Fake I.D. Wife

by Patricia Rosemoor

  “I’ll do it somehow,” she murmured to herself.

  “I’m sure you will. You seem to do whatever you set your mind to. Escaping from a correctional facility couldn’t have been easy, even if you got yourself out of the general population and into one of the cottages.”

  “It took planning,” she said, as they left the expressway and made their way east toward the lake. “And luck.”

  “Getting shot was lucky?”

  “They think I’m dead, don’t they? I have the bad weather to thank for that. IDOC couldn’t even search until it cleared, and then they assumed my body was taken somewhere downstream, maybe into the Mississippi, where they couldn’t find it.”

  She’d read every newspaper article about the search that she could get her hands on.

  “What did happen?”

  “I washed up on a sandbar.” Elise remembered pain thrusting her from the warmth of unconsciousness to cold reality and dawn—the first gray light of day, wet with drizzle. “I hurt like hell and could hardly move one arm, but thankfully, the bleeding had stopped.”

  “So you what? Swam from the sandbar to the other bank?”

  She shook her head. “Not with that current. All along the river, the flood had taken pieces of people’s lives, including furniture. A child’s dresser floated by and I grabbed onto it. It was white with gilt trim—I wonder what happened to the child it belonged to.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, the current took me downriver faster than I could get across. I thought I would never get to the other bank, but a mental image of Eric kept me going.”

  And then, once she’d hit land, a whirring sound had filled the air—a helicopter had been buzzing the river, its occupants looking for her, she knew. Elise shivered, remembering how she’d thought it was all over then. And how she’d found strength in imagining holding Eric to her breast, feeling his little arms around her neck. She’d forced herself up an incline and hadn’t stopped until she’d reached a road sheltered by trees and bushes.

  “Amazing that you were able to make it,” Logan said, “wounded and all.”

  “When I was a kid, I hurt myself worse on a playground, then walked the mile home afterward.”

  As he turned onto Sheridan Road, she felt her pulse jag. It wouldn’t be long now.

  “Still,” he said, “you spent enough time in a flooded river with who knows what floating around. The wound could have gotten infected.”

  “Luck. An old man found me passed out on his property and got me to his house, where he took care of me. He’d been a medic in the army in Korea and had a lot of experience with bullet wounds and broken bones.” Elise self-consciously put a hand to her new nose. “He was kind and he accepted my lies about running away from an abusive husband. He was sort of a hermit, glad for the company, I guess. He never called the authorities, and when I was ready to leave, he drove me to the bus station, gave me enough money to buy a ticket but didn’t ask where I was going.”

  “Nothing stops you. You’re a tough one.”

  “I have to be. For my child. I have to protect him.”

  “From?”

  “Greed, Logan,” she said, as he turned into the driveway and her gaze went straight to Mitchell House and the window to her son’s bedroom. “Pure and simple greed.”

  Wondering again about Logan’s true motive in helping her pull off his charade, Elise decided it didn’t matter. Eric was the important one. Getting him away from a murderer was all she cared about.

  She’d sworn she would make a pact with the devil to get her son to safety. Now it seemed she might have done exactly that.

  LATER, AFTER ELISE had retired for the night, Logan poured himself a drink and strolled out onto the deck that overlooked the lake, the conversation from the car rolling over in his mind. Not the stuff about their cover or even Elise’s escape, but the last of it.

  Her worry over her son.

  Elise had sounded sincere, vulnerable even, when she’d spoken of protecting the boy. And when they’d come inside, she’d chosen a second-floor corner bedroom with both east and north windows, so that perhaps she could catch a glimpse of the child in his room.

  That didn’t mean anything, he reminded himself. Offenders were always “innocent.” So this one loved her son. She still could have murdered the kid’s father. He’d seen too much on the force, too much unbelievable stuff, to accept her word for anything.

