Authors: Bobbie Cole
True to his word, he brought up another topic, circling back to what he’d previously asked. “Do you think you might help me?”
Easy enough—she was obligated as an officer to help. “I’ll do what I can. What would be best would be for you to speak with someone at the police department or find a good private investigator and give them all the information you can.”
He pulled a small notebook and pen from his jacket and began to scribble until ink appeared. “Do you know of anyone I could call?”
When she didn’t readily answer, he looked up. She knew her face must’ve drained of color. He was a lefty, a southpaw, just like Seth, and he curved his hand the same way around the pen that Seth did.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Charlie cleared her throat and finally found her voice. “Nothing. I was just thinking.”
He gave her a direct look. “You were being a cop. What did I do or say that triggered that look? C’mon, tell me.” Then he followed her gaze to his hand with the pen in it. “Was Seth left-handed?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean anything either. Lots of folks are—”
“What do you mean ‘anything either’? There’s something else?” he pressed her.
Charlie leaned back. “Damn, you don’t miss much, do you?”
At that moment, Jason walked up to the table, leaned over and hugged Charlie. “Hey, girl.”
“Hey, Jason.” Charlie made introductions, glad of her friend’s intrusion. It gave her time to assess Mason more carefully while he and Jason spoke. His plastic surgeon had to have been a wizard with a scalpel, because she couldn’t see so much as one hair’s width scar anywhere on his face, neck or the strong column of throat that was exposed in the V beneath his Adam’s apple where his Oxford shirt buttoned.
She felt her lips part as she looked at the smooth, hairless chest, what little of it she could see. Her throat felt dry, parched, as she recalled the nights she’d spent lying against Seth, running her tongue along his collarbone and into the small V, much like Mason’s.
Jason only stayed a few seconds, but Charlie could tell he was checking out her companion, looking for anything that might reveal Seth.
After he left, Mason set down the pen. “Did you and I come here often?”
“Quite a bit, considering we didn’t know one another that well. That is, if you are Seth Taggart. We don’t know that you are.”
He nodded. “And the hostess who seated me, and the owner…they’re friends of yours, I take it. Did they know Seth?”
“How do you know they’re friends of mine?” she asked, turning the tables.
He shrugged. “Maybe I dated a cop and some of her quirkiness rubbed off on me.”
Charlie couldn’t help but smile. So he wasn’t backing down or giving up. Good. The man was growing on her.
“Maybe you were a cop yourself,” she said.
He scoffed. “Doubt it.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
He splayed his fingers expressively. “Just makes sense. Because if I was an officer of the law, there would be fingerprints, a driver’s license, some form of public record unless I lived in a hotel, considering I’d have to live somewhere, and they pull a credit file for things like that, have for some time.” He paused. “I think.”
Charlie sat up straighter as a thought hit her. “What do you know about police work?”
“I have no idea. That just popped out as we were talking. Surely, if I’d been in the same line of work as you, though, I’d have mentioned it once you told me your job.”
“Unless you were I.A.,” she said.
“Internal Affairs? Why would I be checking up on you?”
He’s doing it again. Another chill swept over her. For someone who didn’t know much about himself, he had an uncanny ability to drift in and out of law enforcement jargon with ease, and he certainly had a ready answer, a comeback that thrust the questions back upon her, giving him the opportunity to avoid answering something himself. Just like Seth, now that she thought of it.
“You said something I haven’t tried.” She indicated his water glass, still full. “When you’re finished with that, why not let me run your fingerprints though AFIS?”
“Sure.” He took one sip and then another. “Just don’t let them refill the glass. No matter who or what I am, I’m sure my body has limits on how much it can hold.”
She fished in her purse. “No need.” She brought out tape and a plastic bag and secured the prints she wanted.
Mason cleared the table, making room for his plate when their food arrived. Charlie did the same. She glanced back toward the table where the two men had been watching them and frowned. They were still staring, but they both lowered their eyes again and went back to talking as soon as they saw that she noticed them.
“What, or who, are you looking at?” Mason asked, turning in his seat.
