Stalked (7 page)

Tony had scribbled a note that Margaret Gray had died ten years ago at the age of seventy-nine, and Tony had said that he thought Peter had gone to live with the grandmother in Florida. What had happened to him after? Lucy quickly learned that Pilar's maiden name was Gray, so Margaret was Peter McMahon's maternal grandmother. Further checking confirmed the information.

There was nothing on Peter McMahon that she could find in New Jersey or Florida.

Seven years ago, after Lucy's all-too-public ordeal, she'd considered changing her name. But more than exposure, she feared losing her sense of identity. She could have easily slipped into a made-up life in an effort to forget who she was and what had happened. But changing her name would have been a Band-Aid, and she would never forget what had happened.

Over the years, she'd encountered many victims who had opted to clean the slate with a new identity. Sometimes it was merely changing their first name or going back to their maiden name after an abusive relationship. What if the parents or grandmother wanted to give Peter a clean slate? To help him forget what had happened?

She shivered and didn't know why. Except—a child of nine would always remember. She would never forget her nephew Justin. They'd been together nearly every day for years, because her mother babysat him while his mother worked. He and Lucy were more like twins than nephew and aunt. If Peter's family wanted to suppress memories of his sister, in their effort to help or purge their own demons and grief, they may have changed his name. Maybe that's why Tony could find nothing on him today.

Lucy put all the notes aside and downloaded a copy of Rosemary Weber's
Sex, Lies, and Family Secrets,
the book about the McMahon family and the tragedy that befell them. While Tony's notes were good, Lucy needed more info about the case. She didn't know if she could trust Weber's writing on the matter, but if she doubted something, she could ask Tony.

All this was a mere Band-Aid, Lucy thought as she picked up her cell phone and called Sean. A book, published when Peter was fourteen and living in Florida with his grandmother, wouldn't tell Lucy where he was or what he was doing today.

Sean answered, panic in his voice. “What's wrong?”

“Why would you think something's wrong?”

“Calls in the middle of the night are never good news.”

Lucy glanced at her clock. One forty-five. “I am so sorry, Sean. I didn't realize it was so late.”

“So you weren't dreaming of me and just had to call and hear my voice?” he said with mock offense.

She smiled. “It's always nice to hear your voice.”

“It would be better in person.”

“I'm calling for another favor.”

“You know, I'm going to start keeping a tally. All these favors are going to add up, and I'm going to cash them in for a real vacation.”

“Real vacation? Maybe it would be safer for us to vacation at home.” They'd tried to go away together several times, and each one had ended in murder.

“Superstitious?”

“Of course not.”

“Just leave it to me. Tell me what you need.”

She quickly explained why she was looking for Peter McMahon, and the loose connection to the Rosemary Weber homicide. “Can you find out—legally—if Peter McMahon changed his name?”

“As an adult, easy. As a child? Possibly. Depends on the circumstances. If I can cut a couple corners, I can definitely get you the information.”

“Let's try this legally, okay?”

“You're the boss.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

Sean laughed, and Lucy shut down her computer. It
was
late and she had to be up in four hours.

“I'm going to bed,” Lucy said.

Sean sighed. “Wish I were there, princess.”

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ten Years Ago

Two weeks after my fourteenth birthday, Grams went into the hospital after coughing up blood. The doctor said she had pneumonia and needed to stay, and asked if I had any family. I told them my parents were dead and Grams was all I had. I think the nurses felt sorry for me, because they let me stay with her.

I think
I
felt sorry for me, because I blamed Grams for getting sick. “I need you,” I told her. “You shouldn't have been gardening in the rain.”

Grams loved her garden. I helped her, sometimes, but I think she liked to be alone to pull weeds and turn the soil and plant her flowers. I helped carry pallets of flowers, mowed the lawn, and trimmed the bushes because the shears were too heavy for her. But Grams spent hours every day outside.

It didn't rain a lot in Florida, but whenever it did Grams got sick. Like now. Except now was worse because she was seventy-nine and had been slowly dying ever since Grandpa died when I was five.

I knew she wouldn't live until September, when she'd be eighty. The doctors wouldn't say it, but they didn't tell me she was coming home, either. They said things like “We're doing everything we can” and “She's strong,” and “Give it time.” Never that she was going to die, but never that she'd get better.

It wasn't fair! I needed her.

“Read to me, Peter.” Grams had been in the hospital for three days. I thought she might come home today, but the doctors said no. She looked sick. She'd never
looked
sick until three days ago. Tired, maybe, but not sick.

I picked up book 6 in the
Chronicles of Narnia
series. She'd bought me the books the first Christmas I lived with her, before my sister's killer was put on trial. I read them because there was nothing else I could do—I couldn't sleep more than a couple hours a night, I couldn't go to school without someone talking about Rachel or my parents. Even in Florida, people knew. Especially after that reporter published a book about it. Why would somebody do that? Write a book about Rachel's murder and the bizarre life my parents lived. People whispered when they didn't think I could hear, even the teachers. Grams got rid of her television, so at home I didn't have to remember if I didn't want to.

But I'd never forget Rachel.

Grams's eyesight was poor, and a few months ago she asked me to read my favorite book to her. I don't know if the Narnia stories were my favorites, but I knew Grams would like them. There was one more book after
The Silver Chair,
and I wanted to finish the series for her. Maybe if I read slowly enough, she'd get better.

I read until she slept, and then I cried. I hated her for being sick, and I hated me for being mad at an old woman. I hated God for killing everyone I loved. My insides were black like an unswept chimney. Dark and full of ash. I didn't want to be here or anywhere. I wanted to die when Grams did.

I was too big to curl up with Grams anymore, but I put the side railing down and put my head next to her thin arm. She smelled old and sweet—the sweet from the apricot shampoo she liked.

