Owen's Touch
Page 18
Annoyed with her weepiness, Mariana quickly brushed them away. She paced across the room.
“I guess it does seem peculiar,” she conceded. “I mean...my name is almost exactly like hers. I’m carrying a purse full of her identification when I crash and get knocked unconscious. Her license photo is a dead ringer for me. Although,” she hastily said, “her hairstyle, makeup and expression are different.”
Owen lifted a brow as if to say that he didn’t think those differences were insurmountable.
Mariana grimaced at him and continued her review.
“She’s got a preschooler picture of me. That’s hard to explain,” she conceded with a sigh, then rallied and added, wagging her finger at him. “But I have a life on the other side of the country! Don’t I?” Suddenly she was confused. What was the truth?
Chapter 12
Owen wanted to fold her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right. But Mariana needed a reason to believe that, not some emotional oath from him. So he suggested a plan instead.
“Would you like me to take you on as a sort of pro bono client, Ms. Sands?” he asked seriously. His steady gaze reminded her that hers would always be a very personal case as far as he was concerned.
“You’d sort of come out of retirement, or semiretirement, to help me find the loose ends in this mess?”
He nodded.
He was just standing there. Calm. Rational. Arguing with her but still letting her make the big decisions. Mariana felt all the trust and love for him filling her heart to overflowing.
“You’re quite a guy, Owen,” she said softly. “Why hasn’t some woman put a ring on your finger?”
“I never met the right one.”
That reminded Mariana of the story that Anselm Brock had told about the first Jane Doe. Mariana chewed on her lip, wondering when to bring that subject up. Maybe later tonight. After they finished here.
“I’d be very grateful for your professional services in this matter,” Mariana said, accepting his offer. She lifted her chin a little defiantly. “But I want to be billed at the normal rate. Whatever that is.”
“Right. The normal rate for this kind of thing,” he agreed. He straightened up and walked slowly around the room, examining the few items displayed. “Let’s walk through the house and see if anything provides some useful information, or makes you remember anything else.”
Mariana nodded and joined him.
“After we leave here, we can use my cell phone to see if Lefcourt can help us.”
“Help us with what?”
“The names and addresses of the handful of people who owned cars like the one you were driving. One name in particular interests me.” Owen frowned, recalling that one had lived in this county. He had died the night Mariana had been run off the road by that truck. But perhaps he had friends or family who might recognize Mariana...or Maryanice.
Mariana dug in her heels and grabbed his elbow.
“And we should call Phoenix and try to get hold of Cryssa Roberts. My agent. I told her I had personal business on the East Coast, but she must be wondering why I haven’t checked in with her. She needs to know when I’ll be delivering the pottery I promised her for the Las Vegas Southwestern art show.” Mariana blinked. “Las Vegas...”
“What about Las Vegas?” Owen asked, going into the living room and slowly sweeping the room with a glance.
“Maryanice found me through my art there.” Mariana stared at him, but she was seeing flashes of bright lights and neon signs and night turned into a carnival of iridescent colors. “She saw one of my collages, and the image of a woman in it reminded her of her own past. She saw my name on it. I sign my pieces ‘Mari.’ The piece was on display and for sale. So she asked the casino and hotel managers if they knew who I was and how she could reach me.”
Owen stopped in front of a small table and picked up the framed photograph on it.
Mariana saw his expression and went to see what he was looking at.
It was a photograph of a man and a woman on the porch of a whitewashed, Mediterranean-style building. The sea and sky behind them were pure blue. The woman looked very much like Mariana, but about ten years younger. She was slender and beautiful and barely wearing a string bikini. The dark-haired, saturnine man she was draping herself on had his hand proprietarily on her hip. She was wrapping her thigh around his and gazing into his face in absolute adoration. Her lips were slightly parted. There was a glow about her that came from more than the healthy tan they were both wearing.
It was the look of a woman in love.
