Deceived (Private Justice Book #3): A Novel (13 page)

Heart tripping into double-time, she dived for it, praying Kate wouldn’t return until she’d deposited it safely back on the desk. The last thing she needed was to have the counselor think she’d been snooping.

Although she managed to grab it before it hit the floor, a photograph of a child slid halfway out.

A child who looked a lot like Todd.

File in hand, Diane stared at the half image. Then, with a glance toward the door, she flipped the file open so she could see the whole thing.

Definitely Todd.

What in the world was Kate Marshall doing with a picture of Greg’s little boy?

Voices spoke in the hall, close to the office door, and she pushed the photo back into the file, dropped it on the desk, and dashed back to her chair.

Five seconds later, Kate entered with two ceramic mugs. “Would you like sugar or cream?”

“No, thank you.” She took the mug, wrapping her hands around it to warm her cold fingers as she tried to make sense of what she’d just seen.

Failed.

Nor could she ask about the boy without revealing that she’d been prowling around Kate’s office.

Fifteen minutes later, when Kate stood to signal the end of
their meeting, she had no recollection of drinking her tea—though the mug was empty—nor what the two of them had talked about since the New Start director had returned.

“Diane . . . is everything okay? You got very quiet toward the end.” Kate took the mug from her fingers, concern softening her features.

No. Things weren’t okay. This puzzle was driving her crazy.

“Yes.” She stood too. “I just . . . got distracted. I have a lot on my mind.” Like what the connection could possibly be between Greg and Todd and Kate.

“All right. I’ll walk you out, and Nancy can set up a convenient time for next week.”

“No!” The vehement refusal was out before Diane could stop it, and at Kate’s startled reaction she softened her tone. “I’ll get back to you after I look at my schedule. And I can find my way out. Thank you again for seeing me today.”

Without giving Kate a chance to respond, she took off down the hall.

At the entrance to the New Start suite, she paused long enough to glance back. Kate was watching her from the doorway of her office, mug still in hand, her expression suggesting she was puzzled—and troubled.

That made two of them.

And until she had a chance to decide what—if anything—she was going to do about her disturbing discovery, she didn’t intend to come back.

“Are you working late?”

Connor angled away from his computer, toward Nikki. “Yeah. You leaving?”

“Unless you need to me to stay and keep digging for info on Greg Sanders.”

“No. You sent me plenty of stuff to look through, and I’ve got a bunch of other leads to follow up on. Enjoy your weekend.”

“I will. Don’t stay too late. Remember, all work and no play . . .”

“Got it.”

“As if you ever listen.” She rolled her eyes. “There’s more to life than work, you know.”

With an effort, he kept his expression neutral. No one at Phoenix knew that was a sensitive subject for him—nor would they. His private business would stay private. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that. See you Monday.”

Pushing aside the unpleasant memories Nikki had stirred up, he refocused on the task at hand—until Cal stuck his head in the office door twenty minutes later.

“Burning the midnight oil?”

What was this, a conspiracy?

Once more he swiveled toward the door. “It’s only five-thirty. And who are you to talk? I don’t see you rushing out, either.”

Cal strolled in and sat in the chair across from his desk. “Moira’s got a meeting with a source for an investigative piece she’s developing. We’ll be eating a late dinner. Very late.” He did a slow survey of the littered mahogany expanse in front of him. “Given the disreputable state of your usually pristine desk, I’m guessing you had a busy afternoon. Find anything interesting on Mr. Sanders?”

“Interesting would be an appropriate word.” He rolled his chair closer to the desk. “You want the skinny?”

“Or the fat. I’m in no hurry.”

“Bear in mind, I’m just getting started. It took a while to piece together his social security number, but once we had that, we got all the basics through our favorite proprietary databases and information brokers.” He tugged a sheet of paper from a
folder. “Sanders was born in Cleveland and lived there his whole life—until three years ago.”

Cal lifted an eyebrow. “Significant number.”

“No kidding. He has a high school education and spent his career in the construction industry until five years ago, at which point there’s a break in employment. Three years ago—the magic number again—he moved to Philipsburg, Montana.”

“Doesn’t sound like a bustling municipality.”

