She had sworn not to become one of those unhappy, pitiful creatures. And she hadn’t. She had focused on all the wonderful things open to her and had carved out a full life for herself.
She had a job she loved. A home she loved. And she had friends she loved.
Only now...now there was this tiny baby that she loved.
Anne didn’t know how this sweet, good thing had happened. She didn’t know when her feelings had blossomed to fill that empty space in her heart. Until now, she never even knew it had been empty.
She loved this little boy. And she knew in the deepest part of her heart that he loved her. Tom had told her that Tommy was his and that he hadn’t impregnated Lindy. She believed him. That meant Lindy couldn’t have been Tommy’s mother. He belonged to some unknown woman. Anne forcibly reminded herself of that fact. She was going to have to be prepared to give him up to his mother when the time came.
She would be prepared. She would love Tommy for the time he was with her, and she would be ready when it was time for him to leave.
But when would it be time? Did Tommy’s mother know where her baby was? Was returning Tommy to her one of the reasons Tom had come to Boston? What did he feel about the mother of his child? And what had happened to Lindy’s baby? Did he die, as Shrubber had claimed? How did Lindy get ahold of Tommy?
And why wouldn’t Tom tell Anne about any of it?
“I wish I knew what was going on,” she crooned softly to the baby as she hugged him to her. “I wish to hell I knew.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
A
NNE
THREADED
HER
way through the familiar corridors of One Bulfinch Place, the Suffolk County district attorney’s office. She had called ahead to her friend Pat Hosmer so that she would be expected.
Pat had been Anne’s mentor when she first came to work in the D.A.’s office. Pat was a workaholic and a great prosecutor, and Anne respected her highly. She also counted her as a friend.
The older woman greeted them at the door to her office, where Anne performed the introductions. After patting the baby in Tom’s arms, Pat beckoned them inside. A sleek woman in her midforties, with unruly black hair and dark intelligent eyes, she walked like a cat on a mantel as she circled her desk to reclaim her seat.
Elbows on her desk, Pat turned her attention to Anne as soon as she and Tom had taken the offered chairs.
“I can’t believe you’re still in the Berkshires,” she said. “You cost me twenty bucks in the office betting pool.”
Anne just smiled, but Tom asked, “Betting pool?”
Pat shifted her eyes to him. “None of us believed Anne could stay away. She enjoyed putting the bad guys behind bars too much. You should have seen her in court. The defense attorneys she went up against never knew what hit them.”
“I can imagine,” Tom said, a smile lifting his lips.
“I gave her two months in those hills.” Pat’s gaze returned to Anne. “Now here it is, four years later. Damn, it’s good to see you. Oh, sorry, Father.”
“No problem,” Tom said.
“It’s great to see you, too,” Anne said, and meant ev-ery word.
“So, Anne, you said on the phone you needed a favor. How can I help?”
Anne leaned forward. “I’ve come to ask about some people, Pat. Are you familiar with an attorney by the name of George Shrubber?”
Pat nodded immediately. “Yeah, I know of him. He’d be sitting in a cell for bribery and suborning perjury three years ago if this office could have made it stick.”
“Tell me about it,” Anne said.
“Shrubber was defending a guy accused of blowing up his boat for the insurance money,” Pat began, leaning back in her chair. “We had the guy cold. Then, on the last day of trial, Shrubber brought in a surprise witness who swore the defendant was with him at the time the explosion was set. The jury let the defendant off. Later we discovered that Shrubber had paid the witness to lie.”
“How did you find out?” Anne inquired curiously.
“We subpoenaed the bank records. When the witness was squeezed, he came clean.”
“I don’t understand why you weren’t able to make the charges stick,” Anne said.
“The detectives didn’t read the witness his rights. Judge threw out his confession. Shrubber went free.”
Anne groaned. “I hate those cases.”
“Don’t we all,” Pat agreed. “Still, coming so close to getting caught must have thrown a scare into Shrubber. He hasn’t shown his face in a courtroom since.”
“What’s he doing now?” Anne asked.
“Last I heard he was specializing in private adoptions.”
“Civil law?” Anne asked, clearly surprised.
“Yeah, I know,” Pat said. “Doesn’t sound too smart after specializing in criminal law to suddenly switch to civil. But any lawyer who tries to win cases by bribing witnesses and suborning perjury isn’t smart. What’s your interest in him?”
“I’m checking him out for a friend,” Anne answered, then quickly moved on. “Do you know anything about the private investigator Shrubber uses? A big, squeaky-voiced guy by the name of Bender?”
“Can’t say as I’ve heard of him.” Pat scooted over to the computer keyboard on the edge of her desk. “Give me his first name and I’ll run him through the files.”