Mariana slowly shook her head. She glanced up at his face and saw the grim line of his jaw, the ember glow of anger in his eyes.
“That’s not me!” she said emphatically.
Owen glanced pointedly at the small inscription that had been penned in by a delicate, elegant hand in the lower right corner. It said Mari And Louie’s Perfect Honeymoon.
Mariana felt as if she’d been hit by a huge wave. She stared at the words, then at the picture, then at Owen’s grim face.
“There has got to be an explanation for this,” she whispered.
He put the picture down and shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans.
“Believe me, Mariana,” he said, measuring his words carefully, “nobody wants to believe that’s not you in the picture more than I do.”
She ran to him and flung her arms around him, holding him tight His arms came around her immediately, like a strong, protecting castle wall.
He bent his mouth close to her ear.
“We need to know if you’re free or not,” he whispered. “I will not add to your problems by getting you tangled up with a charge of adultery. The way things are going between us, you know damn well that could happen.”
She nodded her head. Beneath her cheek, she felt the steady beat of his heart. And the pounding of her own.
Owen tightened his arms around her possessively. Then he forced himself to loosen his hold. He’d never gotten involved with a married woman. It was absolutely against his personal code. If Mariana was wrong and somehow she was possessed of a husband... He gritted his teeth against the acid pain of jealousy that thought brought.
Mariana gently disengaged herself.
“Let’s finish looking around here and then get to your car phone.” Mariana grimaced. “The sooner I can prove to you that I’m not suffering from multiple personalities or some sort of fractured psyche, the better!”
It certainly couldn’t be too soon for him, Owen brooded.
They thoroughly surveyed the living room, examining everything from the glossy, upscale architectural magazines ostentatiously placed on the hand-made, stone-and-glass coffee table to the discreetly placed cordless telephone nestled inside a decorative, hand-carved pecan box. Since the room had large furniture and few drawers, containers, and no closets, it didn’t take them very long.
Owen was relieved to leave the room and its photo of the besotted honeymooners. He tried to believe there was going to be an explanation for it that would make him a very happy man. It wasn’t easy.
They methodically investigated the remaining rooms. There were two other bedrooms. Since neither contained any personal items, they assumed these were guest bedrooms. There was an office with a desktop computer, monitor and printer, also a filing cabinet, a Rolodex and a writing desk with a multiline telephone console on it.
“They must get a lot of phone calls,” Mariana said in surprise.
“Or make a lot.”
He turned on the computer.
“I’m looking to see if there’s anything under your name. We won’t read other files.”
“So we don’t get thrown in jail for invasion of privacy?” Mariana guessed, wide-eyed with admiration. “I knew it would help to hire an experienced professional.”
Owen grinned but became serious again as he pulled up the list of files on the system’s hard drive. There were a lot of items that sounded like financial dealings. The m
odern contained phone listings for Internet access via several different local and commercial communications links.
“I’ll bet it knows some very interesting secrets,” Owen murmured regretfully at the computer. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing here that suggests Maryanice Roualt used any of these programs. To search all the files in detail, we’d need a lot of time. We don’t have much of that left this afternoon.”
“You don’t want to see how long we can hang around here before a cleaning person, groundskeeper, security guard, business associate or long lost friend of the Roualts stumbles onto us?”
“Not particulary. Besides, we may make faster progress using this afternoon and this evening interviewing people on our list of folks to call.”
Mariana nodded. “I agree.”
“Look at the file names on the monitor one last time, while I scroll through them. If any of them do seem familiar, we’ll take a closer look.”
Mariana read the names as they rolled up the screen. It took several minutes, even though Owen was scrolling through them at a fairly rapid rate. When he reached the end, he glanced over his shoulder at her. Mariana shook her head and gave him an apologetic look.
“No. None of the names mean anything to me.”
“It was worth a try.” Owen turned off the equipment and rose, turning to look at her. His features eased into the faintest hint of amusement. “Don’t look so woebegone,” he teased her. “We’re just getting started with our investigation.”
