Deceived (Private Justice Book #3): A Novel (12 page)

“This was a very productive session, Grace.” Kate knitted her fingers together on her desk and smiled at the fortysomething widow across from her. “I think you’ll be ready to begin applying for jobs next week, and I’m lining some up for you to consider.”

Grace closed her notebook and picked up her purse. “It’s still hard for me to believe I have to get a job. I had no idea Sam had refinanced the house to fund those speculative investments, or that he’d let his life insurance lapse. He said if I handled the kids, he’d handle the money, and I trusted him, you know?”

“Yes. I know. And you’re not alone. I hear that story a lot.” They’d been over this many times, but sometimes the women she saw needed a sympathetic ear as much as they needed career
counseling. Kate circled her desk and joined the woman by the door. “Let me walk you out.”

“You’ve been very kind.” Grace swiped at her eyes as they started down the hall. “I don’t know what I’d have done if my friend hadn’t recommended you.”

“I’m glad I could help—but you’re a survivor. You’ll be fine.” How many times had she repeated that mantra to clients? Too many to count. But repetition helped drive it home, and self-confidence was critical in job interviews. “Nancy will set you up with an appointment for . . .” Kate’s voice trailed off as they reached the lobby and a tall man with dark eyes, dressed in a jacket and tie, rose.

“Mr. Sullivan has been waiting to see you, Kate.” Nancy gestured to Connor from her seat behind the reception desk.

“I’m sorry. Did we run over our time?” Grace touched Kate’s arm, drawing her attention.

“No. We’re right on schedule. Nancy will get that appointment set up for you. I’ll see you next week.” She transferred her attention to her unexpected visitor. “Would you like to come back to my office?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“Nancy, would you get my calls for a few minutes?”

“Sure.” The receptionist made no attempt to hide her appreciative perusal of Connor as he crossed the lobby.

“This way.” Kate indicated the hall, and he fell in behind her as her spirits took a nosedive.

There could only be one reason for this visit.

He’d gotten the age-progressed photo back from Elaine, and it wasn’t a close enough match to pursue.

Why else would he come in person, except to break the bad news? If there was a match, he’d simply have called and told her, and they would have discussed next steps.

Steeling herself, she gestured to the sitting area in her office.

“I heard from Elaine.” He sat in the chair adjacent to hers and pulled a thin manila folder from his briefcase.

“That’s what I figured.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “It’s not a match, is it?”

Instead of replying, he handed her the folder.

It felt flimsy in her unsteady hands. As flimsy as her whole story. As flimsy as the case this man had diligently worked on despite the long odds of success.

Her hopes crashing, she took a steadying breath and opened the folder.

The boy from the mall stared back at her, this time in a close-up head-and-shoulders shot.

Frowning, she looked behind the image. It was the only one in the file.

“I don’t understand . . . where’s Elaine’s photo?”

“You’re looking at it.”

As his words registered, her heart stumbled, and the air whooshed out of her lungs. Dear heaven, could it be . . . ?

“I had the same reaction. That’s why I came over. I could have emailed it, but I wanted to be here when you saw it.” He pulled another file out of his briefcase and handed it to her as well. “That’s the boy from the mall.”

She flipped open the second folder. Both the grainy close-up shot from the mall and one of the high-quality images Connor had taken of the child at the daycare center were inside.

It was a remarkable match.

“Did Elaine . . . did she see your pictures before she did hers?”

“No. I’d never prejudice her in that way. This is her take on what your son looks like now based on the photos you supplied from his younger years.”

“I can’t believe it.” The trembling in her fingers worsened, and as the images in her hands began to quiver, she lowered them to her lap. “I haven’t let myself even think about what
might come next. This seemed too much to hope for. So . . . what do we do now?”

He leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees, his expression sober. “First of all, as remarkable as the similarity is, there’s a very strong chance it’s a fluke. Coincidences do happen, and people do have doubles. In this situation, I’d be inclined to think that was the case—except for a couple of other facts. The boy turned when you called your son’s name, and he used a unique term from Kevin’s childhood. Coupling those details with that photo”—he gestured to the file in her lap—“moves your story from the realm of improbable to possible. But it’s still a long shot.”

She nodded, doing her best to rein in her surging optimism. “I understand that.”

“Then here’s what I propose. We dig into Greg Sanders’s background. Find out everything there is to know about him. I’ll start with the Net, which is faster and less expensive than gumshoeing it. Depending on what I uncover, we might need to ramp this up and do some personal investigation, possibly travel to his former place of residence, if there is one. Maybe get my colleagues involved.”

“What about DNA? Wouldn’t it be simpler to try and get a sample from the boy, see if it matches?”

“Matches what? Do you have any of your son’s baby teeth or a toothbrush, comb, or personal item of any kind?”

