“I know, Marc. I’ll get her back out here.”
“Tell her the newspaper guy left.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah. I tried to get him to stay, but art shows aren’t exactly a huge draw, even when the paintings are as good as these.”
The opening seemed to be well attended, for which Kinsey was thankful. She’d sent out over a hundred invitations and it looked as if about half had decided to come, packing the narrow, trendy space with well-dressed people sipping wine. Of course, it was a heck of a lot cooler in the gallery than it was outside, so maybe that helped account for some of the attendees.
As she moved through the room, greeting people as she went, she noticed several discreet sold signs. That should make Marc happy.
Once inside the ladies “lounge,” Kinsey found Ellen Rhodes sitting forlornly on a velvet bench, staring at her hands.
“Congratulations, you’re a hit,” Kinsey said with a giant smile.
Ellen looked up with nervous blue eyes. “I can’t do this. I don’t like all these people looking at my work.”
“Isn’t that the point of a show?” Kinsey asked gently.
“I didn’t know it would be like this. So many people...”
“You’ve already sold several paintings,” Kinsey said. “You’re a hit.”
“I just want to go home.”
“Listen, I get it, you’re not into the publicity side of things, you’re not a media hound. But Marc has a lot at stake here. He believes in your work or he wouldn’t have offered you this show. Most artists work for recognition, you know. Buck up, now.”
“You sound like my mother,” Ellen said, but at least there was a little snap in her voice.
“That’s because I’m channeling my own,” Kinsey said. “I’ve heard versions of this speech my whole life.” Like when she’d come home from a school she’d only attended a month to find her mother packing...again. No matter how much Kinsey pleaded to stay in one place, they inevitably moved on. When Mom got it in her head it was time to go, they went. Period.
Until a few years ago, that is. As soon as Kinsey had announced her independence and settled down in New Orleans, her mother had followed suit. She now took care of a sickly elderly man who had once been wealthy but was no longer, and she seemed almost content.
“Is that newspaper guy still out there?”
“No. Marc gave him an interview and he left.” Kinsey’s cell phone rang and she slipped it out of her pocket, answering hesitantly when she didn’t recognize the number. She listened for a minute or so before responding in a soft voice.
“Is everything okay?” Ellen asked as Kinsey pushed the end-call button.
Kinsey dropped her phone into her evening bag. “Huh? Oh, yes. And no.” She made a decision and added, “I’m really sorry, but I have to leave.”
“You can’t,” Ellen squealed.
“I have to. That was the police.”
“The police!”
“They want my help with an accident victim. I have to go to the hospital right away.”
Ellen started to protest, but Kinsey hustled her back into the main gallery and steered her toward Marc, who couldn’t hide the look of relief that flooded his face.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked Ellen.
“I was until Kinsey said she’s leaving.”
Marc’s smile drooped as he turned his attention to Kinsey. “You can’t leave. You just got here.”
“I’m sorry, but the man who was hit earlier this evening is conscious and the police asked me to come see him.”
“Why you?”
“They didn’t say.”
“But you don’t even know him!”
“I know,” Kinsey agreed. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she called as she raced outside, car keys in hand.
A half hour later, she stepped out of the elevator onto the third floor of the hospital. She immediately spotted Detective Woods standing at the end of a short corridor as though waiting for her.
“I can see I took you away from something special,” he said with an appraising glance at her dress. He himself wore the same light blue sports jacket he’d worn earlier.
“I was at a work-related event,” she explained.
“Well, it was good of you to take time out for this. We appreciate it.”
“I don’t know what I can possibly do to help,” she said. “Is he in this room?”
The detective glanced at the door in front of them. “Yes, but I’d like to speak to you for a moment before we go in. Can I get you a cup of coffee or a glass of ice water?”
“No, thanks.”
The hospital had placed two chairs by the window at the end of the corridor and he gestured for her to sit. “First of all,” he began as they settled into the chairs, “you were right. The cyclist you and the others saw wasn’t a messenger for Speedy Courier. The real one claims he’d just finished a delivery and was stooping to unlock his bike when someone bashed him over the head. He’d left his helmet looped over the handlebars while he made the delivery. Anyway, when he came to, he found his bike, helmet and vest were missing. He has no idea who did it. He showed up back at the Speedy office to report it about the same time we showed up asking questions.”
“So the guy we saw was a phony,” Kinsey said.
“Yep. We’re retracing the real messenger’s trail to see if anyone he made deliveries to noticed anything peculiar. By the way, he’s a very thin, small young man. I imagine the thief couldn’t get the zipper up on the vest and that’s why it was open. Oh, and the phone video showed just what you surmised. The guy was wearing slacks and loafers.”
“The real messenger is okay?”
“He’s got a bump, but he’s fine.”
“And how about the little girl the cowboy saved? Is she all right?”
“Released an hour or so ago. The woman with her and her sister was the new au pair. I think she was more traumatized than the kids. By cowboy, are you referring to our John Doe?”
“That’s how I thought of him,” she said, nodding toward the room. “Because of the hat and everything. Wait a second, John Doe? You don’t know who he is?”
