‘‘Yes, Grandma Gertie.’’
‘‘She’s right,’’ another woman said. Twenty years younger but probably still seventy, she was a carbon copy of Grandma Gertie.
‘‘I’m Lydia Golan.’’ We shook hands. Lydia moved forward and offered her older look-alike an arm. ‘‘Life is too short to waste on a man who doesn’t know what he’s doing in the bedroom.’’
The crowd swelled and surged. Women surrounded Siobhan, congratulating her on her public emasculation of Jack. No one mentioned Lily or the dress. The men hovered at the edges. They didn’t make eye contact. They might agree that Jack was a scumball who shouldn’t be married to their sisters or cousins, but being called impotent in public was a nightmare no guy wished on another. I felt a hand slide into mine. I smiled up at Connor.
‘‘Wow,’’ I said. ‘‘I know this is going to sound crazy, but wearing the same dress as your ex-fiancée was the most normal thing that happened all night.’’
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘You were good, too. You and Ryan.’’
‘‘You weren’t half-bad, either.’’ He put his arm around me and steered me away from the gawkers. ‘‘Unfortunately, Smiths seems to have left the building.’’
‘‘Oh, no.’’ I looked around. ‘‘Damn.’’
‘‘Sorry about that. We’ll figure something else out.’’
‘‘Don’t worry about it. It was worth it to watch Siobhan do the measure gesture.’’
‘‘Measure gesture?’’ Ryan asked.
I held up my hand, my bent forefinger indicating the nub of my thumb. ‘‘If I hadn’t met him, I might feel sorry for Jack. As it is, I think she was probably generous.’’
‘‘What did you say to Siobhan, anyway?’’ Connor asked.
‘‘I just gave her a little advice.’’
I met Ryan’s eyes. He pointed to Siobhan, still in the middle of laughing women, then to himself before raising a thumbs-up. I waved good-bye. He blew me a kiss and I made a big show of catching it.
‘‘What kind of advice?’’ Connor just wasn’t going to let this go.
‘‘No underwear.’’
He stopped. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘I told her not to wear underwear.’’
‘‘Information overload, Sara.’’
‘‘Big, bad Navy SEAL can’t stand to think of his little sister without her britches?’’
‘‘Sara.’’
‘‘It helped her. Before, she was letting him push her around. Tonight she took charge.’’
‘‘She was out of control.’’
‘‘Well, that can happen. It’s hard to harness that kind of power.’’
He laughed, opening the door to the BMW.
‘‘You’re crazy.’’ He kissed my nose.
‘‘History supports me on this, Connor. Cleopatra. Elizabeth the First. Joan of Arc. Powerful women. No underwear.’’
Chapter Twenty-nine
We didn’t talk about it all the way home. Not much to be said after you watched your panty-eschewing baby sister emasculate her husband in front of your friends.
Pavarotti emerged from the dark like smoke. She separated herself from the bushes near the edge of the condo, sliding toward me. When a rough tongue touched my hand, I nearly popped out of my own skin.
‘‘Hold still, Sara.’’
‘‘Holding.’’
Connor moved as silkily as the dog. He reached out a hand but didn’t flinch when she growled softly.
‘‘Hey,’’ I protested.
Connor moved lightning-fast and scooped up the dog, moving her ten feet toward the street and putting her on the ground before he backed away. The dog feinted left, right, then ran through Connor’s legs straight back at me. I held my ground. Connor whirled and the dog took a position between us, growling low and moving in parallel with Connor, staying between us.
‘‘Sara, go inside.’’
‘‘I don’t think she’s dangerous.’’ Connor took a step toward me, and the dog’s growl deepened. He crouched lower.
‘‘Inside.’’
I moved toward the dog. She kept her eyes fixed on Connor. ‘‘That’s a good dog. That’s a pretty dog.’’ I reached out and touched her fur, ready to jerk my hand out of reach. Soft. Silky. The dog tightened but didn’t turn.
‘‘You’re a sweet girl, aren’t you? A good girl.’’
‘‘Sara . . .’’ More low-voiced menace. Testosterone overload. They should all give peace a chance.
