Alice Sharpe

by Cowboy Incognito

  All those paintings in so little space probably came across as too much, but when you had a lot of paintings and limited wall space, they tended to add up.

  “Did you create all of these?” he asked.

  “Well, not the landscape, that’s a Vincent van Gogh print, and the lilies are Monet...well, all the people, yes.”

  “You’re amazing,” he said, his gaze finally settling back on her face. “Who are all these people?”

  She shrugged, unwilling to be distracted. “What happened to your neck?” she asked again.

  He set the fruit on her table, then ran a hand through his hair. He seemed to exist in a perpetual state of sexy. It was just the way he was put together, the way he moved, his mannerisms and the expression in his eyes. But now bone-weary fatigue vied with that innate magnetism and seemed to win. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked.

  “Help yourself,” she said as she locked the front door.

  He settled on her lime-green love seat. The apartment consisted of a kitchen/living area and a small bedroom/bath. Most of time it seemed pretty roomy, but Zane was at least six foot two and possessed a kind of commanding presence. She’d noticed this hours earlier when he stood on the sidewalk. “Would you like something cold to drink?” she offered as she started the electric fan in the window.

  “Some water would be great,” he said, and she fetched him a glass before perching on a counter stool.

  After finishing his drink, he started in on his story. When he got to the part about waking up to find someone choking him, she almost fell off the stool.

  “It has to be the same person as this afternoon,” she said. “I’ll never forget the brazen way he pushed you. Is the nurse okay?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Thank heavens she came into your room.” With a shudder, she added, “I can’t believe you took out your own IV.” She and needles were not the best of friends.

  He rubbed his face with his hands as though trying to stay awake. It was the middle of the night by this time and she sympathized and shared his fatigue although his presence had driven most of hers away.

  “And you have no idea what he looked like because of the disguise?”

  He nodded. “That’s right. Even his size was hard to gauge because it all happened so fast.”

  “But why did you leave the hospital? I don’t get it. Woods told you he planned on posting a guard.”

  “I’m not entirely positive why I left,” Zane said. “I guess I thought my chances were better on my own than being stuck in that place. Besides, what did I do to get in this kind of trouble? I’d kind of like to find that out before the police do. Anyway, I didn’t know if they’d actually let me leave if I asked—I still don’t know whose going to pay my bill, for instance. So I sneaked away and that’s also more or less why I ended up at your house. I was going to borrow your phone and call Woods to try to explain, but I just decided against it.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess I don’t want him bugging you, and I don’t want him trying to get me back into the hospital. He’s a smart guy. He’ll see my boots are gone and talk to the guard on duty and learn I walked away out of choice and he’ll put two and two together. Maybe I’ll call when I get out of town.”

  She nodded. His logic sounded reasonably sane to her. Well, at least as sane as escaping police protective custody to take your chances with a man who tried to kill you—twice.

  “But I do need to borrow twenty dollars,” he added. “I’ll pay you back, I swear. If I’m going to hitchhike to Utah, I’m going to need something to eat along the way and I don’t have a penny. Eventually I can probably hock my boots—well, anyway, how about it?”

  “Of course,” she said immediately. “The money is yours. And I’ll pack you a lunch to take with you.”

  “That would be great. Thank you.”

  “Turkey on sour dough?”

  “Anything you have,” he said, “will be appreciated.”

  “I’m going to change clothes first, then I’ll make you a lunch. Are you hungry now?”

  “No.”

  Biting her lip, she added, “Zane, I should tell you that I found out why you had my name in your pocket. The grocer down the block from the gallery gave it to you because you were in the store asking about someone named Sherry or Mary Smith. Is there any chance that rings a bell?”

  “None.”

  She hit her forehead with her palm. “Why didn’t I think of the internet?” She retrieved her phone. A moment later, she shook her head. “Get this. There are over forty-seven million hits for Mary Smith.” She tapped the tiny electronic keypad again. “Over six million for Sherry Smith. Without an age or a career or a location, it’s impossible.” She fooled around a little more with the search engine, typing Mary Smith, New Orleans, and the same for Sherry Smith. Nothing that appeared relevant in any way showed up.

