by Pat Warren
PAT WARREN began her writing career at the age of sixteen with a teenage column in The Akron Beacon Journal. She later wrote about marriage and motherhood for The Detroit News, and sold her first novel to Silhouette Books in 1986. While continuing her romance writing, Pat also wrote romantic suspense, mystery, and contemporary mainstream novels, bringing her books in print to a total of over 3 ½ million. Several of her novels have appeared on the Dalton and Waldenbooks paperback bestseller lists.
Pat lives in Scottsdale, Arizona, with her husband, and is the mother of four grown children. She likes to travel and is a voracious reader.
“WHAT ABOUT DIANE?”
Adam ran a hand over his face. “I shouldn’t have married her. The party bosses kept after me that voters didn’t trust a single man. I shouldn’t have listened. We’ve both been miserable.”
Liz felt drained, limp. “I don’t know what to say. We…We both made some mistakes.”
“Not you. Me. I made the mistakes.” He drew her nearer so his mouth was a breath away from hers. “My life is so empty without you. When I’m making love to my wife,you’re inside my head. Why is that, after all these years?”
Liz stared at Adam, unable to answer, her heart aching for all the years forever lost to them.
“I want so badly to kiss you. I know I lost the right years ago. I know I can’t have you.”
Liz struggled with needs unspoken, with longings unanswered. One kiss would never be enough. While she was still able, she pulled free and stepped back. If she didn’t leave now, right now, she knew they’d be on the sand in moments, past the point of no return…
“Ms. Warren melds chilling suspense and passionate romance into a marvelous amalgam of reading pleasure.”
—Romantic Times on
’Till Death Do Us Part
Copyright
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1995 by Pat Warren
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: October 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56945-3
Contents
“WHAT ABOUT DIANE?”
Copyright
Prologue
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
This book is dedicated, with affection and
gratitude, to Robin Kaigh, without whom it
never would have seen print.
Prologue
Friday, August 28, 1992
Southern California
Lieutenant Lou Genovese got the call just before one A.M. A sports car had careened off the coastal road in Ocean Beach, crashing down the embankment onto the jagged rocks far below. The desk sergeant had said a passing motorist with a car phone had called it in. Several uniforms were on the scene, but someone with more authority than they had was needed.
No bodies could be seen from the road.
It was the kind of call all cops hated, Lou thought as he pulled on his gray slacks. By the time they hauled up the car and discovered who and where the occupants were, it’d be morning before he’d be finished. Nights like these were the reason his brief marriage had ended in divorce twelve years ago. All for the best, Lou thought as he slid his feet into leather loafers. He buttoned his pale yellow shirt over a gold cross on a heavy chain, a gift from his Italian Catholic mother that he always wore. After looping his tie around his neck, he grabbed his navy sport coat and hurried out the door.
It took him just under half an hour from his home in Clairemont to reach Sunset Cliffs Blvd. In the sixties the area had been home to an assortment of hippies. Now, facing the ocean, expensive residential homes were set back from the street and scarcely visible behind river-rock walls and high oleander bushes.
The two black-and-whites were angled close to the cliff’s edge, their red lights still flashing. Someone had strung a yellow crime scene tape between the two cars. Lou pulled his white Acura into a narrow space just before the road curved, and he got out.
Police Officer Ray Orlando had been the first on the scene and the one who’d asked the precinct to call for backup. Lou knew him casually, a young, eager cop anxious to do the right thing.
Ray hurried over to meet Lou. Despite the hour, his khaki uniform looked bandbox fresh. “Sorry to drag you out of bed, Lieutenant, but I got a funny feeling about this one.”
“What’ve you got, Ray?” Hands in his pants pockets, Lou checked the ground. No sign of skid marks. “Someone fall asleep at the wheel?” He knew this to be a dangerous section of road where accidents happened frequently because of the many sharp curves and the way the highway hugged the cliffside. If the driver had been awake, surely he’d have slammed on the brakes hard.
“Or maybe a suicide,” Ray answered as he led Lou over to the rocky edge. The police cars had their bright searchlights beamed down along the sheer drop onto the black rocks below, where the restless waves rolled endlessly in, then were sucked back out. Ray pointed to where a red sports car hung precariously on a jutting rock slimy with seaweed and moss. “By rights, that little beauty should have dropped into the sea, but it got caught on that rock. It’s going to be a bitch to haul up.”
It was a miracle the car hadn’t burst into flame, Lou thought. The Porsche had landed about two hundred feet down, the nose pointing toward the sea. The lights were still on, and both car doors were hanging open.
“Doesn’t look like there’s anyone inside, though they might be on the floor.” Ray held out his binoculars. “Take a look.”
Lou did and could see no one.
“Maybe she fell asleep at the wheel.”
Lou straightened. “She?”
“Look to the right and down some, on that flat rock just below.”
Adjusting the glasses, Lou saw a woman’s red jacket and, beside it, something that appeared to be a red handbag. “Maybe she was a passenger, fell onto the rocks, then bounced into the sea. The driver could have shot out the other side.” Slowly he scanned the area through the binoculars. “No sign of anyone in the water. Their bodies could be miles from here by now.”