“No.”
“But his wallet—”
“Is missing. We think the cyclist must have taken it. And before you ask, no cell phone, just a key chain with six keys on it.”
Was that what the cyclist had been doing while everyone thought he was trying to help? Stealing the cowboy’s identity? It had to be. She racked her brain for an image of him pocketing something and came up blank, but he’d had his back to her and that bright vest flapping around him. “Did the taxi driver see anything?” she asked.
“He claims just about everyone on the ground was out of his line of sight. I had someone check that out and he’s telling the truth, they were too close to the front of the cab for the driver to see what was going on.”
“Wait a second,” Kinsey said as she finally made sense of what the detective had said a couple of sentences earlier. “You said the cowboy is conscious. Can’t he just tell you his name?”
The detective shook his head. “He doesn’t remember who he is. In fact, he doesn’t remember anything. And we have no way of knowing if this condition is recent or ongoing because no one has come forward to ask for a missing man, let alone one fitting his description.”
Kinsey sat back on the chair a second. “If this amnesia just started because of the incident today, is there a chance it could go away by morning?”
“The doctors say it’s anyone’s guess. He could start remembering his identity in five minutes, five days or five years. Apparently lots of people with head injuries forget segments of their lives, usually just the few minutes preceding their accident. Anyway, chances are good someone who does know him will show up sooner rather than later. For now, we only have one lead.”
“And what’s that?” Kinsey asked.
“You.”
Kinsey perked up immediately. “
Me? What are you talking about?”
“Your name was written on a piece of paper we found in his pocket. Can you think of a reason for that?”
“None,” she said.
“And you’re sure you’ve never seen him before?”
“Pretty sure,” Kinsey said. “I guess it’s possible I ran into him sometime in the past. I’ve lived in a fair number of cities all across the country.” Even as she spoke, she found herself doubting it could be true. John Doe, for lack of a real name, was an arresting-looking man. Would she have forgotten someone who appealed to her on such a gut level?
Woods sighed as he got to his feet. “Would you come with me to meet the guy? Maybe it will jar a memory if you hear his voice.”
“Of course,” Kinsey said, ignoring the pounding of her heart. She had no idea why she felt so nervous. Sweaty palms defied the hospital’s efficient air-conditioning system.
Suppressing a shiver, she followed Woods into the room.
Chapter Two
Despite his throbbing head, he fell into a black-and-white world of disjointed collages. It was a relief when a noise shook him out of the nothingness of his dreamworld. Even as he gingerly rubbed his eyes, he recognized the sound the door made when it opened and closed.
He looked up, expecting to see the cop who had asked him questions earlier or one of the doctors or nurses who were taking care of him. He did not expect to find himself staring into the velvety-brown eyes of a small woman wearing a formfitting black dress that revealed creamy smooth shoulders and a modest hint of cleavage.
He lifted his gaze back to the oval perfection of her face and hoped that he and she were longtime lovers, that she would run to him, throw her arms around him and whisper his name in his ear before planting her succulent red lips right on his. He wanted a name. He wanted an identity. He wanted his past, and maybe she was the key. If so, she made a heck of a sexy key and he was prepared to earn his memory back one succulent kiss at a time.
Her response to his gaze was a nervous twitch of her lips. He tried a reassuring smile, but that stretched the three stitches in his left cheek and he grimaced.
The woman did not look as though she loved him. Hell, she didn’t even look as though she knew him.
“You must be Kinsey Frost,” he said.
Now she just looked spooked. Her eyes grew wide. “Do you know me?”
“I don’t even know me,” he admitted. He nodded toward the cop standing behind her. “Detective Woods told me they found the name Kinsey Frost on a piece of paper. I just assumed you’re her.”
Some of the uneasiness fled from her face. “Oh, I see.”
“I’m hoping you have answers for me,” he added.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Today is the first time I ever saw you. I’m sure of it.” She narrowed her eyes as she looked him over and nodded. “You were walking ahead of me down the sidewalk and you caught my attention because of your hat. But I don’t know you.”
His hand flew to his head. “I was wearing a hat?” He directed his gaze to Woods. “Where is it?”
“It fell off when you tumbled into the street. A car going the other way nailed it.”
“What kind of hat?” he asked.
Kinsey supplied the answer. “A tan Stetson. It looked kind of new and very nice.”
He glanced down at his hands. He’d already noticed calluses and deeply tanned skin, along with old scars, on his knuckles. “Workingman hands,” he said softly. Not the hands of a teacher or a doctor. The hands of a man who got down and dirty on occasion, and instinctively, he knew at least that much about himself. He looked up at Woods. “And I was wearing cowboy boots. That’s what the nurse said.”
“That’s right,” Detective Woods concurred. “Plus, you don’t sound like you’re from around here. In fact, you don’t have much of an accent at all. We’re checking hotels to see if any of their customers are unaccounted for, but it’s questionable anything will come of it. There are thousands of rooms in this city. It’s unlikely anyone has missed you yet, unless you didn’t show up for an appointment or something. The big question is why you were carrying Ms. Frost’s name. What’s the link between you two?”
