Agent Bride (14 page)

There were thirteen cars in the parking lot. Once Cal shut off the car, she sat very quietly in her seat.

Cal stared at her, concern on his handsome face. “Maybe we should just forget this. You just had that memory of Mia and you’re probably still a little shook. We’re probably not going to get anything here anyway,” Cal said.

“I’ve been here before.”

“Really?” he said. “Just when I thought you couldn’t surprise me anymore,” he said.

“I have been in this parking lot. Sitting. Waiting.”

“For who?”

She closed her eyes. “I don’t know.” She put her hand on the door. “Now I’m really glad we came. Maybe G got those matches from me.”

“I guess that’s a possibility. Do you think you might have come here with him?”

She shook her head. “I came here with someone. We were eating chicken fingers in the car.” She turned to him. “Chicken fingers. How is it that I can remember something like that and I don’t know who I was with?”

“I have no idea. Ready to go inside?”

She opened her car door in response. When she got close, she could see that Raftors was a small store, probably not bigger than twenty feet wide by thirty feet deep. When they opened the door, a bell tinkled. There was a woman behind the counter who looked up.

Even though it was spelled differently, Raftors might have gotten its name from the fact that there was merchandise all the way up to the rafters. Bras, bustiers, corsets and panties. Every color. Many materials. Even fur.

When they got to the counter, she saw that there was a glass bowl of matchbooks. She glanced at Cal. He shrugged.

The woman behind the counter was frowning at her. “I told you I’d call if Jessica came back into work. She hasn’t. That’s why I didn’t call,” the woman finished, her tone acidic.

She was so surprised that she was literally speechless. But that was okay because the woman wasn’t done.

“I run a legitimate business here. And whatever Jessica has done, she did it on her own time. Not through me and not through this store.”

She decided it was one of those times to go for broke. She looked at the woman’s name tag. “Marcy, I’m sorry to bother you. I was in an accident a few days ago. So, you have me at a slight disadvantage. You remember me but I don’t remember you. I don’t remember ever being in this store.”

Marcy rested her crossed arms on her ample stomach. “So you’ve got...brain damage?”

She hoped not. “Temporary amnesia,” she said. “Can you tell me who Jessica is?”

Marcy looked at Cal. “Who is he?”

“A friend who helped me after the accident. Jessica?”

“Jessica worked here, up until about two weeks ago. You came in here about a week ago asking for her. I told you the truth. She quit without notice and I didn’t expect to see her. She never even came in to pick up her last check. You asked me if I would call you if she came back in. I said I would.”

“Why did I want to talk to Jessica?”

The woman shook her head. “I ain’t never had a conversation like this before. You said she was your sister and that you hadn’t seen her for some time.”

“Thank you. Ah...one last question, I promise. Did I tell you my name?”

“Yeah. You said it was Jean.”

She looked at Cal to see if he had any other questions. He shook his head. She smiled at the woman. “Again, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

They were three feet from the door when Marcy called out, “I hope you get your memory back. That has to be really weird.”

“Really weird,” she repeated when they were back in the car. “I’ll tell you what’s really weird. I don’t have a sister named Jessica. I know that. Mia was my sister. My only sister. Yet, for some reason, I’m trying to find some woman, claiming that she’s my sister.” She slammed her hand against the dash. “I told that woman my name was Jean. My name isn’t Jean. That’s another lie. I know it.”

“I don’t know what I expected,” Cal said, “but it wasn’t that. I think you did the right thing by telling her the truth. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have gotten anything out of her.”

“I got something but it doesn’t make any sense.”

“It will,” he said. “Let’s go to Moldaire.”

Chapter Sixteen

The college library was one of the formidable stone buildings on the square. Now the open green space in front of it was no longer snow-covered but rather snow-spotted. In many places, patches of grass were visible. It was almost forty-five degrees outside and the remaining snow was melting fast.

There were many more students walking around with lots of the female students wearing colorful rain boots so that they could stomp through the slush.

Her tennis shoes had gotten really wet walking across campus.

“I...”

“What?” Cal asked.

She had started to tell him about the tennis shoes, about having one more memory. But he was already skittish about them being on campus. She didn’t want to give him a reason to demand that they get the heck out of there.

But this was Cal. She trusted him.

“Stormy?” he prodded.

“I...I just know we’re going to find something,” she said. She’d already told him that Moldaire felt familiar. She didn’t need to tell him about walking across the campus in tennis shoes.

He studied her. But then he focused on parking the SUV.

They walked into the library. There were two people behind the circulation desk who didn’t even look up as they passed. There was a big sign with arrows that directed library patrons to various sections.

To the right of the big sign was a bank of computers. “Let’s try the computer first, just in case,” he said.

He sat down at one, followed the directions to log in as a library guest and typed in
Steve Wagner plane crash
. Nothing came up. He typed in
Misty Wagner
. Nothing. She started to look around for someone to ask for assistance. Cal kept typing, trying search terms. Finally, he got it with
Stephen Wagoner
.

She had been mostly right, even though the name was just a little different. Stephen Wagoner had been a big enough deal that the
Wall Street Journal
had covered the story. They followed the link and started reading the three-paragraph story.