“Chet,” Anne said.
Pat typed the name in and waited for a response. “There’s no Chet Bender with a private investigator’s license in Massachusetts. If he’s working as one, he’s doing it illegally. Let me see if I get a hit on a criminal record.”
It took another minute for those files to appear on Pat’s screen. “No record on him. You say Shrubber’s using him?”
“Yes,” Anne answered. “They’re working together on a case for a couple named Rolan and Heather Kendrall.”
Pat shook her head. The Kendrall name obviously didn’t ring any bells for her, either.
“Do you have a local address on Shrubber?” Anne asked.
“Let’s see.” Pat proceeded to access more computer files. “According to the assessor’s office, he has two places.” She printed out the sheet that listed them and handed it to Anne.
Anne knew that was all they were going to be able to get from Pat’s sources. She thanked her friend and they left.
“I wonder why Shrubber lied about Bender being a private investigator?” Anne said as she and Tom headed for the parking lot.
“Could be he doesn’t care if Bender has a license,” Tom suggested. “From what your friend Pat told us, Shrubber doesn’t appear to be on the upper rungs of the attorney’s ethical stepladder.”
“I was hoping we might learn more.”
“Let’s try a source of mine,” Tom said.
Anne turned to him, unable to resist. “Divine?”
Tom smiled. “I don’t think I’ll have to resort to that one just yet.”
* * *
“W
ELL
,
IF
IT
ISN
’
T
my favorite priest,” the burly, mustachioed man bellowed at Tom good-naturedly as he and Anne stepped aboard the yacht. It was anchored in Boston Harbor and its skipper was anchored to a deck chair, his heels resting on a table as he swigged from a bottle of beer. As soon as he caught sight of Anne, however, he shot to his feet. Beer sloshed onto his sweatshirt and pants—a fact that didn’t seem to concern him unduly.
“Whoa, and you brought an angel with you,” he bellowed anew. “Welcome aboard, sweet thing.”
“Down, Andy,” Tom said as he extended his hand to the man. Andy pushed Tom’s hand away and grabbed him for a bear hug.
“If this is your wife and baby and you’re just getting around to telling me, I’m throwing you overboard, Rev.”
Tom extricated himself from the bear hug. “I’ve offered but she’s not buying. Anne Vandree, this is Andy Horne, the best architect in Boston bar none.”
Andy grinned at Anne and offered his hand. “Turned him down, huh? You got good sense, gal. That’s sure a pretty baby you got there. I love babies. Marry me and we’ll make some more.”
Anne laughed. This was not a man to be taken seriously.
He invited them to sit and pointed to a cart that contained an assortment of beverages. Anne selected a bottle of sparkling water and Tom took orange juice.
“Orange juice,” Andy snickered with good humor after Anne and Tom were seated opposite him. “Priesthood is undoing you, Tom. You should have seen him in the old days, Anne. Hell, he could drink me and six other guys under the table.”
“Do tell?” Anne said as she looked over at Tom in surprise.
“No, don’t tell,” Tom warned Andy, “or I’ll have to throw
you
overboard.”
“Sorry, Anne,” Andy said, exhaling dramatically. “I’d like to take the chance for you, I really would, but I’ve seen what the Rev here can do when he gets riled up.”
Anne stared at Tom’s profile. It seemed as if every minute brought forth yet another revelation about him.
“Andy, you know everybody who’s anybody in the social circles around here,” Tom said quickly, clearly eager to get on another subject.
“Just about,” Andy agreed, taking another swig of his beer.
“Ever hear of an attorney called George Shrubber?”
“Sure, I know the guy. He married Mimi Witchem about five years ago after representing her in some legal matter. Everybody knew it was for her money. When she finally tumbled to it a couple of years later—and he started having some legal problems of his own because of shady dealings—she kicked him out.”
“Any kids?” Tom asked.
“Neither were interested. Mimi paid Shrubber’s expenses while they were married, which I understand were staggering, but he didn’t get a dime once they were divorced.”
“You know what Shrubber’s doing now?” Tom asked.
“Nope. Once Mimi dumped him, he just faded away like a bad dye job. You’ve got to have some strong family and some strong money behind you to keep up with the clowns in this social circle I hang with.”
“Does that circle happen to include Rolan and Heather Kendrall?” Anne asked.
Andy nodded. “Sure does, angel. Now, Rolan’s from old money. He also claims he can trace his lineage back to one of those Indians at the Boston Tea Party. But between you and me, I think Rolan’s just blowing smoke from the old teepee—or in his case, toupee.”
“And his wife?” Tom asked.
“Oh, Heather’s a bona fide beauty queen. Rolan was pushing forty when he found her on some Fourth of July float. Miss Firecracker or Miss Rocket, something like that. Big, beautiful, buxom blonde. She was nineteen. That was about ten years ago.”