She exhaled. “No. All I have are a few pieces of clothing and his blankie, and all of those have been washed. I do have some hair from his first haircut, but don’t you need the hair follicle to test the DNA?”

“For nuclear DNA, yes—and that’s critical for paternity cases. But I’m not ruling out DNA. We only need the mitochondrial variety to determine whether two people share the same maternal line. For that, matching to cut hair samples works fine—yours,
specifically. So if everything else we find continues to suggest a link, we’ll try to get a sample of the boy’s hair.”

“How?”

“Follow them to a salon or, if Sanders cuts his son’s hair, do some trash covers.”

“What’s that?”

He flashed her a smile. “A messy job. It means going through a person’s trash.”

“Is that legal?”

“Once trash is on the curb for pickup, it’s considered abandoned property and fair game. I’d rather not go that route unless we have to, because if Sanders is cutting his son’s hair, he’s probably not doing it very often. We might have to run trash covers twice a week—depending on the pickup schedule in his subdivision—until we hit pay dirt, and someone could notice. That would be my last resort . . . but if it’s the only way to establish a link, we’ll use it.”

She gripped the files in her lap. “And if we do establish a link?”

“We call in the heavy guns. In this case, the FBI. However, that’s down the road a ways. We have a lot of work to do before we let ourselves get carried away.” He closed his briefcase and stood. “I’m sure you have clients waiting, so I won’t keep you.”

She stood too. “Do you need these photos back?”

“No. I have copies.”

Fingering the edge of the file, she exhaled. “I still can’t believe the match. But if this boy is my son . . .”—she furrowed her brow as the implications of that scenario began to ping in her mind—“that raises a lot of disturbing questions.”

“Yes, it does.”

He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, and Kate scrutinized his face. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No.” His reply was immediate—and sincere. “You know everything I know at this point. But now that we’re digging in,
I want to cover all the bases. Do you have a copy of the police report from the accident?”

“Yes. I could fax it to you when I get home.”

“That would be fine. And now I’ll let you get back to work.”

She followed him out to the lobby, where he turned and extended his hand. Kate placed her fingers in his, but instead of a normal shake, he gave her a reassuring squeeze—and brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. For one brief moment, his intense gaze locked with hers. It was filled with . . . what? Some strong emotion she couldn’t identify—but it sent a zing of adrenaline zipping through her.

Then he was gone.

For several more seconds, Kate stared at the closed door. Reminding herself to breathe. Relishing the lingering warmth on her hand from the stroke of his thumb. Wondering what it would be like to step into those strong arms and . . .

Enough.

She didn’t have time for silly daydreams.

Turning, she found Nancy watching her.

“Hot guy.” The receptionist arched an eyebrow.

Striving for a dismissive tone, she shrugged. “He’s a business associate.”

Nancy sighed. “Every guy I do business with is balding and has a paunch.”

“Luck of the draw, I guess.”

And there was some truth to that. She’d had no idea when she’d gone in search of a PI that the investigator who’d take her case would be movie-star handsome . . . not to mention smart, principled, and kind.

Yet as she walked back to her office, she couldn’t help thinking that more than luck had been involved the day she’d walked into the Phoenix Inc. offices—and into Connor Sullivan’s life. God’s hand was in this.

But what, exactly, was his plan? Was he leading her to her son . . . to a new relationship . . . or possibly to both?

As Kate retook her seat behind her desk, a ray of late-morning sun peeked through the blinds, sending a ribbon of light across her desk. She swiveled around to look out her window, where blue skies had replaced the storms from earlier in the week.

Perhaps blue skies were returning to her world too.

Yet she couldn’t stop the sudden shiver that ran through her despite the warming ray of sunlight splashing into her office.

Because if that little boy in the mall did turn out to be Kevin, someone had a secret to hide. A secret that involved a tragic father-son fishing outing three years ago during which her husband had died after apparently disregarding his promise that they’d wear their life vests—a promise she’d always been convinced he’d never break.

But if he hadn’t broken it . . . if her son had disappeared, not died as the authorities had ruled . . . there was only one possible conclusion—which Connor was already considering, based on his request for a copy of the police report.

And it chilled her to the bone.

The so-called accident on Braddock Bay that fateful July day hadn’t been an accident at all.

It had been kidnapping—and murder.

S
orry to delay the meeting.” Connor directed his comment to Dev and Cal as he shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it on an empty chair in the Phoenix conference room, and took a seat.

“No problem. Sounds like you had a busy morning.” Cal opened the file in front of him, clearly ready to get things moving.

“Yeah. Where were you going in such a rush an hour ago, anyway? You almost mowed me down in the hall—and got a shirtful of coffee as a souvenir.” Dev lifted his mug.

“Unexpected meeting.”

“Must have been urgent.” Dev eyed him over the rim as he took a sip.

