Without a Trace

by Catherine Anderson

  Giorgio Santini waited until he heard the front door shut, then he sprang from the chair and hurried through the gallery. As he stepped into the foyer, a man came forward out of the shadows and followed Giorgio to the door of his office, watching him closely. In three strides, Giorgio ar­rived at his desk and reached across it to punch the inter­com button. Static crackled.

  "Yeah, Mr. Santini?"

  "Tail him," Giorgio barked. "And don't let him see you. Lose him and you're fired."

  "I'm already gone."

  Circling the desk, Giorgio grabbed the phone and jabbed out a number. One ring, two. On the third, a deep voice an­swered with a brisk "Yes?" Giorgio licked his lips, dragged in a raspy breath and said, "It was Gino, no question about it. I've got a tail on him. Now what?"

  "We follow him and we wait. Relax, old friend. Angelo will come out of the woodwork, you'll see. And he will col­lect what's due him, right?"

  "Right."

  Giorgio dropped the receiver back into its cradle and sank onto the desk chair, gazing at the portrait of his mother that stood next to his paperweight. Moisture glistened in his eyes and a tremor twisted his mouth.

  "So blood is thicker than water?" The man who had fol­lowed Giorgio now sauntered into the room, flashing an in­solent grin. "I hope you didn't mean that, boss. It could mean big trouble."

  "There is no question of my loyalty. I am doing all that can be expected, no?"

  "Yeah, but your heart's not in it. I heard you whispering something to that Smith fellow. Not a warning, was it?"

  "Did he act as if I'd warned him? Use your head, Pascal. I knew you could hear my every word. Would I be so stu­pid? If I were going to betray our employer, I wouldn't do it when there was a witness, would I?"

  "Only if you thought you could get away with it. Angelo's your brother. You must feel something for him."

  "I feel nothing. It has been too many years."

  Not caring if his employee watched him, Giorgio lifted a shaky hand and turned the picture of his mother facedown. The die had been cast long ago. He had to do what he had to do, but he couldn't go through with it if he looked at his sweet mamma's face.

  Chapter Six

  It seemed to be Michael's day for meeting uncles, first adoptive, now biological. As his cab swept through the remote-controlled gates to the St. John estate in Lake For­est, he peeled two antacid tablets off the roll and popped them into his mouth, scarcely tasting the minty chalk as he chewed and swallowed them.

  Five Doberman pinschers circled the taxi, their white teeth flashing like sabers as they snarled and barked. Michael peered through the trees at the elegant North Shore man­sion and wondered if he was visiting a residence or a minimum-security prison. A six-foot brick wall hemmed the grounds. Nobody could get in the gate without admittance and nobody would dare try to leave without permission, not with those dogs running loose.

  As the cab drew up in front of the house, Michael saw a tall, dark-haired man step off the porch onto the brick walkway. Michael's initial relief turned to distaste the mo­ment his gaze touched on the man's clothes. He was dressed from head to foot in black, a color that invariably made Michael feel as if he might suffocate if he didn't keep a firm rein on his emotions. The man yelled something that brought the Dobermans to heel. Then he bent to stroke their sleek heads, eyeing the cab with suspicious brown eyes. Michael could see he bore a marked resemblance to the man, not just in body build but in his features. The Santinis weren't the only family that had large noses.

  He tucked the teddy-bear box under his left arm and climbed out of the car, keeping a watchful eye on the dogs. "Hello, Mr. St. John? Michael Smith. I have an appoint­ment?"

  St. John's gaze slid to the cabbie. "Tell the driver to wait, please. I don't think this should take long."

  So that was how the wind blew. Well, Sarah had warned him. Michael asked the cabdriver to wait and then threaded his way through the milling dogs to follow St. John into the house. His host strode across the lofty foyer to a doorway beneath a curving stairway, leaving Michael to shut the front door after himself. St. John paused to look back over his shoulder, then opened the door and disappeared into the room beyond.

  Arrogant ass, Michael thought. Tipping his head back, he looked up three stories to a vaulted ceiling with the most gorgeous chandelier he'd ever seen hanging from its apex. Open French doors to his right revealed an expansive room with an elaborate marble fireplace and intricate fixtures of brass. The affluence surprised him. He had never envi­sioned either of his parents as coming from wealthy fami­lies.