“More like the middle of nowhere. Population is under a thousand—almost more elk than people, and that’s not much of an exaggeration. And based on his Montana P.O. box address, my guess is he didn’t even live in town.”

“Perfect place to disappear.”

“You have a suspicious mind.”

“Inquiring. Your man have any run-ins with the law?”

“Nope. He’s clean, as far as I can see.”

“Married?”

“Was. His wife, Jennifer, died almost six years ago. Nikki dug up the notice in the local paper. No cause of death was noted, but donations to the American Cancer Society were requested in lieu of flowers. The write-up also mentioned she left a husband and a son named David.”

Cal frowned. “How old is your client’s son?”

“He’d be almost seven now.”

“If Sanders’s wife was battling cancer, it’s not likely she had a child in the last year or two of her life. So assuming the kid your client saw is Sanders’s actual son, he should be at least nine or ten.”

“I thought the same thing. Except some kids look young for their age.”

“Maybe.” Cal crossed an ankle over his knee and laced his fingers over his stomach. “So when did Sanders show up in St. Louis?”

“March. He’s back in construction again.”

“What did he do in Montana?”

“An excellent question. It’s on my list.”

Cal stood and stretched. “Why do I think you’re going to be putting in some long hours this weekend?”

“Because you know me too well?”

“Because you hate unsolved puzzles almost as much as I do. In your shoes, I’d be doing the same thing.” He strolled over to the door. Turned. “If you need me to pitch in, call.”

“Thanks, but you’ve put in plenty of hours this week already prepping for the security gig. Enjoy your time with Moira.”

“Count on it.” Without further delay, he disappeared down the hall. A few moments later, the back door opened, then clicked shut.

He was alone—as he would be for the rest of this Friday night and the empty weekend stretching ahead.

But perhaps his solitary status might change once he wrapped up this case and could think about elevating Kate’s position in his life from client to date to . . . something more down the road.

Meaning he needed to focus on the case—and outline a course of action.

Connor picked up a pen and made a quick list of questions he needed answered. Some he could take care of through information brokers or public records. Others were going to require ear-to-the-phone and feet-on-the-pavement work—plus a fair amount of pretexting.

But it would have to be done carefully. Tipping off Sanders that PIs were on his trail could sabotage the investigation.

For tonight, he’d see what else he could turn up on the Net about Greg Sanders.

A discouraging half hour later, Kate’s number flashed in the digital display on his phone.

A perfect way to end his day.

After returning his greeting, she got straight to business—and
it was clear from the frustration in her voice that
she
wasn’t smiling. “I wasn’t sure I’d catch you before you left, but I wanted to let you know I’ve been trying to fax this police report ever since I got home twenty minutes ago. I know we couldn’t live without our electronic gadgets, but thanks to days like this, for me it’s a love-hate relationship. As long as you’re still there, would you like me to drop it off? I’m not that far away.”

He angled his wrist. Six-ten. Dinnertime, as the rumble in his stomach reminded him. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No. I started trying to fax this as soon as I got in the door.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and have dinner? I can swing by on my way home and pick it up. I’ll be leaving soon, and a small detour your direction won’t take that long.” Besides, it would give him a chance to spend a few minutes in her company—an appealing fringe benefit.

“You probably haven’t eaten yet, either.”

“No.”

“Well . . .” Pause. “There’s a great Chinese takeout place down the street from my condo. It’s my typical end-of-the-week dinner treat.” Another pause. When she continued, her words came out in a rush. “If you’d like to share some Mongolian beef or sweet-and-sour chicken, I’d be happy to order extra as a thank-you for making a special trip tonight—and for all the effort you’ve put into this case so far.”

She was inviting him to share her dinner?

Nice—even if he couldn’t accept.

Could he?

While he wrestled with that dilemma, his mouth began spewing out words. “That would be great. Better than eating alone, especially considering the dire state of my fridge and freezer. But why don’t you let me pick up the food on my way to your house?”

So much for his stoic, hands-off professionalism.

“No. I want this to be my treat. What time do you think you’ll get here?”

As soon as possible?

Uh-uh. Better to sound a bit less anxious.