‘‘Don’t be afraid, puppy.’’ I rubbed the back of her neck. ‘‘We’re going to be friends. You rescued me. Just like Lassie.’’ The dog’s body eased. ‘‘Well, not Lassie, obviously. Not even distantly related, unless your dad had an interesting life.’’
Connor stood straight. Staring. Poised to strike.
‘‘She likes me.’’ I leaned down and hugged her body. She was the perfect hugging-size dog. Fifty pounds, maybe. ‘‘You haven’t had your shots, and I’m not holding it against you.’’
The dog leaned into me, closing her eyes for a second while I stroked her neck.
‘‘Why didn’t you tell them?’’
I flinched. Connor moved, and the dog jumped. I grabbed her and held on. She strained against my hold but didn’t try to bite me.
John Doe. His face dirty. His clothing rumpled. His green eyes wild. He moved into the light.
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘John—’’ I began.
‘‘Charles,’’ he screamed, stumbling forward. Connor put a hand up and John stopped. The dog squirmed. I let her go. She ran past Connor to John’s side, turning and protecting her master. Growling and drooling.
‘‘Stay calm, man. No one wants to hurt you.’’ Connor had his hands up, placating.
‘‘It’s my fault, Charles,’’ I confessed. ‘‘I want to tell them.’’
‘‘Don’t steal me.’’
‘‘We won’t steal you.’’
John deflated. Connor eased back. I reached out to touch him at his waist. He stopped moving. I patted gently. We all needed to take a deep breath.
‘‘Please,’’ John said, tears falling down. He was broken. Terrified. I stepped to Connor’s left and he moved to stay in front of me. Pavarotti barked.
‘‘We want to tell them.’’ Who and what remained a little obscure to me, but the guy was really scared. Maybe it was his delusions talking, but I wanted him to feel better.
‘‘Really?’’
‘‘Really. But they won’t believe us.’’
He dropped to his knees. John lay his head against the dog’s neck, his tears glistening on the dark fur. ‘‘I know.’’
Chapter Thirty
We huddled with Blue in the living room doorway, keeping John in sight at the kitchen table. Connor called Blue as soon as we got John into the apartment. It took longer for us to get John in the apartment than it had for Blue to show up. With Blue, it took a phone call. For John, he’d committed only when Pavarotti strolled in as if she owned the place.
‘‘There’s got to be some way to prove it. One way or the other.’’
Neither Connor nor Blue looked away from John Doe as he paced and twitched in the entryway. He wasn’t dangerous, but they couldn’t see it. Or maybe their training made it impossible for them to think of anyone as innocent. He was just scared. A little paranoid. He wanted to run, not strike. Anyone could see that.
‘‘Like what?’’ Blue asked.
‘‘Fingerprints, DNA, something.’’
Blue shook his head. ‘‘DNA won’t fly. Nothing to compare it to. The murder happened in 1981. Pre-DNA everything at a crime scene.’’
‘‘Fingerprints won’t work either,’’ Connor offered unhelpfully. ‘‘As far as we know, Charles Smiths was never printed. No military time, no police record. It’s a dead end.’’
‘‘What about a lie-detector test?’’ I suggested. ‘‘We could rent equipment, probably. I mean, somebody’s got to have some they�
�d loan us for cash. Or maybe even a service that will run the test for us.’’
Blue shrugged. ‘‘We could use the field gear.’’
‘‘That wouldn’t prove anything.’’ Connor stayed with pessimism.
‘‘Sure it would.’’ I grabbed his arm. I wanted to shake him. ‘‘You’ve got this stuff? You’ve done it before? What are we waiting for?’’
Blue raised his eyebrows and leaned back against the refrigerator, his arms crossed. His eyes never left John Doe. Or Charles Smiths, or whoever the heck he was.
‘‘Sara, the reason lie detectors can’t be used in court is because they don’t actually test for truth. They test belief. It’s the reason that psychotics pass. They believe their own bull. He’ll probably pass regardless.’’
