes. She hated the logic in his voice. Hated that he didn't trust her. Hated him. A ridiculously attractive man . . . Under normal circumstances his confident gaze likely caused hearts to flutter . . . with anticipation. Instead, hers was clutching with fear. Barnes had already decided she was the enemy.
Maybe he was right. "Captain Jonas said I could stay with him . . . but I don't know if that's appropriate." When Barnes startled, she wondered why. When she was the one with everything to lose.
***
Matt had studied her for hours. While she slept, blonde curls slipping free of a braid, the silken strands curling into her neck. While she tried to ignore him, full, red lips compressed in an intimidating line. A futile attempt at control. And now, as s
he began to unravel. Her expression shell-shocked, she held it together— barely. Dark smudges under weary, emerald eyes painted a fragility that didn’t match the frustration in her voice. But he wasn’t fooled. She was one of those women . . . beautiful. Pampered.
Her reference to a Tom Ford briefcase . . . Hell, he'd had to look it up. And no wonder. A briefcase costing two grand? Okay, so she was rich. A rich, sexy blonde— content to let her angel face do the heavy lifting.
"We’ll find somewhere for you to stay until we get to the bottom of this." And it sure as hell wouldn't be with Steve. What was Jonas thinking? Sorority Barbie was a link— to something. Possibly a big something. She sure as hell wasn’t leaving town. The drug residue on her clothes was too good a lead. While her personal labwork was clean . . . she remained their only link. And thus far— their only suspect. But to what?
"Has anything come to you? Memories? Images?" He’d called Dr. Bannett— voluntarily this time. She’d obliged him with a crash course in amnesia. Matt figured it couldn’t hurt to give the agency shrink someone else to focus on for a change. He’d met with her on and off since the shooting— and he was damn tired of ‘resolving’ his feelings. The resolution was he lived and Pam died.
"Fragments-"
A flush of color stained her cheeks. Something embarrassing. "Memories can take the form of symbols," he suggested. Dr. Bannett had explained that in some amnesia patients memories were trapped in dream-like images.
"I see a lion's paw. How’s that for obscure?"
Her disgruntled expression suggested he probably shouldn’t smile. "You know it's a lion’s paw?"
Annoyance flashed in increasingly pretty eyes. "It's just . . . a really big paw."
Relief flowed at Julie's improbable story. She was likely guilty— of something. That knowledge— that belief— would keep him in line. Because otherwise she'd be dangerously appealing. "Your inability to recognize animal prints will have to go in my report."
"I must’ve missed that day in kindergarten." Her bruised mouth lifted in a fleeting smile. "If we’re done, can you-" She made a shooing sign toward the door.
"Why?"
Chasing Marisol (Blueprint to Love Book 3) Page 26