Connor uncapped his pen and shuffled through his notepad, searching for an empty page as he debated how to respond. His impromptu meeting with Kate hadn’t been urgent; he could have emailed her Elaine’s age-enhanced photo and they could have discussed next steps by phone. But after zero contact for three days, he’d wanted to see her—and delivering the photo in person had given him a quasi-legitimate excuse to do so.

A tidbit he had no intention of sharing with his partners.

He settled for a one-word reply. “Important.”

“A new development in the little-boy case? You’ve been pretty
closemouthed about it this week—and about your client.” Dev waggled his eyebrows.

“As a matter of fact, there
has
been a development I want to discuss with both of you.” Connor sent him a disgruntled look, then transferred his attention to Cal. “I don’t want to take over your meeting, though.”

Cal waved his concern aside and closed his file. “We can add an agenda item. My stuff will keep till the end. Besides, I’m interested in an update too.”

Connor riffled through his briefcase and pulled out the folder containing his copies of the three photos he’d left with Kate, giving his colleagues a rapid-fire briefing on the progression of the case over the past few days. At the end, he opened the folder and spread out the fuzzy mall photo and the best of the shots he’d taken of the little boy at the daycare center. “And here’s the age-progressed photo Elaine sent me this morning.” He turned it over and placed it next to the other two.

Both of his partners leaned forward.

“Wow.” That from Dev.

“I think you’re on to something.” Cal examined the photo for another few seconds, then leaned back. “I assume, based on this and the other suspicious circumstances your client mentioned, you’re moving forward with a full investigation.”

“That’s the plan.”

“This thing could get hairy.” Dev continued to study the photos. “If this kid is your client’s son, we’re dealing with some serious crimes here. Kidnapping might be the least of them.”

His partner didn’t have to spell out his inference. They were all wired to draw the same conclusion: given Kate’s insistence that her husband would never have removed his life vest—yet had been found without it—murder was becoming a very real possibility.

“I think we’re all on the same wavelength.” Connor tapped the pictures back into a stack and returned them to the folder.
“But until we have more than circumstantial evidence, we’re not going to get any support from law enforcement.”

“Might be illuminating to do a thorough background check on this Sanders guy.” Dev doodled a series of concentric circles on the pad of paper in front of him.

“First item on my agenda. I’m going to put Nikki on it too.”

Dev scowled. “There goes my filing. Down to the bottom of the priority list again.”

“I could ask her to do that first.”

“Nah.” Dev waved the offer aside. “The pile in the corner isn’t ready to topple yet. You can have her for a day or two.”

“Thanks. If we get red flags on this guy—and my gut says we will—I may need you both to help me out with some pretexting or interviews or even some travel.”

“Is your client on board with spending those kinds of bucks?” Dev added a bull’s-eye to the center of the middle circle.

“Yes. She’s been living with doubts for three years. She wants this thing fully investigated.”

“Then we’re all in.” Cal folded his hands on the file in front of him. “The hottest assignment we have right now is the executive protection gig we’re going to talk about in a minute. Other than that, I think the cases Dev and I are dealing with have some flexibility in terms of timing.” He deferred to the other man, who nodded. “Anything else we need to talk about today on this?”

“No.”

“Okay. Keep us in the loop. Now let me bring you up to speed on the logistics for the protection gig.”

As Cal launched into the details about travel arrangements, agenda, and equipment for the upcoming three-man job, Connor did his best to switch gears. Considering that their Fortune 50 executive client was planning to travel to a world economic conference in New York despite receiving death threats, this was a high-risk job—one he should be spearheading, given his
background. If Cal hadn’t offered to do the heavy lifting, he wouldn’t have been able to give Kate’s case the focus it deserved.

This strategy session, however, required his full attention and detailed input. Time to put the compartmentalization skills he’d learned during his Secret Service years into action.

Unfortunately, they were proving elusive today, thanks to two big distractions: Kate—and his growing suspicion of murder.

Kate.

Murder.

Those two words in the same sentence didn’t sit well.

So once this meeting was over, he’d start digging—deep—into Greg Sanders’s background. And if he uncovered any credible evidence that the man had been involved in foul play, he was going straight to the FBI.

In the meantime, he intended to keep Sanders in his sights. Because from all indications on that surveillance tape, his subject had spotted Kate—and made a concerted effort to elude her. Meaning there was a strong possibility he knew who she was. And if he did, if he was culpable of serious crimes, he’d be nervous. On guard. Perhaps ready to flee.

But even if the man ran, he’d find him—whatever it took—and do everything in his power to restore to Kate the son she’d given up for dead.

“Would you like a soda or a cup of coffee or tea?” Kate spoke over her shoulder to the woman who was following her down the hall to her office, trying to psyche herself up for the last appointment of the day. Always a challenge when her energy was lagging, but more so on a Friday that had included an adrenaline-laced visit from Connor and a startling age-progressed photo.

“No, thank you.”