“By the way,” she said, trotting after him as he strode out of the room. “Did you ever quote me the going rate for your services?”
“I don’t believe I did.” He smiled rakishly. “But don’t worry about it, Ms. Sands. I’m sure we can work out terms that you’ll find completely satisfying.”
Owen stopped abruptly in front of the kitchen doorway. “Do you know how to reset the alarm?”
“Unless someone’s changed the procedure,” she qualified as she set about resetting the system.
Owen closed his eyes. That hadn’t occurred to him earlier, when she was disengaging the alarm. It was probably just as well. He didn’t need anything else to be anxious about. He’d already parried more than enough stress in the past month. To his great relief, Mariana did know how to reset the security system.
As he slid into the driver’s seat and reached for his cellular phone, he wondered if he was too emotionally involved with Mariana to conduct an objective investigation for her. After all, he was trying to believe her explanation for the facts, but Owen thought most investigators in his position would not.
They’d be inclined to see Mariana Sands as a woman with two identities, for reasons not yet clear. She could be abused and using an alternative identity to protect herself from her abuser. She could have been abused as a child and developed dual personalities. The Mariana Sands personality might have been unaware of the existence of the Maryanice Roualt personality.
He stared at his cellular phone, thinking of the alternative explanations that more objective investigators would be meticulously exploring.
“Owen?”
“What?”
“You look grim,” Mariana murmured. She hesitantly touched his knee.
He smiled slightly and pushed the Power button on the phone.
“Well, maybe our old friend Buddy Lefcourt can improve my outlook.”
Mariana didn’t pay very close attention to Owen’s conversation with the police. His call was forwarded from one person to the next within the small law-enforcement office as they tried to locate the busy sergeant. Mariana stared through the car window, willing her scattered lost memories to return. As she gazed pensively at the Roualts’ house, something familiar clicked inside her brain, and miraculously, the last of her lost memories did begin drifting back.
The sound of Owen’s voice faded into the background. Mariana recalled the first time she’d seen the house, walking up to the front door, the key trembling in her hand. She remembered following the procedures she’d been told about to disengage the alarm. She remembered returning the wedding and engagement rings. And searching the dressers for the safe-deposit box key. A key she never found. She recalled making the phone calls to Louie. Talking to him. Listening to his self-absorbed ramblings, his manipulative praise and his sly inquiries about how she was spending her time.
And she remembered calling Cryssa from a pay phone at a nearby shopping center. And later from the pay phone in the hallway at the AA meeting where Kelton had seen her.
Then Mariana felt the sun rise within her mind. Everything came flooding back in a rainbow of vivid colors. Her childhood. Her parents. Her youth and adulthood. Moving around the Southwest. Living outside Las Vegas. Moving to Phoenix.
And Maryanice. Maryanice.
She saw her own face staring back at her as she stood in the glass-enclosed foyer of a rehabilitation program’s reception area.
Maryanice...how could I have forgotten you? You and I are two halves of a whole. Of one blood. Of one past. Maryanice... forgive me for not remembering....
Then she thought of Louie. His charm. His engaging smile. His silvery wit. His unexplained wealth. His worldwide travels. And his iron control over Maryanice. Lovely, insecure, fearful Maryanice.
Mariana’s mouth went dry, and her blood froze in her veins as she recalled Louie’s whispered, silken threat, reverberating as distinctly in her mind as the remembered feel of the telephone pressed against her ear as she listened to it.
“I always return for you, Maryanice, my sweet. Surely you realize that by now. I always expect you to be there, waiting for my return with open, welcoming arms. I’ll be home next month. You can play the casinos all you want until then. Entertain yourself, my pet. Drink like a little fish. Deck yourself in new diamonds. Enjoy the Vegas shows. Do what you please till I return, within limits, of course. You know what those limits are. Make certain that the men you stimulate to hover around your honeyed little self keep their hands off you. Of course, I don’t mind them admiring you. I like it, as a matter of fact,” he’d explained with a self-congratulatory laugh that had made her shudder then, as the memory of it did now. “It’s a compliment to my taste in women, wouldn’t you agree? Any man swells in pride watching other males hunger after what he already has claimed as his own.”