Rachel walked into Grams's room. I stared at her, because I didn't believe she was there.

I must have fallen asleep, because ghosts aren't real.

“You can't come back,” I told her.

“I know,” she said. She looked at Grams. “She's going to die, Peter.”

“No, she's not.” I sounded nine again.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

I didn't answer. She wasn't real. She wasn't here. She was dead, and I'd never see her again. When Grams died, I would be alone.

“Are you going home?”

“They moved.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“I know.”

Grams, don't die. Please don't die.

I woke up and of course Rachel wasn't there. But Grams was, and she was petting my hair like I was her puppy. I cried again.

“Shh,” she whispered. “You're stronger than you think. Believe in yourself, Peter, like I believe in you.”

“I don't want you to die.” My voice cracked and broke like my heart.

“We don't have a choice when our Father calls us home. Go get the last book. Read it to me, Peter.”

Five days later, an hour after I finished reading
The Last Battle,
Grams died.

 

CHAPTER NINE

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Sean Rogan woke up early Thursday morning and walked eight blocks to the gym with his partner at RCK East, Patrick Kincaid.

“Did you find anything on Laughlin?” Patrick asked.

“So far, he appears clean and I haven't found any connections between him and Lucy or with anyone in your family. But it's taking forever to get what I need.”

Patrick laughed. “You get pissy when you can't break the rules.”

“I don't break the rules.”
Much.
“I bend them.”

Sean usually sent the grunt work for background checks to RCK headquarters in Sacramento—they had more staff than the two-man office he and Patrick ran in D.C. In the digital age, information and how it was obtained changed rapidly. It took time to legally and quietly research anyone, and running a background on a federal agent had to be handled with special care.

In addition, Sean didn't want his brother looking over his shoulder. Duke wouldn't have a problem with a pro bono request from Lucy, but Sean preferred to keep his personal projects personal.

“So what
do
you know?” Patrick asked.

“Laughlin's thirty-nine, from Missouri, been an agent for fourteen years, master's from Northwestern in accounting—who gets a master's in accounting?”

Patrick rolled his eyes. He opened the gym door for Sean and they both swiped their membership cards at the kiosk.

“He's worked on the White Collar Squad in Detroit for the past five years, part of the joint gang task force, where his specialty is money laundering. He's SWAT certified, but not part of the Detroit mobilization team.”

“Sounds like a good guy.”

“On paper.” He was harassing Lucy, and that made him an asshole in Sean's book.

“What does Lucy think she's going to get from this information?”

“I'm not done.” They dropped their bags against the wall and picked up free weights. “She just wants information to help her figure out why he dislikes her.”

“Slight exaggeration?”

“If you'd talked to Lucy, you'd think the same thing. If this guy's harassing her—”

“You'll stay out of it,” Patrick said. “Don't make waves, not now.”

It irritated Sean that Patrick thought he'd jeopardize Lucy's career. “I'm doing what she asked. She can use the information as she sees fit.”

Patrick hadn't been happy when Sean first started dating his sister, but Sean supposed if he had a younger sister he'd be protective as well. Patrick seemed to have adjusted over the last few months, which was a relief, since they'd been friends long before Sean fell in love with Lucy.

Sean continued, “I think she talked to Kate, and whatever happened, Lucy is now more concerned. She didn't give me the details, but there's something weird going on. I trust her instincts.”

“So if Lucy knows his history, she can profile him and adjust the way she interacts.”

Sean nodded. “That's how Lucy would handle it.”

“Maybe it's you he has the problem with,” Patrick teased. “From your old days.”

Any other time, Sean would have laughed—it was common knowledge that he'd been a gifted hacker and now was hired to test Internet security for companies and governments. But he was worried about one crime no one was supposed to know about—yet at least one person did. Five more months and the statute of limitations would be up, and then Sean could breathe easier.

“Didn't know you were so touchy,” Patrick said.

“You might be right, but it might not be me, specifically. Remember how Noah Armstrong hated me because of RCK?”

Patrick glanced at him with mock surprise. “You mean he likes you now?”

Sean glared at Patrick. Special Agent Noah Armstrong wasn't Sean's favorite person. Whether Noah admitted it or not, it was obvious he was infatuated with Lucy, and that irritated Sean. But they had called a truce, and Sean respected Noah. “Regarding Laughlin,” Sean continued, “he could very well have a problem with Lucy because of another Kincaid. No military service, but I can go a little deeper. The sooner I find the connection the better for Lucy. Information is power.”

“Good thing, it keeps our bills paid. If you need my help, let me know.” Patrick waved at an attractive tall and lanky blonde who smiled as she approached them. “I'll see you in a couple of hours.”

“Who's that?”

“Brandy. We're playing racquetball.”

“Brandy
Dale
?”

“Yep.” Patrick had been seeing the daughter of one of their former clients, but Sean hadn't met Brandy yet.

“We should go out this weekend, the four of us.”

Patrick shook his head. “It's not going to last.”

“You know that?”

“Yeah, unfortunately I do. I'll tell you later.” Patrick smiled and met Brandy halfway. He kissed her warmly; then they walked toward the racquetball courts.

Very strange. And it threw a wrench in Sean's life—he'd been counting on Patrick disappearing this weekend so he and Lucy could have some much-needed alone time. But Sean couldn't worry about his partner's love life or this weekend.

Sean finished his basic workout, then ran three miles on the treadmill and considered what Patrick had said about why Laughlin might have an issue with Lucy. By the time he got home an hour later, he had an idea based on the fact that Lucy didn't want to talk to Kate. There must be history between Laughlin and Kate, and it would have to go back to Kate's rookie years in the FBI, long before she'd met the Kincaid family. It was a good place to start.