  Marcus St. John poked his head around the door. "Do you mind, Mr. Smith? This isn't my only appointment of the day."

  Crossing the gleaming floor, Michael pushed the thick walnut door open with his palm and stepped into a library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves of leather-bound books flanked an­other marble fireplace to his right. An impressive mahog­any desk graced a window alcove ahead of him. It was a charming room, tastefully opulent, with an air of old money.

  "Shall we get this over with?" St. John settled himself in the chair behind his desk like a general preparing to discuss war strategy. Placing both elbows on the desktop, he steepled his fingers, pressing his fingertips against his pursed lips. Michael sat down across from him and put the box he carried down on the floor. "You are a client of—" St. John shuffled through the pages of a notepad "—ah, yes— Roots?—run by a woman named Sarah Montague?"

  "That's correct."

  "And she's given you reason to believe you're my nephew?"

  "She traced my adoptive parents to Chicago. The infant they adopted was born to a girl named Eleanora Pierce and a boy named Adam St. John."

  Marcus lifted a dubious eyebrow, then sighed. "Don't misunderstand me, Mr. Smith. I would be overjoyed to dis­cover my brother had a son."

  Michael leaned forward. "Look at me. Are you denying the family resemblance? That alone should make you won­der."

  "It's true, you do resemble me. But I could stand on any corner in Chicago and count fifty other men with your col­oring, build and features in the space of an hour, perhaps less."

  "Adam St. John was named as my father."

  "By Nora Pierce?" St. John smiled. "How do I put this delicately? The Pierce girl had a questionable reputation. Perhaps she did name my brother as your father, but the truth is, the sire could have been one of any number of boys."

  Michael's face felt stiff from the effort it took to keep his expression carefully blank. "I see."

  St. John's shrewd brown eyes clouded and softened. "No, I'm afraid you don't. I'm handling this poorly. Heaven knows, if you're truly Adam's son, why I—" He lifted his hands in supplication. "I'd kill the fatted calf, welcoming you into the family. I'm not denying you, Mr. Smith—far from it. Nor do I mean to offend you. I'm simply stating facts. Adam and I were very close. He never once intimated that he had a son."

  It was Michael's turn to smile. "I hope you don't think I came here to be welcomed into the family. It's obvious you have money, but that's inconsequential to me. I'm a suc­cessful psychiatrist with my own practice. I merely want to know who my parents were, what my background is, that's all."

  "At the same time, you can appreciate my concern?" St. John waved his hand, indicating the palatial home that sur­rounded them. "You're not the first person to claim kin­ship. I've even had alleged illegitimate children of my own knocking on the door. And yours isn't the first convincing story. I can only say that I wish I'd had as much fun in my youth as the string of illegitimate children I supposedly left behind would indicate." He cleared his throat. "Forgive me, that was an insensitive—"

  "I'm not at all offended, Mr. St. John. I grew up in a loving home with wonderful parents. And as I said, money isn't the issue here. It matters very little to me what my par­ents' circumstances were. I just want to know who they were. I came here to learn about my father; what he looked like, what he was like as a person, how it came about that I was given up for adoption.
You understand?"

  "Yes, I think I do. If I were in your position, I'd feel the same."

  Michael leaned over to lift the lid from the box near his feet. Watching St. John's face for a reaction, he pulled out the bear. "Do you happen to recognize this?"

  St. John fastened puzzled eyes on the stuffed toy. "No, should I?"

  Michael grinned and returned the toy to its box. "No, I really didn't expect you to, but I wanted to be certain."

  "I assume it's a toy from your childhood?"

  "Something like that."

  St. John glanced at his watch. "What exactly is the pur­pose of this visit?"

  "I was hoping you might give me information about my past." As briefly as he could, Michael recounted his dream. "Is there any light you can shed on such a memory?"

  "I'm afraid not. If you are my brother's child, you were never acknowledged. Eleanora Pierce must have given you up for adoption at birth. Any memories you have would stem from your adoptive relatives."

  Michael sighed. "It would seem my trip has been for nothing."