“How does six-forty-five sound?”

“Fine. I’ll see you then.”

They ended the call, and Connor leaned back, shaking his head. How did Kate consistently manage to short-circuit the left side of his brain? He should have refused her invitation. A handoff of the police report would have taken no more than thirty seconds and was far more prudent than spending an hour or two in her company.

Yet hard as he tried, he couldn’t muster up one iota of regret.

This was going to be the best Friday night he’d spent in a very long while.

Swinging back to his computer, he tried to focus on one of the links Nikki had sent him as the numbers on the digital clock atop his credenza advanced with the speed of molasses. But he finally gave up and shut down. He was tired and hungry and preoccupied—thanks to a beautiful blonde with amazing green eyes—and he could miss some important piece of information if he continued. Tomorrow, he’d start fresh.

In the meantime, he’d enjoy tonight.

After retrieving his jacket, he flipped off the lights and headed toward the back door to set the security alarm, developing his strategy for the evening as he closed up shop for the night. He’d stick to business as much as possible, perhaps take a cursory look at the police report, ask a few questions. That would put a professional spin on the dinner. Other than that, he’d keep the conversation simple, light, and impersonal.

He’d also keep his distance.

And if he adhered to those rules, what could possibly go wrong?

Y
ou must have eaten a big lunch.”

At Connor’s comment, Kate inventoried her plate. She’d put no more than a dent in the small portion of sweet-and-sour chicken she’d taken, and half of her Mongolian beef stared back at her.

Her lack of appetite had nothing to do with her lunch, however. The blame for that went to the man sitting an arm’s length away in her dining room, eating a meal she should never have invited him to share. But somehow, her heart had bypassed her brain when he’d offered to swing by and pick up the police report. Pathetic, how she’d grabbed at the chance to avoid another long, lonely Friday night.

And definitely not wise. Neither of them needed any distractions in the middle of this case—and Connor Sullivan was one serious distraction. No wonder she’d spent the fifteen minutes since he’d arrived lamenting her lapse in judgment instead of eating.

“You know, I’m not bad at piecing together evidence like this”—he tapped the edge of her filled plate with a long, lean finger—“but I’ve never mastered mind reading. Was my hypothesis correct?”

Hypothesis? She tried to regroup. He’d commented on . . . her lunch. Right.

“No, not a big lunch.” No lunch at all, in fact, since she hadn’t found a spare minute to eat the chicken Caesar salad she’d toted home and stuck in her fridge. “I guess I’m just slower than you are—but the end result’s the same.” She forked a piece of beef, slid it between her teeth, and chewed, as if to prove her point.

The slight tapering of his eyes told her he wasn’t buying her story—but to her relief, he dropped the subject.

“As long as you’re still working through the first round, would you mind if I have second helpings? So you won’t have to eat alone, of course.” He gave her an engaging grin, displaying that appealing dimple.

The silence lengthened, and when she realized she was staring, she yanked her gaze away and gestured to the cardboard cartons on the table. “Help yourself. There’s plenty.”

He did so without further prompting, refilling his plate with two more full servings.

Despite her qualms about this cozy dinner, a smile snuck up on her. “Speaking of lunch . . . you must have eaten on the light side too.”

“You might say that.” He expertly scooped up some chicken and rice with the wooden chopsticks the restaurant had provided. The ones she always tossed because she’d never been able to get the hang of them.

“What?” Without losing a single grain of rice, he froze, food poised in midair.

“I’m admiring your deft handling of those.” She gestured with her fork to the Chinese eating implements.

“On-the-job training from my Secret Service days. In some places I traveled, these were the only utensils provided. It was master them or starve.” The chicken and rice disappeared. “I’ll
let you in on a little secret: when my stomach’s involved, I’m a fast learner.”

Smile broadening, she dug into her own food.

“As for lunch . . . Nikki offered to grab a burger for me at noon, since I was too busy to go out, and I accepted. Big mistake.”

“Why?”