Charlie was about to say something when she saw his face, the way he scrutinized the two men. Just as a cop would have done, his eyes covering middle then top then bottom and back to their midsections, where most men carried their guns, somewhere strapped to their upper thighs or around the chest, if not within an inside a pocket.
“Maybe we’re on to something,” she admitted.
“You’ve aroused my curiosity again,” he told her. “Why do you say that?”
She told him, following with another thought. “Let’s check. Work with me?”
“Sure.”
She leaned forward and quietly asked, “What are they wearing, and what are their ages?”
His gaze never wavered. He seemed not to flinch or even consider turning around for another look. It was if he channeled someone or went into a clear-minded trance as he spoke. “Stouter man is about five-eleven, weight of two-ten, balding head, nondescript brown jacket that doesn’t go with the black shoes. I’d say he’s in his mid-forties, as is his buddy.”
He took a quick breath. “The guy facing us sits about two inches higher, so he’s taller or has a taller torso. Same shoes, blue shirt with a small diamond pattern and dark jacket.” He perked up. “The shoes—both pair look like standard uniform fare, like for someone not undercover. Right?”
Charlie grinned, unable to contain her excitement. “You’re either someone with a military background, you’re involved in law enforcement or you’re an interior decorator. Whichever, you have good powers of observation.”
He smiled back. “Nothing to bank on, but I’ll take it. Thanks.” He took another long drink from his water glass and set it down. “Crap.”
“What?” She stiffened, expecting something she wouldn’t like to hear.
He held out his hands, palms up. “I forgot. I burned my hands and fingertips somewhat in that wreck. Will it matter much?”
She sighed. “Won’t know until we get back to the station.”
“How long do you think it’ll take to run the prints on this?”
“Matter of hours if we catch my friend Carla on duty.”
“Then let’s eat quickly,” he suggested. “And no staring at me to see if I do this or that like Seth would have done. I’m self-conscious enough.”
Charlie bit her lip to keep from smiling again. She realized she’d been concerned about being the one under scrutiny, never thinking of her companion’s worries. She’d entered the restaurant wondering how she’d handle his neediness but hadn’t considered her own emotional state. Now she was drawn into a situation she hadn’t bargained for, one of giving a damn about him if he wasn’t Seth.
I don’t,
she told herself. Then honesty kicked her.
Well, maybe a little.
He insisted on paying for her meal once they’d finished eating, telling her he was a man of means, and while he did so, with a gold credit card she recognized but figured she’d never own, she scoured the restaurant for the two men. To her surprise—and then again, not, considering how they’d stared—they were leaving, closing in on them.
She touched his arm and whispered. “Don’t go to your own car. Come with me, but hurry.”
After he collected his card and receipt, she led him through the kitchen, out the back entrance. He seemed to sense the urgency and didn’t ask questions, merely followed closely on her heels. When they got to the rear entrance where supplies were delivered, she led him around to her own car and motioned for him to get inside.
Once there, she asked where he’d parked then slowly pulled around to within a few yards of the expensive sedan.
“Who’s that beside the car?” she asked.
“Hector, my driver.” At her surprised look, he added, “I told you—I have money.”
“Guess so.”
“Why all the secrecy?” he asked. “You’ve already pulled my fingerprints with the tape you had in your bag. I’ve told you I’d let you swab my mouth at the station—but I’ll need to tell Hector so he can follow us.”
“Hector will have to do with a phone call. Just wait.”
Sure enough, the two men got into a car and waited, and they seemed to be watching the sedan, waiting for someone to get inside and for it to pull out.
“I think you’re being followed,” she said.
Mason’s shoulders squared and his face hardened. He asked her to point them out. “The men from the restaurant?”
“Yep. Any idea who they are?”
“If I’d noticed what they were wearing and didn’t comment on their faces, then, no. But now I’m wondering why they’re watching me.”
“Maybe you’re a spy,” she joked halfheartedly, praying to God she wouldn’t find herself shackled to him like some moll to a gangster or a bimbo to James Bond.
She fished out her cell phone and punched a number. When Heather answered, Charlie asked her, “Are you still smoking?”
