Deceived (Private Justice Book #3): A Novel (26 page)

All the color had drained from Diane’s cheeks. “I don’t want to get Greg in trouble.”

“If he’s in trouble, you’re not the cause.” Kate touched her hand. “I want my son back, Diane. I’ve already lost three precious years with him. Years that can never be made up. I’ve mourned for him, night after night. Even now, I sometimes wake up and think I hear his voice calling me, like he used to. Wanting a drink of water or his blankie or . . .” Her words choked, and the room blurred as moisture clouded her vision.

Compassion flooded Diane’s face, and she touched her hand. “I’ll talk to your PI.”

“Thank you.” Fighting to regain her composure, Kate dug her cell out of the pocket of her capris and tapped in Connor’s number. He picked it up instantly.

“She says you can come in.”

“I’m already on my way.”

Kate set the phone on the coffee table. “He’ll be right here.”

As she started to rise, Diane restrained her with a touch, her features strained. “If Todd is your son, how do you think . . .” She swallowed. “Do you know how Greg got him?”

“No.” She’d leave it to Connor to get into theories if he thought that was wise.

“So it’s possible he’s just an innocent party in all this? I mean, except for the past few weeks when he hasn’t been all that attentive, he’s been a nice guy.”

The desperate hope in the woman’s eyes tugged at Kate’s heart. Innocent, however, wasn’t a word she’d use to describe Sanders—no matter how this played out. Not after the furtive look he’d cast her direction in the mall and the way he’d hustled the boy out of sight.

“I don’t know.” It was the best she could offer, but from the droop of Diane’s shoulders, it wasn’t sufficient.

The doorbell rang, and she turned away to answer it, leaving the other woman slumped in her chair. Though Diane had been concerned enough to seek answers late on this Tuesday night, it was also obvious she still cared about Sanders. And disillusioned or not, if her heart was involved, she could shift her loyalty back to him unless they convinced her the man might be guilty of far worse crimes than neglecting a girlfriend.

She could only hope her instincts about the woman were sound, and that Diane would realize it was in her own best interest to play it cool with Sanders until this thing was resolved.

If she didn’t, if she told Sanders he was being investigated, the man might take off before they could get their DNA sample.

But Connor wouldn’t let that happen. He was a pro. A man used to assessing risks, protecting people, keeping the enemy in his sights. Sanders wouldn’t be able to elude him. Everything would be fine.

It had to be.

Because she’d already set her heart on welcoming a seven-year-old boy who liked poppysicles into her home—and her arms.

Connor read the concern on Kate’s face the instant she opened the door—and it wasn’t misplaced.

They were taking a risk trusting Diane Koenig.

But his client had excellent instincts, and from what he’d heard, he was comfortable she’d made the right call. Diane didn’t sound as if she was solidly in Sanders’s camp, and after they finished speaking with her, he hoped any lingering loyalty she felt for the man would evaporate.

“Everything’s going to be fine.” He kept his voice low as he gave her arm a reassuring squeeze.

With a nod, she stepped back to usher him in, then led the way to the living room, where she made the introductions.

“It’s nice to meet you, Diane.” He smiled and held out his hand to the blonde.

Eyes guarded, she stood to return his greeting. Her fingers were ice cold, and a pulse thumped in the hollow of her neck, but as she gave him a once-over, the taut line of her shoulders relaxed slightly. Stopping at home to change clothes had paid dividends, as he’d expected. A woman who wore designer labels and drove an expensive car was apt to be a lot more impressed by the Armani sport jacket, Ralph Lauren dress shirt, and Gucci tie he kept in reserve for meetings with well-heeled clients than the jeans and T-shirt he’d been wearing when they’d spotted her leaving Sanders’s house.

“Diane, Connor is a former Secret Service agent. His partners at the PI firm are an ex-ATF agent and a former St. Louis County police detective.”

As Kate added that bit of information, the wariness in the woman’s eyes diminished.

“Why don’t we sit?” Connor gestured toward the chairs and sofa.

Kate took a seat across from Diane, leaving him the sofa—the closest spot to the woman.

“Diane said when she saw Greg Sanders earlier tonight, she got some bad vibes. I already filled her in on the basics of the case.” Kate gave him an abbreviated recap of the conversation he’d already heard.

After she finished, he took over. “Why don’t you tell me more about these bad vibes, Diane?”

Her throat worked. “It’s just that some . . . weird . . . things have been happening, and Greg didn’t address any of them.”

“What kind of weird things?”

As she told her story, including Todd’s escalator nightmare
and the incident at the lake, he glanced at Kate—and read her thoughts in her eyes.

With or without DNA, I know that
boy is my son.

He agreed.

But they needed the DNA before law enforcement would step back in.

“Even though Greg’s been acting kind of odd lately, I can’t believe he would be involved in anything . . . illegal.” Diane rubbed at the frown lines embedded in her forehead as she finished.

“What do you mean by odd?”

She shrugged. “We had a good thing going for the past couple of months, then all of a sudden he pulled back. I was afraid maybe he’d met someone else, but he says he hasn’t. He claims Todd is having some adjustment problems and they need more one-on-one time together . . . but now I’m thinking his withdrawal may be related to all of this.”

“That would be my guess.” Connor leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “How much do you know about Sanders?”

“I know he lived in Montana for a while, after his wife passed away. He moved there from Cleveland. And he told me Todd was adopted.”

“Did you know that a year and a half after his wife died, he also lost his young son to a fatal neurological disease?”

Diane’s eyes widened. “No.”

“We also have reason to believe Kate’s husband, who was a physician and an expert on that disease, didn’t endorse an experimental treatment in China for Sanders’s son when he was contacted by your friend’s insurance company.”

Her mouth slackened, and he gave her a few moments to digest that new information.