“The jacket and bag could’ve been on the seat and landed on the rock. From here they look dry.”
Lou narrowed his eyes. “License plates are from a rental.” He lowered the glasses. “Did you call it in?”
“Yeah. Mac’s on the radio now. Rescue unit’s on the way with the hitch to pull up the car and a flatbed to tow her in. I asked for frogmen to search the area, but they didn’t know if any were available. I didn’t want to delay in case it rained and the vehicle got dislodged.” Ray glanced up at the dark night sky and wondered how long before the predicted summer storm would hit. “Hope that was what you’d have done.”
Lou clapped the intense young officer on the shoulder. “Good work.” They walked over to the second police car just as Mac stepped out.
“Got a make on the car, Lieutenant,” said the officer named Mac. “Rented from Avis in their midtown office, which closes at eight. It’s the location that ha
ndles these expensive sports cars on special order. The only Avis outlet open all night is at the airport, and their computer’s down. So we won’t be able to get a name until morning.”
Just their luck, Lou thought.
“We could dust the car for fingerprints and ID her that way,” Mac suggested.
Lou shook his head. “Do you know how many prints we’d find in a rental car? Besides, if she didn’t have a record, we couldn’t get a match anyway.”
Embarrassed, Mac nodded. “Right.”
Turning, Lou saw the big truck with the heavy-duty winches pull up as the two other officers stepped to the road to keep gawkers in the light traffic moving along. Two men carrying diving suits stepped out of a second vehicle. He checked his watch and stifled a yawn.
It was going to be a long night. As a twenty-four-year veteran who’d moved slowly up through the ranks, he was used to long waits.
By four they had the Porsche as well as the jacket and woman’s handbag up at road level. Lou shone his light inside, not wanting to touch anything until forensics had a look. The expensive Porsche was pretty banged up, but not wet other than from sea spray. With his pencil eraser, he pushed in the glove compartment button and found in empty, as was the rest of the interior. The key was still in the ignition.
The two frogmen in wet suits scampered up over the cliff’s edge just then, and Lou walked over. “See anyone?”
After removing his headgear, the taller man spoke up. “Not a sign of anyone, Lieutenant. The breakers are really hitting hard and fast. He’d have to be a hell of a good swimmer to land in that sea and make his way out, especially if he’d be dazed from the accident. The shoreline doesn’t straighten out for half a mile or more.”
“But a good swimmer, say, if he jumped as the car was going down, could do it?” Lou persisted.
The shorter man scratched his head. “He’d be taking a terrific chance. If he landed on one of those sharper rocks, it’d be all over at that speed.”
A calculated risk, but not impossible. “Thanks, fellas.” Lou returned his attention to the car. Carefully he popped the trunk and found no luggage or personal effects. With a finger under the collar, he picked up the woman’s jacket. It was just a little damp. The label read “Lafayette of Paris.” Big bucks. The pockets were empty. Using his handkerchief, he reached for the soft leather handbag and opened it.
Three keys on a cheap silver ring seemed out of place. The tube of Elizabeth Arden lipstick was more in keeping with someone who’d rent a Porsche. Whoever she was, she apparently liked red, he thought as he put the top back on. There was a small mirror in a black velvet case and, at the bottom, half a dozen folded newspaper clippings.
Using care, he spread them out. The articles, each ripped from the San Diego Union, carried dates spanning seventeen years, from the first in 1975 to the last only a week old. They chronicled the rise of the hometown boy who’d made good, the two-term senator who’d been tapped by the Democratic Party as its vice-presidential candidate at last month’s convention, Adam McKenzie.
Reading over Lou’s shoulder, Ray whistled low. “What do you make of it? Do you think our maverick senator’s been playing footsie with some rich dish? Maybe he threw her over, so she drove off the cliff, carrying her own personal scrapbook with her.”
“No, not McKenzie.” Lou put everything back in the bag. “He’s a straight arrow.”
“You think so even with all the stuff in the papers about him lately?”
“Yeah, I do. I knew the senator back when he was running for California’s attorney general.” Lou stepped back from the car. “You ever hear of Kowalski?”
Ray nodded. Detective Sergeant Leon Kowalski was almost a legend in California law enforcement. “Hell, who hasn’t?”
“Kowalski worked closely with McKenzie on several cases. He admires the senator. There isn’t a man on the force who doesn’t respect him. Nothing I’ve read since has changed my mind.” Lou’s tone brooked no argument. At forty-eight he was old enough to be this young officer’s father and commanded as much respect. Nights like this, he felt every day of those years.
Carefully Ray placed the jacket and purse into an evidence bag. “What year did he run for attorney general?”
Lou rolled his shoulders and ran a hand through his neatly trimmed black hair. “Seventy-five. The summer of ’75. Hotter than hell that summer, I remember.”
“Guess you’ll be paying the senator a visit tomorrow. I read that he just got in town.” Ray wished he could go along but knew it was out of the question.