Mariana had cringed at the cold, proprietary description Louie was giving. He was talking about his wife, not his chattel, she had wanted to scream at him. But she had not screamed it. She could not. Maryanice would not have spoken to her husband like that. Not then, anyway.
“Your admirers can look, but they must not touch,” Louie explained. Then he had paused significantly. In a deathly soft voice, he had added, “If any of my...acquaintances—and remember, I have many—sees you going into a hotel room with another man, you won’t have to worry about where you’ll be sleeping next year. And neither will he.” He let the effect of his threat sink in. “Do I make myself clear?”
He hadn’t needed to spell out the fatal consequences in any more detail. Mariana had gotten the message. Dry mouthed, she had whispered, “Very clear, Louie. Don’t worry.”
“I never do,” he assured her in the same smooth, silvery voice. “Remember, Maryanice...I love you.”
The softly hissed words had curled around her like a serpent’s tongue. Mariana shuddered at the memory. Love. What did a man like Louie Roualt know of love?
Mariana closed her eyes, fighting against an unexpected spike of panic. Louie’s not here. He doesn’t know where I am. He doesn’t know who I am. I’m safe. Maryanice is safe. We’re both safe. He was probably furious that she hadn’t been phoning him regularly in the past few weeks, but as long as he couldn’t find her, she wouldn’t have to confront that danger. But Maryanice...Maryanice didn’t know what had happened. She had to tell her...she had to warn her...she had to reach her. As soon as possible. Slowly, Mariana opened her eyes and reached down deep inside her soul to the wellspring of her own personal courage.
Owen’s voice drew her back to the present.
“Thanks, Buddy. I’ll get back to you later.”
Owen turned off the cellular phone and pulled out the map that he’d brought along.
“The guy who owned that car lived here,” he said, pointing to an old, established neighborhood on the outer fringes of the county.
Mariana looked at the spot he was pointing to and nodded.
“Yes,” she said. A small brick rambler, she thought. Built back in the late 1940s.
The way she spoke instantly caught Owen’s attention. His head snapped up and he stared at her through narrowing eyes.
“What is it?”
“His name was Fred Lowe,” she said, staring sightlessly ahead of her. “He loaned me his car that night, because I needed to get to the AA meeting, and I had no car of my own. You see, Louie leases cars or rents them. He’d turned in the last one when he left for Suriname last month on business. That way, anytime Maryanice went anywhere, there could be a record of it. A cab record. Or a rental-car record. She had to spend money to leave the house. She left a paper trail every time, one that he could follow. That’s why she used Fred’s car. When Fred realized what was going on between Maryanice and Louie, he’d offered her the use of his car to attend those meetings in West Virginia. She had to go to another state to feel safe in an AA group,” Mariana said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Can you believe that? What kind of husband treats a wife like that? What kind of person treats another human being like that?”
Owen laid down the map, his gaze riveted on her.
“So you remember Fred Lowe,” he said slowly. “And borrowing his car?”
Mariana nodded.
“Fred was not a handsome man. He was gaunt and wore clothes that had once been expensive but were gone shabby from too many years of use. Years of alcohol addiction had left him with no family, no profession and broken health. He’d hit bottom after losing everything. But then, he joined AA and slowly built a new life. It was tough, but he was succeeding. And he was loved and respected by the new friends he made. He was a reliable employee at a small photocopying shop. And he was a volunteer with the local AA chapter here. He was manning their information and referral phone line when Maryanice called them months ago. She was desperate for help, but she was terrified her husband would discover what she was doing. You see, Louie encouraged her to keep drinking. I think he knew that he couldn’t continue dominating her if she sobered up and got a life.”