  St. John rose from his chair, extending his hand to Michael. "I appreciate the distance you've traveled, but I have another meeting I must attend. If it's any comfort, you're one young man I wouldn't mind claiming as a nephew, should things turn out that way. But I must have documented proof, notarized so I'm assured my copies are authentic. And even then, I must question Nora's word re­garding the sire of her child. Perhaps there are blood tests that can be run?"

  Michael gave him a firm handshake, liking him far more now than he had at first. "Perhaps. I haven't checked into that sort of thing as yet. But it's certainly a consideration."

  St. John came out from behind his desk, leading the way from the room. "It's one I hope you pursue. As I said, nothing could make me happier than to discover I had a nephew. My son, Tim, would be elated. He's an only child, and there are no cousins. Please, get back in touch soon. I'll be looking forward to hearing from you."

  "I'll do that. I think I can find my own way out as long as the dogs don't mind."

  "Ah, yes, the dogs. Beautiful animals, aren't they? Un­fortunately I'm afraid they're rather unruly without a word from me." He led the way to the door, opening it and step­ping aside to allow Michael to exit. The Dobermans came up off the porch simultaneously, lips curling to reveal sharp white teeth. "Guten tag, Mr. Smith."

  The moment St. John spoke, the dogs backed off to let Michael pass. He strode directly to the cab. "Good day to you as well, Mr. St. John. I'll be in touch."

  Michael slid into the back seat of the car, throwing an anxious look at the taxi meter. He punctuated a low curse by slamming the door. "Back to the hotel, please. I need to make plane reservations."

  "Oh, yeah? Where ya off to?"

  "Oregon."

  Michael stared out the window at the blur of passing trees, his mind conjuring pictures of blood on yellow tile, of a man's hand stretching toward a cowering child. He had been so hopeful he'd learn something from Santini or St. John. He'd even been entertaining thoughts of a future with Sarah once he had his past settled. Now the burning excite­ment he had felt over this trip had turned to ashes. Unless he learned the truth, he'd never banish the nightmare from his life.

  With an economy of movement, Sarah unlocked her front door, stepped into the foyer and put her grocery bags on the hall table, emptying her arms just in time to catch Moses who came rushing at her in a flying leap. Twenty pounds of plump fur hit her square in the chest, setting her back a step. Her shoulder blades connected with the door, slamming it shut. She winced, then giggled and buried her nose in her tomcat's ruff, avoiding the wet push of his ea­ger nose as he tried to kiss her hello. It felt so good to be home. After her paranoia last night and this morning, a good dose of Moses was just what she needed to get her head straight. She hugged the cat tight, absorbing his warmth.

  "Hi, Mosey. I'm far too sore for this kind of exuber­ance, you know."

  "Rrrow?"

  "Dinner? Moses, I'm scarcely in the door."

  "Rrrow?" The cat rammed his nose in her ear and let loose with a rumbling purr. When that didn't serve to make her move, he nipped her earlobe with sharp teeth. "Rrrow?"

  "All right already, one dinner coming up. But don't blame me when the vet puts you on a diet." She tossed her pet onto the carpet, turned to lock the door and scooped the grocery bags back into her arms. "And no ankle rubbing. You'll trip me. One more bruise and I'll be a candidate for body art without paint."

  Walking left through the den and into the kitchen, she unloaded the groceries onto the counter, then opened a tin of tuna packed in spring water. Emptying the fish into Moses's bowl, she gave it a quick turn in the microwave and then set it before the feline, smiling at the satisfied rumbles coming from his chest as he began eating.

  The telephone rang as she turned back to sort through the collection of food to look for something for her own din­ner. She leaned sideways to snag the receiver and greet her caller.

  "Hello, Sarah."

  She immediately recognized that smooth-as-honey bari­tone. "Michael, how nice to hear from you."

  There was a long silence at his end. "Is something wrong?"

  "No, nothing." She worried her bottom lip. She'd ruin his impression of her forever if she began ranting like a crazy woman about green cars, hit-and-runs and renegade com­puters. "Where are you? In Eugene?"

  "No, but I'm flying out in the morning."

  An inexplicable wave of relief rushed over her. "How has your trip gone? Productively, I hope."