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “She’s been trying for months to get us all to eat healthier. I should have known she’d come back with some new-age bean curd/soy/wheat germ/tofu thing that looked like a hamburger, smelled like a hamburger—but most definitely did not taste like a hamburger. I think it even had garbanzo beans in it.” Grimacing, he shook his head. “To add insult to injury, the side was zucchini fries . . . which weren’t even fried.” He scooped up more sweet-and-sour chicken. “Now this is real food.”

Laughing, she tackled her own chicken. “Your receptionist seems to march—and eat and dress—to the beat of her own drummer.”

“She does—but we couldn’t live without her. She has a degree in computer forensics, and she can mine more stuff out of online databases than the three of us put together.”

She stared at him. Were they talking about the same woman? The beach babe with the seashell necklace and the punk-rocker neon-blue streak in her hair?

“Your skepticism is showing.” Connor sent her a teasing look. “But trust me, she’s the real deal.” As he secured a piece of beef with his chopsticks, his demeanor grew more serious. “You’ve heard the expression, if life hands you a lemon, make lemonade? Nikki’s the lemonade queen.”

Intrigued, Kate leaned closer. “How so?”

“She ran away from an abusive home at fifteen and lived on the street—a safer environment than being in the same house
with her parents, which tells you a lot. Most kids like her wind up dead, addicted to drugs, or in prostitution rings. She was the exception.”

“Why?”

“She crossed paths with a minister who not only helped her find her way to God but convinced her she could overcome her background. With his encouragement, she got her GED, then a full-time job, then applied for college. She worked all day, went to school at night, and kept waiting for the chance to rescue her kid brother from the family she’d escaped. In the end, she got her degree, got custody of Danny, and got the job at Phoenix. She married last year and just shared the news that she’s expecting her first child.”

“Wow.” Kate finished the last bite of her chicken and set her fork down. “That’s an amazing—and inspiring—story.”

“Yeah. She’s quite a woman. She and her husband coordinate the youth group at their church, and from what I hear, the teens love her. She speaks their language—filtered through faith—which makes her a perfect person to reach kids that age with important messages.”

Kate rested her elbow on the table and propped her chin in her palm. “It just goes to show you should never judge by appearances.”

“That happens a lot with my colleague Dev too. He tends to be a goof-off in the office and when he’s not on duty, so few people who meet him casually would ever guess that when the pressure’s on, he’s a total pro—cool under fire, focused, deadly serious. Or that in his undercover ATF days, he went over to the dark side to infiltrate a ruthless Hispanic gang in the Southwest that dealt in drugs, gun trafficking, intimidation, and extortion.”

“Double wow.” Kate set her napkin on the table beside her empty plate—when had that happened?—and leaned back. “Is your other partner an intriguing mix too?”

Connor gathered up the last of his beef. “Nope. Cal is Cal. Steady. Calm. Reasoned. Serious. The kind of guy who does his homework and covers your back, no matter the risk to his.”

“In other words, what you see is what you get.”

“That about sums him up.”

She picked up a stray grain of rice from the glass surface of her dinette table and scrubbed at the smear left behind. He’d been candid about his colleagues—would he be the same about himself?

Only one way to find out.

“So what about you?” She deposited the rice on her plate and took a sip of water. “Are you what you seem?”

For a fraction of a second, his hand hesitated as he scooped up more rice. If she hadn’t been watching closely, she’d have missed the infinitesimal pause.

And it wasn’t a positive sign.

Nor did the sudden undercurrent of tension vibrating in the room produce a warm and fuzzy feeling.

Bad move on her part.

As he chewed his last bite, taking far longer than necessary, she tried to figure out how to backtrack, to restore the easy camaraderie that had developed during their dinner.

But he responded before she could come up with a diplomatic way to change the subject. “Depends on what you see, I guess.”

She toyed with her fork. Was he looking for honesty—or a lighthearted comeback? Hard to tell.

Yet how could he take offense at a compliment?

She gave him a steady look. “I see a conscientious, honorable man who knows his job and is willing to do whatever it takes to get that job done. Who has a clear understanding of duty and responsibility. Who’s worthy of trust and confidence.”

“You read the Secret Service motto on my desk.”

“Guilty. And I have a feeling it’s true both on the job—and off.”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I appreciate the kind words, even if they’re not 100 percent accurate.” Before she had a chance to reply, he stood. “Could you point me to the bathroom? The soy sauce left me with sticky fingers.”