“First thing in the morning.” Lou walked over and gazed down at the churning sea surging up onto the dark rocks. The salty air was humid and heavy, the clouds ready to disgorge their load. In the distance he saw a streak of lightning and knew it wouldn’t be long.
His eyes shifted to the ground, and spotting something, he crouched down. In a patch of soft earth near the rocky edge alongside the Porsche’s tire print was an unmistakable impression of a woman’s high-heeled shoe. About a size six, Lou decided. The cops had carefully circled the area on the other side of the yellow tape so as not to disturb the ground. He doubted if anyone else, especially a woman in high heels, would have had reason to walk there. Interesting.
Straightening, he called Ray over. “Keep this area roped off. I want a cast made of this shoe print and any others you may find.”
“Right.”
“Also, I want a fresh team of divers back at the first light of day. There’s bound to be a body out there somewhere. Maybe two. That car didn’t drive itself off the road.”
“I’ll get right on it, Lieutenant.”
Lou glanced over at the houses across the street, their residents seemingly still asleep. “About seven or eight, send a couple of men up to those homes and ask some questions. Maybe some insomniac saw or heard something.”
“Will do.” Ray scribbled in his notebook.
With a nod, Lou walked back to his Acura, his mind racing with questions, with possibilities. What connection did Senator McKenzie have to tonight’s events on this lonely cliff? Had the woman who owned the red jacket and handbag been alone? Had she stepped out of the car, leaving that one footprint? Had she been trying to get away from someone? Had there been a man with her, perhaps one of McKenzie’s friends or aides? Or had she been a political groupie who got a kick out of following a politician’s career? No matter. He would find out. The facts usually came out, sooner or later.
As he got behind the wheel, he couldn’t help wondering if the driver of the red Porsche dated back to that hot summer seventeen years ago before Adam McKenzie’s name had become a household word.
CHAPTER 1
June. 1975
San Diego, California
“Damn, but it’s hot in here,” Diane Cramer complained as she lifted her heavy blond hair off her damp neck. Her red lips in a pouty smile, she ambled over to the front desk just as Fitz McKenzie hung up his phone. “Sugar, I know the budget’s tight, but couldn’t your brother have rented a building with air-conditioning? All of us little ol’ volunteers are perspiring up a storm here. How classy is it mailing out campaign leaflets with sweat stains all over them?”
Fitz frowned in annoyance. His personal opinion was that Diane had a long way to go in the class department herself. Even though she was wearing a green silk Adolfo suit that he suspected she’d bought at a resale shop and Ferragamo shoes, she had an imitated style that was as phony as the color of her hair. The rest of the volunteers—most in their early twenties—showed up dressed in California casual. Diane arrived as if she expected to lunch at the Hotel Del Coronado instead of the deli down the street. Fitz had great admiration for people who rose above their humble beginnings. He himself had. But there was something about Diane that hinted at a hidden agenda. However, the worth of a person didn’t lie in how she looked or what she wore. Diane was smart, ambitious, and a hard worker. For those reasons Fitz was glad she was aboard.
“Sorry,” he t
old her. “This is Adam’s first run for office, and we’ve got to watch every cent.” Swiveling on his chair, he readjusted his Padres baseball cap as he gazed around the cluttered storefront office they’d rented on Broadway across from the San Diego County Courthouse. Seven hundred fifty square feet was all they could afford, and every inch was humming with activity. Fitz turned to another volunteer who’d just finished running a batch of mail through the postage meter. “You got a count for me on those, Molly?”
“Nine hundred going out to zip code 92116,” Molly Washington answered as she snapped a rubber band around the last fifty envelopes.
“Great. Thanks.” Fitz took the stack from her. He liked Molly and admired her exotic looks. Not many women could get away with wearing jet black hair pulled back tightly off the face. Molly had high cheekbones that made him wonder if she had Indian ancestry. Her clothes were more like costumes, bright turquoise or vivid pink skirts and tops embroidered with wildflowers. Of course, she was an artist, and people expected some flamboyance.
It was a good group that he’d rounded up to help launch Adam’s political career. Not zealots, but enthusiastic and hardworking. Mostly poli-sci graduates, young and idealistic. Seated at a desk across the room, Jesse Conroy, one of the few more serious aides, glanced over and gave him a thumbs-up signal, meaning he’d wangled another pledged donation from his endless phone solicitation of registered California Democrats. Fitz gave Jesse the high sign. Next to Jesse, huddled over a typewriter, was bearded Barry Rider, who usually did the first draft of Adam’s speeches. Then there was Steve Quinlan, a shy introvert who’d graduated with honors from Yale. Together they’d make victory happen somehow.
Alongside Fitz, Molly rolled her shoulders wearily. It had been her idea to spend the summer working to elect Adam McKenzie as California’s youngest attorney general, but she had to admit there was far more grit than glamour involved. She glanced over at Liz Townsend, wondering if her friend wished she hadn’t let Molly talk her into trying out the political arena. They’d been neighbors growing up, friends since grade school, and college roommates for four years. Now they were about to tackle real life, and Molly had wanted them to work together this last summer in an effort to maintain their closeness a while longer. “How’s it going, babe?”