Pavarotti growled softly. I knew how she felt. I petted her head and she stopped. ‘‘Okay, so maybe it wouldn’t hold up in a court of law. Right now the only person he has to convince is you, Connor. Admit it. Half of you still thinks he’s a scam artist playing ‘poor little naive me.’ ’’
Blue moved over to John, distancing himself from the greater threat. His training did him proud. Pavarotti left me and moved to stand between John and Blue. Her training was pretty good, too.
‘‘I don’t think that.’’
‘‘You don’t believe him, either.’’ I kept my voice low. I didn’t want John to know Connor didn’t believe him. He had enough demons.
‘‘It doesn’t matter if I believe him or not. You want to help him. That’s fine with me. I’ll back you.’’
‘‘That’s not the same as actually believing, Con. He’s scared and he’s alone. Somebody’s trying to kill him. He needs someone to believe in him.’’
‘‘You believe enough for both of us.’’
‘‘Might still be useful, Rock.’’ Blue came back into the conversation with his back still turned to us.
I waited.
‘‘Say she’s right. This guy is the real Charles Smiths. If that’s true, why hasn’t Reed told anyone that guy at the benefit isn’t the real deal? Even if he could explain it—call it a security precaution, maybe—if this guy is a patient of your brother-in-law’s, might be he knows helpful.And if he isn’t Charles Smiths, we’re out nothing,’’ Blue pressed.
‘‘Wait a minute,’’ I protested. ‘‘You don’t believe him, but just in case you’re wrong you want to use him? I don’t think we ought to ask him about that. What about doctor-patient privilege? Privacy? If he is Jack’s patient, he needs help. Hell, he needs help anyway.’’
It wasn’t that I didn’t sympathize with Connor’s position. John Doe might give him the ammunition he needed to get rid of Jack permanently. As patronizing as Jack was, he might brag to a patient. After all, Jack was the semifamous doctor, and a patient would be just some head case. Plausible deniability. If Connor earned helpful-husband points at the same time, that was just efficient. Except I didn’t want him to do it to humor me. I wanted him to listen. To believe. To have a little faith in my belief.
‘‘I think we should do the test.’’ Connor agreed. Humoring me. Definitely.
‘‘Fine. But you promise to keep an open mind. And we agree, whatever we find, we don’t leave John hanging out to dry,’’ I insisted. ‘‘We find a doctor, a real one, to help him. Even if he can’t help us.’’
‘‘Let’s do it,’’ Connor said.
‘‘Not us, Rock. Her.’’ Blue looked over his shoulder at me just for a second before turning back to John.
‘‘She’s never done it before.’’
‘‘Only way, man. He ain’t gonna go candid with me, and you’ve already got his blood pressure in the red zone. We won’t be able to tell if he’s lying or having a stroke with you at the helm.’’
‘‘Blue’s right. You haven’t stopped glaring at him since we brought him back. I should do it.’’
‘‘I haven’t been glaring.’’
‘‘You’ve done everything short of sticking pins in a John Doe doll.’’
Blue stepped back and leaned against the kitchen wall. He could see all of us from that vantage point. He must think the fireworks between Connor and me were over for the evening. It would explain the three divorces.
‘‘He’s gotta keep something for his grand finale.’’ Blue grinned at me.
‘‘Get the gear,’’ Connor told Blue.
‘‘I’m out,’’ Blue said, heading for the door. John flinched when Blue took the first step, and backed up against the front door. Blue put up his hands in supplication, trying to ease John, but one look at his panicked face said that wasn’t going to happen.
‘‘It’s okay,’’ I said, stepping around Blue. ‘‘He’s just going to go pick something up. Something we need to help you prove they’re trying to steal you.’’
I reached out a hand to him. Connor stopped breathing. Pavarotti’s tail thumped against my leg.
‘‘Don’t touch him, Sara.’’ Connor eased a step closer.
‘‘It’s fine. Everything’s all right.’’ I looked at Connor over my shoulder, trying to freeze him with a stare. The dog whined.
‘‘Charles. Please.’’ I ignored Connor, sliding another inch closer. When he didn’t flinch I moved closer, touching his shoulder, then sliding my hand down his arm, patting his hand. He was stiff. The dog head-butted him. John reached out and touched her fur. John slowly slid to a sitting position against the door, covering his head with his arms. I sat beside him and made shushing sounds. Pavarotti crawled across us, lying on our legs and pinning us down.