When Cal finished, he looked at her. She was rereading the portion about the others who’d died in the crash. Mia Akina.

“That’s her,” she said.

Cal put his hands on the keyboard. “Ready?” he whispered.

She nodded.

He typed
Mia Akina obituary
into the search field.

In three more clicks, she was transported back twenty-five years and learning that Mia was dead. The pain ripped through her and she must have made some sound because Cal’s arm went around her back.

“Steady,” he said, his mouth close to her ear.

She drew in a deep breath. At almost the very end of the relatively short obituary was the information she’d been searching for.
Mia Akina is survived by her parents, Rafal and Jacinta Akina, and her seven-year-old sister, Nalana Akina.

“Nalana,” he said.

If she had been expecting an epiphany of sorts upon learning her name, she would have been bitterly disappointed. She felt no different.

“I guess,” she said. Although when Cal had pronounced it with the accent on the second syllable and a soft
a
, it had seemed right. “I knew it wasn’t Jean.”

She read the remaining paragraph.
Rafal and Jacinta Akina, both sports journalists residing in Los Angeles, were in New York covering the US Open at the time of the plane crash.

“Sports journalists. That explains a lot,” Cal said.

“I’m not sure it matters,” she said, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

“Of course it matters,” he said. “Every piece of information is a piece of you. It leads us to something else. Now we can easily find out where you live and where you work, Stormy. I mean, Nalana.”

“For right now, let’s just stick to Stormy. I’m getting used to it.” She looked at her watch. “In less than twelve hours, it’s going to be Saturday. We need to figure out why that’s important.”

“We—”

A blaring alarm drowned out anything else he might have said. Library users pushed back chairs, gathered books and started toward the entrance. “Fire,” she said.

“Let’s get out of here,” Cal said. He did a couple fast clicks to clear the browser history and then he shut down the computer. Then it was a fast but casual walk out the front entrance. People were milling outside the building, as if they anticipated it was simply an irritating drill rather than a full-blown emergency.

She didn’t smell any smoke or see any fire so she assumed they might be right. Two campus police cars pulled up, sirens adding to the noise level. Two officers got out of each, two women, two men. As one of the men brushed past her, he gave her a look and might have stumbled just a little but then he kept on walking.

She and Cal got into their SUV. “Did you see that?” she asked. The brief interaction with the campus police officer had shaken her more than she’d expected.

“Uh-huh,” Cal said. “I’m trying to decide if it was just a double take to look at a pretty woman or if it meant something. Is it possible that your concern about the police is because of some interaction with the campus police?”

“It’s possible,” she agreed. “What do you think we should do?”

“Maybe he recognized you because he’s seen you around campus. No big deal. But if he recognized you because of some association with the Mercedes Men, then it’s going to be relatively easy for them to look at the security camera tapes and realize that the two of us are together. That means G will no longer buy the story that I’m a crazy veteran chasing bad guys in the woods. The house won’t be safe.”

“I don’t want to go back,” she said. “I don’t want anything bad to happen in that house. It’s going to be Chase’s home. Nobody needs those kinds of memories. Plus, we need to be here. I can feel it. Something is going to happen. We need to be close to try to stop it.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here, at least,” he said. “No sense making it easy for them. Where to?”

“We need to go back to The Blue Mango.”

“Call them first. See if they are open.” He tossed her his phone. He pulled out of the parking space and started driving.

She dialed. When the phone was answered on the second ring, she almost dropped it. “I was just calling to see if you were open,” she said.

“Yes. Until ten tonight.”

“Thank you,” she said and ended the call. She turned to Cal. “Let’s go.”

* * *

I
T
WAS
SIGNIFICANTLY
more difficult to find a parking spot than it had been the day before. The Blue Mango was evidently a popular restaurant.

Cal finally found a spot a block away and they walked. He walked nearest to the street, keeping Stormy closer to the buildings. That provided some protection, although there could always be someone lurking in a doorway, ready to attack.

Danger could come from anywhere and for some reason, perhaps it was Stormy’s certainty that something bad was going to happen on Saturday, he was running at full alert. The idea of something harming Stormy was eating at him, making his normal confidence feel shallow and cracked at the edges. He was this close to ignoring her insistence that the police couldn’t be trusted. He wanted her protected.

He’d been trained by the best of Uncle Sam’s navy to always consider all the possibilities. That meant that he couldn’t ignore the possibility that Stormy was afraid of the police because she’d done something bad. Maybe at this very moment the police were hunting her. Was that why the campus cop had done a double take? Was her picture circulating because she was wanted?

What the hell would he do?

He knew the answer to that one.

Whatever it took to keep her safe. He had money saved. He could afford to hire a good attorney.

For now, he’d honor her wishes to stay away from the police. He could not take the risk that she’d be taken into custody and never forgive him for the betrayal.

When they got close, he motioned to Stormy to let him enter first. It wasn’t gentlemanly but it was prudent.

The interior of The Blue Mango was filled with dark wood, black-and-white tiles and soft lighting. There were big plants in the entryway and a young man stood beside a high table that had two stacks of large, leather-bound menus.