  “Well, Mr. Lee promised he’d call Detective Woods and tell him about your being in his store,” she said with a sigh. She didn’t mention the fact that she’d asked Mr. Lee to keep Bill Dodge and his housekeeper out of it because she felt guilty about that. Zane needed all the help he could get and she had no right to deny him the turning of every stone. She just needed some time to try to make sense of things.

  She closed the bedroom door behind her and quickly slipped out of her clothes, exchanging the dress for shorts and a T-shirt. She left her feet bare, splashed water on her face and went back into the main room where she found Zane still staring at the paintings that surrounded him.

  “Aren’t you kind of warm in all those clothes?” she asked, and then felt her cheeks grow pink at the way those words could be taken.

  He apparently didn’t read anything in her voice but what was there—concern for his comfort. “No, I’m fine.”

  She sat down on the stool for a moment. “Zane, right after you asked about the Smith woman, you were hurt by an impulsive crazy person. I bet if we asked Woods where the real courier was robbed, it would turn out to be close to the grocery store. I think your attacker was in that store. Maybe he followed you.” She stopped short of finishing the sentence—or maybe you came in together.

  Was that possible?

  “I was also hurt right after the grocer gave me your name,” Zane said, smothering a yawn and apologizing for it. “I can’t make sense of any of it and that’s what’s so frustrating.”

  “It’ll come. I’ll go make the sandwiches.” She padded into the adjoining kitchen and got to work. She made him two generous sandwiches, found an ice pack in the freezer and a bottle of sweet tea in the refrigerator, included the apple and the banana she’d bought earlier and threw in a few granola bars for good measure. She’d been to the bank earlier that day so she knew she still had a couple of ATM twenties in her wallet.

  When she turned to look back in the living room, she found Zane had fallen asleep with his head thrown back, his hands lying on the cushion next to his thighs, his legs sprawled in front of him as though he’d finally surrendered to his long, arduous day. His breathing seemed steady and deep and, without the impact of his gaze, he appeared wan and worn out. She bent to shake his shoulder and he turned slightly at her touch, his breath warm against her hand, but didn’t waken.

  Up close like this, the bruises on his throat looked like bloody fingerprints, red and ugly, grotesque in their cruelty and intent. A bright red dot of blood had seeped through the bandage over the stitches on his cheek.

  She straightened up without touching him again, staring down at him for a moment, moved by his plight, touched by his decency and scared for his life. And totally intrigued.

  How were they connected, where did her mother fit into this? Did Ryan have something to do with what happened? Could he have been the phony cyclist? She didn’t think so, but was she positive?

  No answers, not tonight, anyway. She quietly put the bag of food in the refrigerator, dimmed the lights and with one last look at the gorgeous man asleep on her love seat, closed
the bedroom door behind her.

  Five minutes later, she slept.

  Chapter Four

  The sun was just peeking in the window when Zane sat up straight. The room did a one-eighty and he grabbed his head as he blinked a few times. Where in the hell was he?

  The dozens of pairs of eyes staring endlessly from the paintings covering the walls brought the last few hours crashing back like a rogue wave on a beach. Unfortunately, that’s all that came back. His mind was still as empty as a purloined vault. It looked as if his loss of memory wasn’t the overnight variety.

  He glanced at the closed bedroom door behind which he imagined Kinsey slept, turning suddenly when a noise at the front door jarred him fully awake. He was on his feet and ready for action when Kinsey let herself inside, stopping abruptly when she saw his aggressive stance.

  “Sorry,” he said, relaxing his muscles. “I guess I’m a little jumpy.” It was the first time he’d spoken since waking. His voice was as raspy as it had been the night before and each word seemed to rake the inside of his throat.

  “You didn’t wake up when I left,” she explained, the alarm fading from her eyes. Dressed in a cool blue wispy blouse and white pants, she looked as though she belonged on top of a mountain or in a meadow or something. He could only imagine what he looked like.

  “I went out to buy coffee at the little place on the corner,” she said as she offered him a twelve-ounce container with a heady aroma. “I thought you might appreciate a cup. I’m afraid I have to be at my mother’s place in thirty minutes, which means we have to leave here pretty soon.”

  With heartfelt thanks, he accepted the proffered coffee and took a deep whiff as he slipped off the plastic sipping lid. She sat down on a nearby chair and stared at him a few seconds. “How are you feeling? How’s your throat?”

  “I’ll live,” he said.