“Sure. First door on the left.” She gestured toward the hall, tucked under the steps that led to the two bedrooms on the second floor.

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

She watched him disappear. A few seconds later, a door clicked closed.

The symbolism wasn’t lost on her. Nor the message.

Connor might be willing to talk about his colleagues, but his own life was off-limits. When he returned, he was going to change the subject, bring their impromptu dinner to a conclusion, and leave without clarifying his last comment.

And it needed clarifying.

Because based on the brief, sudden shaft of pain that had seared his eyes, his rebuttal of her praise hadn’t been a standard-issue, modesty-prompted dismissal. She’d seen that look often in her counseling work. Unless her instincts were way off base, something had happened in Connor Sullivan’s life that he wasn’t proud of.

Sighing, Kate stacked their plates. It appeared she wasn’t the only one involved in this case who was carrying around a lot of baggage. Even people like Connor, who presented a strong, in-control face to the world, had their scars—and their regrets.

But he didn’t strike her as the type of man who shared them.

And she doubted he’d make an exception for her.

He should have realized where the conversation was heading and steered it in a different direction. Or responded with a witty comeback to Kate’s are-you-what-you-seem-to-be question.

Instead, he’d given her an opening to pursue the subject. And pursue it she had.

Connor twisted the faucet and plunged his hands under the cold stream. Too bad her flattering assessment of him was flawed. He might have lived up to the Secret Service motto on the job, as she’d suggested—but in his personal life? Different story.

The very reason Lisa had walked away.

He shut off the water and dried his hands, the faint echo of a familiar heaviness settling in his chest. The ache of loss had dulled through the years, and he’d moved on, but the regrets—and shame—lingered.

Perhaps they always would.

Hand on the knob, he considered his strategy. He didn’t want the evening to end on a strained note, not after he’d worked so hard to get Kate to relax once he’d realized he wasn’t the only one having second thoughts about their dinner together.

On the other hand, it was possible he was overreacting to that awkward moment. His abrupt change of subject might barely have registered with his hostess. By the time he returned, she could be clearing the table and putting coffee on, the brief glitch in an otherwise pleasant evening forgotten. By her, at least.

Time to test that theory.

Leaving the guest bath behind, he retraced his steps down the hall to the dining area.

The table was empty, save for a couple of cellophane-wrapped fortune cookies and a folder. She was at the sink, rinsing off the plates. Coffee was brewing.

So far, so good.

He moved to the arched doorway that led into the kitchen. “You work fast.”

She turned at his comment, an artificial smile pasted on her face, her shoulders taut.

Not so good.

She’d tuned in to his uneasiness after all. And why not? She was a counselor. A woman who dealt with problem-plagued people every day. Who was used to spotting issues and talking clients through them.

She was also a woman who’d dealt with plenty of her own trauma. Enough to recognize it in others, even without her training and professional experience.

“I put on some coffee if you’re interested. And I left a copy of the police report on the table. I didn’t know if you wanted to look through it here or just take it with you.”

Take it with him and exit fast, if he was smart.

But his smarts seemed to have deserted him tonight.

Instead of doing the prudent thing, he walked over to the table and picked up the folder, weighing it in his hand. Not very thick for a report on two deaths. It wouldn’t take long to read. But that was a job for later. He wanted total focus for that task—and he wasn’t likely to achieve that with Kate a few feet away.

Yet he didn’t want to leave.

Just
do it, Sullivan. Get out of here.

Taking a deep breath, he turned back to her. She was leaning against the sink, arms folded, watching him.

“I’ll give this a thorough review over the weekend. Thanks for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.” She reached behind her and gripped the edge of the counter. “Look . . . before you go, I want to apologize. I have a feeling I stirred up some painful memories for you a few minutes ago, and I know how hard it is to be reminded of things you’d rather forget.”

Connor’s fingers tightened on the folder. She’d confronted the elephant in the room—and why not? This was the same woman who’d shared her story about Valium addiction, risked censure in the name of open, honest communication. The lady didn’t back away from the hard stuff. She had guts.