“What?” Heather shrieked. The pause on the other end of the line was brief. “You know Jason told me to quit when we started a family.”
“Heather, I don’t care, I just need to know. Please—it’s important.”
“Damn, Charlie,” Heather huffed. “If you wanted a smoke, why didn’t you say something while you were here? Where are you now?”
“I’m in the parking lot, and I need you to take a smoke break. Go out the south door, light up and walk around to your left. Hurry.”
Heather grumbled, but Charlie could hear the rustle in the background.
“This is a new pack, and if Jason catches me, my ass is grass—and so is yours if he chews me out,” Heather told her.
Pretty soon Charlie saw her exit the building and look around. “Go to your right, honey, I’m sorry, not your left. See that gray Lexus across the drive?”
“Yeah.”
“Walk over there like you’re talking to me.”
“I am talking to you, dumbass.”
Charlie couldn’t repress the grin. “Thanks. I owe you one.”
“I am in clear view of Jason’s office, Charlie. He’s going to catch me.”
“Well, tell him I asked a favor and that you had to bum a cigarette from a customer. He’ll understand.” Charlie watched the two men in the car closely. “Walk around to their west side and act like you’ve spotted someone you know. Wave.”
“To you?”
“No! Like you see someone you know just beyond that Lexus where those men can’t see who you’re flagging down.”
Heather groaned. “With a phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other, I’m to wave? Do I say anything, shout, do more than just look like an idiot saying hello to an empty parking lot across the street?”
Charlie could tell that Mason was amused, but thankfully he wasn’t the talkative sort. “Heather, you’re doing great. Those men are following us—rather they’re following Se—Mason. I need you to use your camera on the phone and take a shot of their car tag, whatever you can get me. Just keep talking and walking around, smoking, and acting like you’re on a break from work.”
“Crap.” Heather walked where Charlie had directed. “I’m hanging up now so I can take the photos.”
“Great. Send them to my personal email address, not my work.”
Her friend seemed to have forgotten she was to be covert. Heather looked in Charlie’s direction, frowning, and for a moment Charlie was afraid the two men would spot her and follow her gaze.
Charlie pulled out slowly and told Mason to hunker down in his seat. She ignored the two men and Heather, acting as if she hadn’t seen them, and whipped around a corner and into the main flow of traffic onto a nearby street.
Whoever they were, they wouldn’t be following a car they weren’t concerned about and didn’t recognize.
“Interesting,” was all her companion said.
Charlie took it as a compliment. “Ten years, most of it working cold cases, but my father was a cop. It’s in the blood to be suspicious.”
Mason knew without being told that once they were at the station, he wouldn’t be allowed past certain checkpoints. He asked if there might be a book with photos of missing persons to see if he recognized himself, though, and Charlie told him sure. Then she asked if he’d care to browse information or photos concerning the accident in Mexico if she could pull them up on the computer.
It was what he’d prayed for.
He acquiesced to a sample of his DNA as well as the fingerprints then settled into a comfortable chair in a remote corner of an unoccupied interrogation room with a stack of books while he waited on Charlie to come back with whatever she could find.
He figured it’d take several hours, not mere minutes before she returned, and he planned on delving into grisly photos and a mixture of Spanish and English reports, but she was back quickly, and the look on her face told him the news wasn’t good.
“Am I a mass murderer or an interior decorator?” he asked, half-joking but with a fist of dread punching his stomach.
“Maybe worse if my hunch is right. It means we probably won’t be able to trace you,” she replied, sitting across from him at the table. “Carla had almost an immediate hit on your fingerprints in AFIS, but the DNA, of course, will take much longer. We’ll have to come back for that, but I already suspect what it’ll tell us.”
Anxiety shredded him. “What? Who am I?”
“We still don’t know. One lead after another came up with the same response in one form or another—file closed, unable to obtain. We figure you’re a Fed.”
The news shocked him, seemingly more so than it had her, because her face was pale but not alarmed. Either the pert little blonde before him was a good cop with a poker face, which he highly suspected, or she didn’t give a damn, which somehow he doubted. “How about the name?” he asked. “Anything associated with those fingerprints?”