  That afternoon, he’d gotten on the computer to look into her story. He’d wanted to refresh his memory on the details. Elise and Brian had fought in public that night. Witnesses had seen him push her.

  Who knew how far he’d pushed her at home before she snapped and drove a letter opener into his heart? An abused woman getting back at her abuser-husband was certainly not unheard of. Not that anyone, including Elise, had made that claim about Brian Mitchell.

  Still, Elise had seemed genuinely worried about her son, as if she really believed he was in danger. She’d said she had to protect him.

  From greed? Rather from someone who was greedy.

  One name immediately sprang to Logan’s mind and parked itself there.

  Kyle Mitchell.

  Not altogether unbelievable, he thought, certain that Mitchell was responsible for his sister Ginny’s death.

  Ginny…

  He closed his eyes and saw his bright, beautiful sister as she’d looked the last time he saw her, when she’d hugged him and told him not to worry so much.

  He hadn’t been able to help himself. Worry had been his middle name where she was concerned, since their mother abandoned them. He’d been nineteen, Ginny sixteen. All they’d had was each other. He’d taken such good care of her that the authorities never had been alerted to remove her and send her to some foster home.

  They’d made their way into adulthood together—he through the police academy, she through journalism school.

  Unfortunately, always looking for love, Ginny had hooked up with the wrong guys, including Ted Fraser, whom she married. But that relationship hadn’t lasted. All she’d gotten from the marriage was the guy’s last name and a renewed determination to make her reputation as an investigative reporter.

  Yeah, she’d hugged Logan and told him not to worry, then had gone and gotten herself killed over the story that she’d been sure was going to “do it” for her.

  A story involving State Senator Kyle Mitchell.

  Chapter Five

  “You look well rested,” Logan commented the next morning, after Elise came downstairs and followed her nose into the big country kitchen with an island workspace, heavy wood cabinets and a floor of saltillo tiles. The smell of breakfast cooking was unmistakable.

  Logan stood at the stove over several old-fashioned iron skillets—bacon in one, chunks of browned potatoes with onion in a second, and a third into which he was pouring scrambled eggs.

  Going for the coffeepot, she said, “That was probably the best sleep I’ve had in…oh, three years.”

  “Because you’re out of jail.”

  “Because I’m here.”

  Because she’d known Eric was nearby. She had stared out the window at Mitchell House, at the window to his bedroom, for nearly an hour before going to bed. And then she’d slept the sleep of the dead.

  And she hadn’t dreamed of Brian….

  Logan glanced at her, and she noted in surprise how relaxed he seemed. He wore soft jeans and a pale blue work shirt, buttons undone halfway down his chest, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Surprisingly, his feet were bare. Considering the tailored suits or jackets and trousers and the dressy shirts he normally wore, she hadn’t thought of him as a casual person.

  “You seem to be at home in the kitchen.”

  “I plead self-defense. I have to eat and I like to eat well.”

  “Most guys would just go to the local hamburger or pizza joint.”

  “Like I said, I like to eat well.”

  Elise laughed. “Then, don’t ask me to cook. I was never much good at it.” />
  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Logan was grinning at her and Elise was feeling a little breathless. This was the first comfortable moment she’d spent in his company and it felt good. Maybe too good. She didn’t want to be attracted to him. Didn’t want any sense of attachment here. If the opportunity presented itself to her tomorrow, she would be gone. She didn’t want any regrets slowing her down.

  Besides, she hadn’t yet put her late husband to rest in her head. She didn’t know why, she just couldn’t.

  But it wouldn’t hurt to have peace in this house while she was preparing to leave.

  To that end, she asked, “What can I do to help?”

  “I’ve got it under control. Enjoy your coffee.” He scraped the cooking egg back from the edges of the skillet. “It’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.”

  A chirping sound made Logan reach into his jeans pocket. He pulled out a cell phone and flipped it open.

  “Logan here.” He listened for a minute, said, “Okay,” then held it out to her. “For you.”