“They live around here, Andy?” Tom asked.
“Beacon Hill. Of course, they have a summer home on the Cape. And another getaway on the Costa del Sol in Spain.”
“They have any kids?”
Andy chugged more beer. “Never known you to be so interested in kids before.”
“Humor me, Andy,” Tom said.
“The Kendralls tried for years with no luck. Artificial insemination, in vitro, the works. Then, must be nine months ago, Heather showed up in maternity clothes to a yacht club dance, beaming to beat the band. Surprised everybody. They had a boy, I understand.”
“Have you seen their baby?” Anne asked.
“Not yet. Heather started attending social functions again just a few weeks after delivery, though. She looks amazing. Still has that beauty queen figure.”
“Who’s Heather’s doctor?” Tom asked.
“Miles Mason. He’s a respected fertility expert and a member of the yacht club. But Heather didn’t go to him even once during her pregnancy. And let me tell you, Miles is not pleased. Every time I see the guy he’s bitching about how much he did for that couple and how little thanks he got.”
“Do you know what doctor Heather saw through her pregnancy?” Tom asked.
“No idea.”
“The hospital where she delivered?”
“I know these people socially, Tom. Those kinds of details don’t generally come up in polite conversation. I wouldn’t have known about their fertility problems or her not having gone to Mason if that old boy didn’t have such a big mouth. Now, you going to tell me why you’ve suddenly got all this interest in the Kendralls?”
“No,” Tom said, finishing his orange juice.
Andy shook his head. “Yeah, just what I figured. You never tell me any of the juicy stuff anymore.” He turned to Anne. “You should have known him before he put that collar on. Boy, the stories I could tell.”
But before Anne got a chance to hear any, Tom had scooted her off the yacht and out of earshot.
* * *
“S
O
YOU
USED
to drink six—make that seven—guys under the table?” Anne asked, her eyes alight with humor as they got out of the Porsche in front of Tom’s brownstone, where they’d returned to feed and change the baby.
“Andy likes to exaggerate,” Tom said.
“What happens when you get riled up, Rev?” she asked.
“Not much. What I want to know is why Heather Kendrall suddenly switched to another doctor when her fertility specialist finally succeeded in getting her pregnant,” he said, deftly changing the subject as they walked up the steps to the entry.
“Maybe Dr. Miles Mason did something to make her mad. Or maybe she just decided to go to her family doctor for follow-up care once she was pregnant.”
“I’d be interested to see the birth record of the Kendralls’ baby,” Tom said as he reached into his pocket to take out his door key.
“Since we can’t be sure where Heather delivered her baby,” Anne said, “the best place to look would be the state’s Vital Records Office. That’s in Dorchester. After the baby’s fed and we grab some lunch, we could—”
“Tom!” a voice yelled from behind them.
Anne whirled around to see a heavy-boned man with a shock of white hair sprinting up the sidewalk toward them. He wore clerical black and a white collar and definitely not the type of shoes suitable for his current jog. Tom waited at the top step until the man reached them.
“Good morning, Harry,” Tom said.
Harry nodded as he leaned on the ornate black iron railing, clearly winded. He had dark eyes that glimmered on either side of a patrician nose. Tom gave him a moment to catch his breath before he turned to Anne.
“Anne, may I present the Right Reverend Harry Barrett, Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts. Harry, I’d like to introduce—”
“—Anne Vandree, Associate Justice of the Berkshire Probate and Family Court,” the bishop spouted before Tom had a chance to. He had gotten his breath back. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said to Anne as he extended both his hand and a ready smile.
Anne shook the bishop’s hand, surprised that he knew her. She never forgot a face. If she had seen him before, she was sure she would have remembered. How had he recognized her?
The bishop immediately turned back to Tom. There was something flickering in his eyes that belied the nonchalance of his manner. “I need a few words with you, Tom.”
Tom nodded and turned to open the door. Anne could tell by the exchange of looks between the two that this was not going to be a conversation to which she was invited.
“You’ll excuse me while I take care of the baby,” she said when they had all stepped inside, not waiting for either of them to try to think up a polite excuse to get rid of her.
“Thanks, Anne,” Tom said, and she knew he wasn’t just thanking her for assuming the care of Tommy.
She retreated into the kitchen, where she set Tommy’s bottle of formula to heat on the stove. It wasn’t until she laid him down on the counter to change him that she remembered the diapers were upstairs in the bedroom.
“Come on, little guy,” she said as she swept the baby back into her arms. She carried Tommy out of the kitchen toward the stairs, but halted when she heard the bishop’s voice clearly through the closed door to the living room.