I laughed. ‘‘I think someone is looking for attention.’’
John Doe hugged the dog’s neck, earning a lick across the face.
I exchanged a long look with Connor. He shrugged, then glanced at the sliding glass door.
Blue looked behind him. ‘‘What the hell? It’s only the tenth floor.’’
He walked over to the door, stepped onto the patio, and climbed over the side.
By the time Blue returned with the lie-detector unit, I’d sweet-talked John into sitting in the kitchen with Pavarotti at his feet. Connor kept John in his line of sight but stayed quiet, blending into the background. I was grateful. John seemed to be relaxing. He’d even eaten the sandwich I’d fixed for him. Half of it, anyway. The other half went to the dog.
Blue talked me through putting the strap around John’s chest and hooking up the machine. Connor set up the video camera in the doorway to the living room. He moved behind the camera, silent. Like he’d been for the last hour. That could not be good.
Blue stayed behind John, hunkered down, trying to look as nonthreatening as a six-foot-seven badass SEAL could look. John seemed to have forgotten all about him. Even Pavarotti had stopped growling. I chatted quietly with John, smiling as I connected his finger to the indicator. His hands were dirty but the skin was soft. Not calloused. Huh.
‘‘Ready?’’ I asked.
‘‘Okay,’’ John said, never looking away from me.
‘‘It’ll be just like Blue said. I’ll ask you some questions. Answer yes or no. I’ll start with some easy ones while we get the hang of it. They’ll be your base. Then we’ll ask some other ones. Yes/no, like before.’’
‘‘And then you can tell them I’m me?’’
‘‘Right.’’
‘‘And that they’re after me.’’ John showed some signs of agitation, his breath louder, fidgeting in his chair, as if saying it out loud brought his pursuers, real or imagined, closer to him.
‘‘He’s got to calm down, Sara,’’ Blue said.
‘‘We’re calm. Nice and easy. No one can get us here, right?’’ I patted his hand. He nodded. Connor was radiating energy, and I wished he’d knock it off. This was already hard enough.
I moved back away from John. Sitting in the chair opposite him, I took a deep breath. ‘‘Let’s start with something easy. Is today Friday?’’
‘‘No.’’
Blue put his watch on the table and backe
d out of my range of vision. One fourteen a.m.
‘‘Saturday?’’ I asked.
We hadn’t discussed what I would ask him, and it suddenly occurred to me how hard even the easy questionswere. He was disoriented. He thought he was Charles Smiths, but was he? His truth could be— probably was—just delusion. Why was he in San Diego? Who was after him? He really didn’t have a point of reference. There wasn’t a single detail about his life that was black-and-white. To someone as confused about his identity as John Doe was, everything was a variation of gray. I’d be crazy, too, if that much of my world were askew. I wondered what I would do if someone convinced me that everything I thought was real was a lie.
‘‘Yes,’’ John answered.
‘‘Is it nighttime?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Are you wearing a blue shirt?’’
He looked down and nodded.
‘‘You have to say it out loud, John.’’
‘‘Charles. My name is Charles.’’ His voice hit a high note.
Mistake. That was a mistake. Calm. You need to calm him down.
‘‘You’re right. I’m sorry, Charles.’’
‘‘It’s okay,’’ he mumbled.
‘‘Can we start over?’’
‘‘I guess.’’ His head was lowered.
‘‘Is the sky blue?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Is the grass green?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Do you speak English?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Is your name Charles Smiths?’’ His eyes welled, and for a second I thought he might cry. I wanted to cry for him.
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Were your parents Martin and Andrea Smiths?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
Blue eased himself to a standing position behind John. He pulled his pager off his belt and looked at the readout. He made a telephone with his hand.
I nodded and reached for John’s hand. ‘‘You’re doing really well. These are hard questions. I’m not trying to upset you.’’ Blue eased from the room like smoke. ‘‘Are you okay to go on?’’
He nodded. Pavarotti put his head on John’s lap.
Doggone Page 23