“I hope that’s a rhetorical question and you aren’t expecting an answer from me,” he said. He looked at Kinsey again. “It’s up to you.”
Her hand brushed his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t imagine why you were carrying my name.”
“In addition to working at the gallery, you’re also an artist yourself, aren’t you?” Woods asked.
She turned to look at him. “Yes.”
“Could he have gotten your name from a third party in relation to your work?”
“I guess so. I’ve done several portraits for people in New Orleans since I moved here a couple of years ago.” She glanced back at him with a question in her eyes. “Maybe one of them gave you my name and you were trying to find the gallery to talk to me.”
“He was walking away from, not headed to, the gallery,” the detective pointed out with a frown.
“People sometimes have a hard time finding the place. It’s very narrow. Maybe he walked right past it.”
“We’ll question people on that street as time and manpower allow,” the detective said. “Including Marc Costello. But as you know, it’s a long one with several businesses and homes farther along...it’s going to take a while. I’d appreciate it if you would also make a list of the people you did work for so we can ask them if they might have given your name to the...victim.” The detective shook his head as he looked at the bed. “Sorry, I’m not sure what to call you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
The detective scanned his notebook briefly before directing a comment to Kinsey. “When I questioned you right after the incident, you said he was walking with determination, that he appeared preoccupied.”
Kinsey nodded thoughtfully.
“That doesn’t sound like he was searching for something to me.”
“I guess it doesn’t,” Kinsey agreed.
The detective opened a small manila envelope he pulled from a jacket pocket and shook out a set of keys.
“Those are the keys you showed me earlier,” he said. “The ones they found in my pocket.”
“Yes,” Woods said. “I wanted you to hold them, look at them, see if they jog a memory.” He pointed at the fob, a small disk decorated with a red tractor and the words Red Hot, St. George, Utah. “We checked on that, by the way.”
“It sounds like a strip club,” he said.
The detective laughed. “Yeah, that’s what we thought, too. What it really is, though, is a nickname for a small tractor. We found the dealership that carries it, name of Travers’s Tractors. They’re not missing anyone, but we did fax the police there your photo. They showed it to the staff at the dealership...didn’t get any hits, but a couple of people are on vacation, so they’ll try again in a few days. They also have a couple of other stores in their chain and they said they’d ask around and get back to me, but we’re also contacting them. Keep in mind that sooner or later someone will wonder what happened to you and report it to the police.” His phone rang and he stepped away from the bed to answer it.
Kinsey gestured at all the machines. “Are your other injuries serious?”
“Not as bad as they could have been,” he replied, glancing at each key in turn.
“Were you out long?”
“I woke up in the ambulance.”
“And you didn’t know who you were? That must have been terrifying.”
He ran his fingers over the tractor logo and shook his head before meeting her velvety gaze again. “It wasn’t like that. What I was aware of was that I didn’t know where I was or what had happened to me. There was an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose and my head hurt. I felt confused. I guess there are just certain instances when you decide to wait it out and see what happens. I mean, I could hear the siren, there was a guy sitting next to me who smi
led and I was obviously being cared for. That was enough. At first.”
“So you have a concussion?”
“And apparently a hard head, too. There’s bruising and scrapes, a few stitches, stuff like that, but no broken bones, just this fog where my brain used to be. Thank goodness the taxi didn’t hit me or the child I had in my arms.”
“The child you saved,” Kinsey said.
He smiled, ignoring the stress on the stitches. He liked the way her voice softened as she spoke, the look in her eyes as she met his gaze. “Anyway, the doctors said I was lucky.” He paused for a second. Truth was, he didn’t feel real lucky right that moment. He’d gladly exchange a broken arm for the return of his memory. “Thanks for trying to help,” he added. His gaze followed a few strands of dark hair that had pulled loose from the pins atop her head and trailed down along her cheeks, brushing her collarbone, framing her face. She looked as if she’d stepped out of a dream, and he had another gut feeling about himself. He was a sucker for brunettes with red lips. “You were at a party or something, right?”
Her smile lit up her eyes. “The dress gave it away, huh?”
“More or less.”
“We were hosting an opening show for a local artist at the gallery,” she said. After a slight pause, she added, “I wish I knew what to call you. John Doe seems kind of impersonal.”
“You’re artistic,” he said. “Give me a name, something that you think fits.”
She narrowed her eyes as she studied his features. Then she smiled. “My father died before I was born, but my mother told me that he read constantly and what he liked best were Westerns. She said his favorite author was a guy named Zane Grey. How about we call you Zane?”
“Zane,” he murmured. “I like it. Okay, thanks.”
She nodded as the detective returned. It was obvious he’d overheard some of their conversation when he raised his eyebrows and said, “Zane?”
“My new alias.”
“It fits you,” the detective said. “Well, Zane, we’ve found the bike the fake courier used abandoned in a hallway of an old building due for demolition. I’m going to go check it out. The doctors want to keep you here for several days.”
Alice Sharpe Page 2