  Thinking Gideon must want to speak to her, Elise took the phone from him and wandered toward the breakfast nook facing the lake. “Hello?”

  “How would you like to do some power shopping to add to your wardrobe?” Cass asked.

  “Sure, but how can we pull that off?” Elise knew Cass was nearly as broke as she.

  “Gideon wants things to go well, and I mentioned to him that you needed to dress the part.”

  “Really.” Gideon again. Why did he keep putting himself out for someone he didn’t know? “I can’t argue with that logic.” Or with the unexpected offer of assistance.

  “I was hoping you couldn’t.”

  A ding made her glance at Logan. He opened a toaster-oven and pulled a fresh piece of toast onto a plate.

  Cass gave her the name and address of a consignment store near the Gold Coast, a downtown neighborhood where the wealthy lived, and far enough away from the North Shore that Elise figured she would be safe. No chance of running into neighbors off-loading name-brand clothing they no longer wanted. They agreed to meet in the late afternoon, after which they would eat together and then go directly to work.

  By the time she hung up, Logan had emptied the contents of the skillets onto a big platter.

  “I’ll take that,” she said, exchanging the platter for the cell phone, then picking up the toast, as well. “I don’t want you to think I’m completely useless.”

  Logan pointed her toward the dining nook overlooking the lake. The cozy table for two was already set with old china and silver flatware. Henrietta had scoffed at using plainer fare, Elise remembered. The old woman had maintained it was ridiculous to own fine things if you didn’t use them.

  Elise set the platter and smaller plate in the middle of the table and slid into a chair. Following with two glasses of orange juice and fresh coffee, Logan joined her.

  “Don’t be shy,” he said. “Dig in.”

  Hungry, Elise filled her plate.

  And yet, seated in the intimate space with Logan, she couldn’t deny her discomfort. It felt so…intimate. Almost as if they were a couple. But she wasn’t part of a couple anymore. She had to remember that.

  After taking a couple of bites, she asked, “So, why security?”

  “Why not?”

  “I mean, have you been doing it long? How did you start? Were you a bouncer in college or something?”

  “Not exactly. And no college. Well, I did go to college,” he amended, “but didn’t stay long enough to graduate. Security was a natural choice.”

  Natural choice—because he’d been a cop as she had guessed?

  She wanted to ask, to get details, to find out why he hadn’t finished school—any conversation to break the aura of intimacy. But Logan’s expression had closed and she sensed a tension between them that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. Just as quickly, the uncomfortable sense of intimacy faded.

  They were simply two strangers joined in a common short-term goal. Or was it common? Elise purposely put her questions about his motivation aside. She didn’t care why, she told herself. She only cared about getting Eric away from the Mitchells.

  “Food’s good,” she said. “This’ll last me until dinner.” Which, luckily, she could eat for free at the club.

  “So you’re going to be gone all day.”

  “Not all day. I’m going to take a run, reacquaint myself with the neighborhood.”

  “I’ll keep you company.”

  Company? Or was it that he wanted to keep an eye on her?

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” she said, now a bit tense herself. “You would just distract me.”

  A smile tugged at his mouth. “Is that right?”

  She blinked at him and sat up straighter. “Don’t get a big head, Logan. I meant that I would probably end up doing more talking than noticing my surroundings.”

  “What is it you think you’re going to find?” His steely gaze challenged her. “Who do you think you’re going to see?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know.”

  And why did she suddenly feel as if he were interrogating her? She’d had enough “first-degree” experience to recognize it. And hate it. Appetite gone, she set down her fork and pushed off from the table.

  “Thanks for breakfast,” she muttered.

  “But you haven’t finished.”

  “Actually, I have.”

  At least, for now. Maybe running would work off some of her nervous energy.

  “I’ll get the dishes when I get back,” she promised, then left before he could object.