“If you change your mind, just let me know.” Kate entered
her office and gestured toward the casual seating area, bypassing her desk. Since her new client seemed on the nervous side, better to make things more sociable on this initial visit. They could get down to serious business next time.

The woman chose a comfortable upholstered chair. Kate took the one at a right angle to it and opened her notebook. Although she’d already reviewed the basic information sheet the woman had filled out after making the appointment, she scanned it again, giving her client a moment to get comfortable and relax. In view of the fact the referral had come from Sarah, this woman had probably also been a victim of domestic violence—and would spook easily.

“So, Diane, you’ve decided to reenter the job market?” Kate smiled at the blonde woman.

“Yes.” She laced her hands into a tight knot on her lap.

“And you found me through Sarah.”

“Yes. She said you did a great job for her.”

Kate leaned back, keeping her posture open, friendly, approachable. “Nice to hear. And I’ll do my best to help you find a position that’s a good fit too. Why don’t you give me a little background on your work experience and tell me some of the things you enjoyed most about your favorite job.”

The going was slow at the beginning, with Diane offering abbreviated answers and shying away from any personal revelations. The woman gauged her words. Watched for reactions. Kept her arms crossed tight against her chest.

In other words, she had serious trust issues.

Not surprising, if she’d been a victim of abuse.

Still, this was the kind of challenging client Kate found most rewarding—once the barriers were down and they began working together. But it was going to take awhile to get there with Diane.

Half an hour into their conversation, however, the woman began to loosen up. She uncrossed her arms. The stiff line of
her shoulders eased. She began to give more detailed answers. And she mentioned her previous difficult domestic situation.

The trust level was building.

Now they were getting somewhere.

Forty-five minutes in, after Diane hinted at the abuse—and the toll it had taken on her self-esteem—the woman teared up. “Sorry. I thought I was over crying about the bum.”

“You’ve only been out of the relationship a few months. Hurts like that don’t go away quickly.” Kate handed her a box of tissues and touched her arm. “Are you sure I can’t offer you a soda or a cup of tea?”

“You know . . . if it’s not too much trouble, tea would be nice. Just the plain black kind. I never developed a liking for the fancy stuff, no matter how often Rich told me my tastes were too plebian.”

“I’m a plain black tea person myself. In fact, I’ll join you. Give me a couple of minutes and we’ll finish up for today while we sip a cup.”

Kate exited the office, closing the door behind her. It had been a productive session so far, and Diane Koenig showed a lot of promise. She was smart, articulate, and had a dormant sense of humor, based on a few of her comments. Hooking up with a loser like her ex-husband had derailed her, and she needed some help to get back on track, but she’d find the resources she needed to do that at New Start. Kate would see to it.

As she entered the small kitchenette and set about brewing the tea, she couldn’t help but compare the men some of her clients had married with the PI who’d visited her this morning.

What a contrast.

But Diane would get through her ordeal. She’d taken constructive steps to turn her life around. And now that they were on their way to establishing a relationship of trust, Kate was certain Diane’s experience at New Start would be a life-changing one.

Easing back in her chair, Diane rotated her neck to loosen the stiff muscles, took a deep breath, and let go of the last of her tension. This meeting hadn’t been nearly as hard as she’d expected.

Thanks to Kate Marshall.

The New Start director was every bit as nice as Sarah had claimed. Sympathetic, attentive, thoughtful—and best of all, nonjudgmental. Of course, given the organization’s mission and the many clients who came from difficult backgrounds, she’d probably heard every story in the book. One more woman who’d let herself be used by the man who’d professed to love her would be nothing new for the group’s director.

Yet Kate had made her feel unique, special . . . and as if her future mattered to her not just as a counselor but as a person.

If her compassion was an act, it was Oscar caliber.

Somehow, though, Diane didn’t think it was. Kate seemed genuine in her commitment to helping others improve their lives. Her passion about the organization’s mission had come through loud and clear at several points in their conversation.

Feeling more relaxed by the minute, Diane rose and stretched. Thank goodness she’d followed through on Sarah’s recommendation and contacted New Start. With Kate in her court, she had a feeling she’d be getting her life back on track sooner than she’d expected.

Flexing her shoulders, she strolled around the office. After forty-five minutes hunched in a chair, it was nice to get the blood flowing. A few circuits should help relax the kinks in her back too.

On her second lap, she stopped beside Kate’s desk and leaned over to read the small plaque. The serenity prayer? That was a disconnect. Kate didn’t strike her as the type who would easily
accept that things couldn’t be changed—not without first making a heroic effort to change things she thought needed changing. And that was an excellent lesson to take away from today’s session. She, too, was done accepting the status quo. This meeting was her first step in a brand-new direction.

As she straightened up and started to turn back toward the seating area, her jacket caught the edge of a manila folder and sent it shooting toward the floor.