  "It's a long story. As soon as I get back there tomorrow, I'm driving down to Ashland."

  "To see your father?"

  "Yes. How's it going on your end?"

  "Oh, not too badly. A few equipment problems, nothing serious. I plan to put out more feelers on your folks in California tomorrow afternoon."

  "You didn't sound like yourself when you answered. Am I interrupting something?"

  "Nothing important. Just throwing supper at my room­mate. He started complaining for dinner the minute I got home."

  Another very long silence. "Your roommate?"

  The thinly veiled animosity that laced his voice was un­mistakable. "Didn't I ever mention the man in my life? I'll introduce you sometime. Just don't wear black. He sheds." She leaned against the counter and winced when the formica pressed into a sore spot.

  "I never wear black, remember. What do you mean he sheds?"

  "Sheds, as in hair rubbing off on your slacks." Stifling a giggle, she added, "He's a cat. His name is Moses. You do like cats, don't you?"

  "I, uh, yes, of course, cats are okay." He laughed, then cleared his throat. "Cats are fantastic. You had me going there a minute. I thought you—" He broke off and heaved a sigh. "Listen, the reason I called was to ask you to dinner the evening after next. I thought it might be a good time to share notes and update each other."

  She wished he wanted to see her for some other reason. "Dinner sounds great. Is seven too late?"

  "Not at all. I'll stay tomorrow night in Ashland and leave after lunch the next day. I'll pick you up at your place if that's okay. Your address is in the phone book." He hesi­tated a moment. "Well, until then?"

  "Yes, until then. Goodbye." A sudden jolt of anxiety ran through her. "Uh, Michael?" She stared at Moses's twitching tail, trying to think how she might phrase this without sounding foolish. "Um...be careful, won't you?"

  "Are you sure you're all right?"

  "Yes—yes, I'm fine. Just take care. There are muggers in Chicago, you know."

  "After the cab fares I've been paying, I'd make a very poor hit, believe me." He chuckled. "You take care, too, okay? Arrivederci."

  After hanging up the phone, she hurried putting away the groceries, then strode purposefully toward the bedroom, unbuttoning her blouse. As she stepped over to her bed, she kicked off her high-heeled shoes and undressed. Ah. Clothes were sheer torture with all the bruises.

  Grabbing her robe
off a closet hook, she slipped it on and walked across the room, leaning a shoulder against the sliding glass door to gaze out at her small deck. The sur­rounding six-foot hedge provided solitude she treasured. The whiskey-barrel waterfalls she had built last summer gurgled softly, as a spray of frothy water cascaded into an ivy-enrobed goldfish pond. Resting her forehead against the glass, Sarah watched the mesmerizing movement of water, letting it relax her.

  Several seconds passed before her skin began to prickle. She shifted and scanned the hedge. It was silly, but... She stiffened and reached for the door lever to make sure it was locked. Was that a man peering at her through the foliage? She focused on the spot. The hedge swayed slightly, possi­bly from the breeze. Or was it from someone moving? The man's face had disappeared. If it had even been there. She stepped away from the window, reaching for the traverse- rod cord to close the drapes. Why would anyone be lurking in her hedge to spy on her?

  Her hand trembled as she nudged the curtain aside to peek out at the deck. Nothing. She had probably imagined that she saw someone. It wasn't even dark yet. No Peeping Tom in his right mind would stand on the sidewalk of a cul-de-sac at dusk and peer through a single woman's hedge. He'd be seen by neighbors and end up with the cops breathing down his neck.

  Even so, she felt uneasy. Before taking her shower, she systematically checked every door and window in the house to be sure they were locked, chiding herself the entire time for being ridiculous. Then, as she stood under the jet spray of her shower, she remembered the charming little bath­room scene in the movie Psycho. She made short work of bathing and swathed herself in her towel before creeping to her bedroom door to peer down the hall. Anyone out there? Moses came around the corner from the living room, arch­ing his back against the wall to rub. His lazy rrrow reas­sured her. The cat didn't take well to strangers. If anyone were in the house, he'd be ruffled and slitty eyed. She raked her hair back from her eyes and laughed at herself.