Cal took a quick inventory. Bar off to his right. Oval. Stools on three sides. Sixteen seats. Two lone males, drinking beer. Male bartender. Four other patrons, split into two tables of two. Three empty tables.

Restaurant to his right, booths alongside the far wall, tables in the center, waitstaff station along the back wall. There was a family of four at one of the tables, and he could see the tops of heads in two booths. None of them had the jet-black hair that Golya sported.

“Two for dinner?” the young man asked. He had given Stormy a quick glance, the kind of look a guy gives an attractive woman, but Cal didn’t see any flicker of recognition in his eyes.

Stormy stepped forward. “Yes. Could we have a table in the bar?”

“Of course,” the young man said, reaching for two menus. He led them to one of the open tables.

When he left, Cal leaned forward. “Anything?” he asked.

Stormy nodded. “Maybe. It seemed very familiar when we walked in.” She opened her menu. “Let’s order,” she said. “Maybe it will come to me.”

Cal got a steak, Stormy got the salmon in a lemon butter sauce with capers. Both got baked potatoes and clam chowder to start. Neither one of them ordered a drink, choosing to stick with water instead.

They were halfway through their food when the bartender, on his way back to the bar with a tray of clean glasses, passed by their table.

“Hey, how’s it going?” he said, looking at Stormy. “Nice to see you again.”

Stormy smiled and the bartender kept walking. When he was behind the bar, Stormy leaned forward.

“He knows me.”

Her voice was filled with hope and Cal was reminded of how frustrated she must be to be living in a void, not having the comfort of a past, an identity.

“Seems so,” he said, cutting a piece of his steak with perhaps a little more force than necessary. The bartender was probably midtwenties and a good-looking guy. The idea that Stormy may have sat at the bar and flirted with him was not a happy thought.

“I think we’re going to have an after-dinner drink at the bar,” she said.

For the next five minutes, she pushed her salmon around on her plate. When the waiter came by, she gratefully gave it up. He offered dessert and they declined. Cal asked for the check and paid in cash once the waiter brought it.

“I think I should go to the bar alone,” she said.

Like hell. “Why?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re...imposing. And I don’t think that’s going to encourage him to talk to me.”

Tough. “What happened to the stepbrother story? That’s what you told everybody else.”

She shook her head.

He didn’t like it. Not one bit. But she was probably right. She might be more successful in getting information if he wasn’t there. He remembered his promise to never ask her to hide in the closet again. Damn.

He studied the windows, the angles. He pulled a twenty out of his pocket and slid it across the table. “Sit at the end stool. Order a drink. Keep it on your left side, far enough that I can see it from behind you. If at any time things start to go south, move it to your right side. I’ll be there in thirty seconds.”

She picked up the money. “Got it,” she said. She stood up. He thought she was going to walk away without another word. Instead, she leaned forward and brushed a kiss across his cheek.

It might have been a familial good-night kiss that a woman reserved for a favorite stepbrother. But her lips were warm, her breath sweet and lemony, and she lingered just a moment too long. It was a kiss of reassurance, a kiss of promises. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Cal walked out of the restaurant thinking that Stormy could probably ask him to stand naked in the middle of the street and flag down buses and he’d do it. He crossed the street and stood under the awning of a dry-cleaning store that was closed. Through the far window, he could see into the bar. Could see the back of Stormy as she sat on the last stool.

Could see the bartender approach and smile.

He congratulated himself on not reaching for his gun.

* * *

S
HE
SLID
ONTO
the stool. She picked up the bar menu, flipped to the Cordials and Liquors tab and scanned the possibilities. None of them looked particularly appealing.

The bartender was busy filling an order for one of the servers. She left with a tray of wineglasses and two margaritas. “Thanks, Joe,” she said.

The bartender gave one of the men at the bar another beer. Then he headed toward her, a smile on his face.

She had to take the chance. “How’s it going, Joe?”

“Good,” he said. “I thought maybe your consulting assignment had ended,” he said, “when I didn’t see you and Tim here on Monday night. I know how he loves the oysters.”

Who the heck was Tim? “We got busy,” she said. “Just couldn’t fit it in.”

“That’s good. Megan,” he said, tossing his head in the direction of the server who was taking drinks in the bar area, “thought that you might have thrown us aside in favor of Strawbridge Bay. She’d heard Tim talking about the food there.”

“We like it here better,” she said.

“Well, you were probably wise not to come in. It was crazy here. We had all our frozen drinks at half price. I blew up two blenders.” He put a napkin in front of her. “Want your usual, Jean?”

Jean.
Again, the mysterious Jean. Sure, she’d take Jean’s usual. She was going to have to start writing down her names to keep track of all of them. “Absolutely,” she said, smiling. She pushed the twenty in his direction.

He took it and came back with a Bailey’s on the rocks and nine dollars of change. He set the glass in front of her and she casually moved it to the left, beyond her body. Then she picked up the five, leaving the four ones on the counter. “Tim and I are working different hours right now and haven’t seen much of each other. He hasn’t been in?”