  Dressed in the same purple silk jogging outfit she’d worn the day before, Elise turned right out of the driveway so that she could pass Mitchell House. The stark white, quasi-California-style mansion with its red clay tile roof made her a little homesick. Not for the place itself, but for what she’d once had. The life. The happiness. The security of family. All the while, she kept her gaze roaming the building and grounds, hoping in vain for a glimpse of Eric.

  Not much had changed in the three years she’d been incarcerated. The houses along the road looked the same. And the grounds. Maybe a few new bushes and flower beds, but no major changes. She wondered if the occupants had changed. Had anyone moved away? Had anyone else died?

  Or been murdered?

  The road jogged, following the lakeshore and then took a steep plunge. Running down through one of North Bluff’s many ravines, she picked up speed, and coming up the other side, she lost her breath. And so, with a view south, back toward her old home, and a clear shot of the estate, she stopped and stared, taking the time to rest.

  From this angle, she could see the boathouse.

  Boathouse…

  It came to her at that moment—the beginnings of her escape plan. Rather than leaving town by bus or train or plane, she would take one of the boats. Brian had always been a boater. Even when they’d lived in the city, they’d rented boats for weekend excursions. She’d quickly learned to be comfortable on the water, and as soon as they’d taken over the estate, she’d learned everything about both of the Mitchell crafts. The thirty-six-footer even had sleeping quarters and a galley in addition to the head.

  She looked past the haze-shrouded old steel mills in South Chicago to a distant spot on the horizon. She and Brian had spent time in various places on the lake. Kenosha and Milwaukee, Wisconsin, to the north, Michigan City, Indiana and Union Pier, Michigan to the south and east of Chicago. Wisconsin was closest and easiest, so she would go the other way.

  From there, anywhere was possible. Even Canada.

  An important part of the plan settled, Elise nearly danced her way back.

  Hot and sweaty, she tore off her jacket as she raced into the drive, automatically checking the yard next door.

  Spotting the woman wearing gardening gloves, a half-filled basket over one arm, shears in her other hand, Elise stumbled and caught herself before she went down to her knees. Diane was taking cutt
ings from the extensive rose garden, which was now in full bloom.

  From her rose garden!

  Elise had taken pride in cultivating those rosebushes. And now Diane was pillaging them, just as she’d pillaged everything else that had once belonged to Elise.

  Diane looked up and zeroed in on her immediately. “Good morning. Out for a run, I see.”

  Her eyes were racing over Elise’s jogging outfit.

  Elise clenched her jaw and moved closer to the hedge separating the properties. She could practically see the dollar signs light up in Diane’s pale blue eyes as she assessed the outfit for its designer status, undoubtedly estimating what Elise might have paid for it.

  Making certain she used the softer, slightly southern accent Cass had coaxed from her, Elise smiled and said, “I’m just getting acquainted with the neighborhood.” She held her manicured hand out over the bushes. “Nicole Hudson.”

  Diane whipped her right hand out of her gardening glove. “Diane Mitchell.”

  Her touch was light, an imitation of a real handshake.

  But then, Diane had always liked to think of herself as delicate. Shorter than either Elise or Carol, she was slender, without real curves, and her dainty features were framed by sleek, chin-length black hair that, when she was younger, made her look like an urchin. Now she simply appeared to be a woman who was trying to keep herself from looking her age.

  “It’s nice to see someone younger move in next door,” Diane said. “I’m sure you’ll have lots of exciting new ideas for the old place.”

  Knowing Diane had disliked Miss Henrietta with her fussy, old-fashioned ways, Elise said, “I kind of like the house the way it is.”

  “Really. Well, if you change your mind, let me know. I have good people who work for me and would be glad to refer them.”

  Elise said, “How very kind of you,” doing her best to sound like a genteel southern woman.

  What had Diane done to the inside of Mitchell House? Had she merely redecorated or had she okayed major renovations to rid herself of all memory of her sister-in-law…and of the man she, Diane, had murdered?