“Are you suggesting that . . . do you think Greg was involved
in . . .” She looked at Kate. Back toward him. Swallowed. “You don’t think the drowning was an accident, do you?”

“Not anymore. We have evidence Sanders was in the vicinity of Braddock Bay when Kate’s husband died.”

The woman’s face lost its last vestige of color. “Then why aren’t you going to the police?”

“Everything we have is circumstantial. Once we have definitive proof, we’ll hand it over to the FBI.”

A tear leaked out of Diane’s eye. “Boy, I know how to pick winners, don’t I? First an abuser, now a . . . criminal. What’s that old saying—fool me once . . . ?”

“Don’t blame yourself for this one.” Connor touched her hand. “From everything we’ve been able to learn about Sanders, he loved his family deeply and has taken excellent care of the boy he calls his son. He isn’t a career criminal.”

“Then why would he . . . how could he do what you think he did?” Confusion clouded her eyes.

“Even normal, well-adjusted, caring people can crack if they’re forced to endure enough stress or loss or grief. We all have our limits.”

At Kate’s quiet response, Connor turned toward her. She was thinking about her own battle with Valium—but that was in a whole different league than Sanders’s fall from grace. She needed to understand that.

“That’s true. We all occasionally cope by doing things that aren’t in our own best interest. But venting rage or expressing anger through violence crosses a very big line . . . and I don’t have a whole lot of sympathy for that, no matter the cause.”

“I don’t either.” Diane’s heated statement pulled his attention back to her. The confusion in her eyes had been replaced with disgust—at herself or Sanders, he wasn’t sure—until she continued. “I’m sick to death of being a victim—and I’m tired of being manipulated. If Greg did the things you suspect . . . and
if he stole your son”—she looked at Kate and straightened her shoulders—“he deserves to rot in prison. I might never get my ex behind bars, but I’m not going to slink away from
this
fight. Is there anything I can do to help you get the proof you need?”

He slanted a glance at Kate. She seemed as surprised as he was by the offer—and by Diane’s sudden infusion of gumption.

“Let me think about that.” He pulled a card out of his pocket, flipped it over, and jotted his cell number on the back. “I’ll be in touch if I come up with any ideas. In the meantime, if you think of anything else that could be useful, call me day or night.”

She tucked the card in her purse, then stood and faced Kate. “I’m so sorry for everything you’ve been through—and everything you’re still going through.”

“Thank you. And thank you for coming forward tonight. That means more to me than I can say.” She rose and gave her client a hug.

“We women have to stick together, you know.” Diane hugged her back, her voice laced with tears. “Guys can be jerks.”

Kate smiled at him over Diane’s shoulder. “There are some good guys out there too, though.”

As Diane stepped back, she looked his way. “Yeah. I guess there are.”

His neck warmed, but he covered the awkward moment by leading the way toward the foyer.

After the flurry of good-byes, he closed the door behind Diane and turned to Kate. “That was enlightening.”

“I’ll say. I think she’s totally in our camp. What’s your take?”

“I agree. You made a good call.”

“After some of the stories she told us about Sanders’s so-called son, I feel more certain than ever he’s Kevin.”

“So do I. And now that we know Sanders is aware of the age-progressed photo, we need to be prepared for him to take drastic action.”

“Like what?”

“Skip town, for one thing. I know this is going to cost some bucks, but I’d like to crank up the surveillance to 24/7 until we have our DNA, beginning first thing tomorrow morning.”

Panic flared in her eyes, and her posture stiffened. “Should we wait that long?”

“Based on the Braddock Bay incident, I doubt the man will bolt without having solid plans in place—and a chance encounter on an escalator, much as that might have spooked him, probably isn’t sufficient to vault him into crisis mode.”

“But the photo in my office might.” She fisted her hands at her sides, shimmers of tension radiating off her.

Connor touched her arm. It was cold as ice. “He only found out about that on Saturday, and three days isn’t much time to put together an escape plan.”

“Are you certain?” She searched his face, her features taut.

Close enough to be comfortable waiting a few hours to begin surveillance—but if it relieved Kate’s mind to have someone sit in front of the man’s house all night, he wasn’t about to turn her down.

“I’ll tell you what—I’ll head back over there and hang around, just to be sure.”

She bit her lip and began to pace. “Am I overreacting?”

“No. You’re behaving exactly as any mother would who doesn’t want to let the chance of a reunion with her long-lost son slip through her fingers.”

“Meaning I’m not being logical.” She lifted a hand and massaged her temple. “But . . . but what if Sanders loses it and h-hurts Kevin?” A touch of hysteria raised her pitch.

“Everything we’ve discovered and observed indicates he loves your son, Kate. I don’t think Kevin is in immediate danger—and we’re going to do everything we can to resolve this before that becomes a credible possiblity.”

She exhaled. Dipped her head. “Okay. I trust your judgment. Go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s soon enough.”

He appraised her. “Are
you
going to be able to sleep if I do that?”

She swallowed and locked gazes with him. “I might be able to if you promise me I don’t have to worry.”

No pressure there.

He hesitated—but only for a second. He trusted his instincts, and they told him it would be safe to wait until tomorrow to punch up the surveillance. “You don’t have to worry.”

She nodded, rubbing her arms up and down. “Give me a minute while I take off the mic.”

As she disappeared down the hall, he moved back into the living room and pulled out his cell to respond to messages—but only made it through two before she returned.

“Here you go.” She dropped the mic into his hand. It was still warm from her body.

Sliding it into the pocket of his slacks, he walked toward the door and reminded himself to keep breathing. “I’ll call you tomorrow with an update on the surveillance plan and any other developments.”

“Okay.”

She sounded so forlorn—and close to losing it—that he turned back to her.

Big mistake.