  “I hate to say this, but those bruises look worse today than they did last night. And the abrasions on your forehead and cheek...well, anyway, it might be hard to win the trust of a Good Samaritan who gets little more than a glimpse to form an opinion of you.”

  “You’re referring to motorists who might be going my way?”

  “Yes.”

  He touched his neck. Neither the scrubs nor the lab coat he’d filched from the hospital had a collar he could use to conceal the marks his attacker had left. “I don’t have much choice,” he said. “Speaking of that, do you think you could drop me off close to the interstate on your way to your mother’s house? It might be easier to hitch a ride from there. I’ll stand somewhere where people can get a good long look at me and sense what a stalwart fellow I am.”

  “I have an idea,” she said, leaning forward. “Let me loan you the money for a bus ticket.”

  Nothing about her, from her old car to this barely furnished apartment to the decent but inexpensive clothes on her back, suggested Kinsey was rolling in dough. “That’s okay,” he said softly. “I don’t want to go further in debt. The twenty you’re going to loan me will get me by.”

  She nodded, perhaps relieved but too nice to show it. She took a sip of her coffee and spoke again. “I have something I have to tell you,” she said, sliding him a nervous glance.

  “Is there time? Shouldn’t we be leaving?”

  “Yes, but you have to know this. Remember last night when I told you the man at the grocery store was going to call Detective Woods and tell him that you’d been in that day asking about a woman?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “What I didn’t tell you was that he said you also asked about an elderly man in the neighborhood. Specifically, you asked about this man’s housekeeper.”

  “I wonder what that was about,” he said, noting the way she avoided his gaze and clutched the paper cup in her hands. Finally, she looked at him again.

  “I asked Henry, he’s the grocer, not to tell the police about the housekeeper.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s my mother.”

  He set his cup down on the chest Kinsey used as a coffee table. “I don’t quite understand,” he said.

  “And I don’t have time to explain,” she said, her expression worried now. “Anyway, Henry said you asked about the housekeeper right after you asked about Smith. I mentioned this to my mother last night and she claims she’s never heard of anyone with that name and I believe her, but that’s why you had my name. Henry either knows Mom and I are related or thinks we’re friends. He gave you my name to get you out of his store because you were holding up the line and he needed to break up a fight over a box of beignet mix.”

  Zane stared at her a minute. Was this for real? It sounded like something out of an old sitcom. “Okay,” he said at last. “So all that happened, but why can’t your mother just tell Detective Woods what she told you, she doesn’t know the woman, end of conversation.”

  “You don’t know my mother,” Kinsey said.

  “Obviously.”

  “And I don’t have time to try to explain her now.” She glanced at her watch, and stood abruptly. “It’s getting late,” she said as her phone rang. She dug into the small purse she wore across her body and emerged with the cell phone. She scanned the caller screen impatiently and he thought he saw disappointment on her face. The look disappeared as she hit a button and slipped the device back in her bag. “That means you have to go, too. I can’t leave you here—”

  “I know,” he said as he stood. His body screamed in protest at the abrupt action, reminding him of what he’d been through fewer than twenty-four hours before. “Do we have enough time for me to splash some cold water on my face?” he managed to say, his voice more hoarse than ever.

  “Of course,” she said.

  At her bedroom door, he turned. “I’d like to go with you to your mother’s place.”

  “No way,” she said, her attention back on the phone.

  “Kinsey, think about it. Maybe your mother knows me or of me. Maybe that’s why I asked about her. Or how about the guy she works for? Maybe one of them will recognize me, give me a name and a family, an identity.”

  “That’s not likely,” Kinsey said, shaking her head.

  “But it’s the only lead besides that tractor dealership in Utah. I have to try.”

  Her nod seemed reluctant. He continued on his way before she could change her mind.

  *

  THE CALL HAD BEEN from Marc. It wasn’t uncommon for her boss to call her with a short list of errands to perform when she opened the gallery, but right now that prospect didn’t interest her.

  Ryan still hadn’t returned her call. She’d looked up his company’s number before leaving for the coffee that morning and programmed it into the phone. The original plan had been to call after she dropped Zane off by the interstate, but his announcement that he was going all the way with her nixed that.

  She punched in the New York number now. It was answered on the first ring by an actual human being, which seemed amazing considering it was a Saturday morning. The greeting was breezy but followed by a long pause when Kinsey asked for Ryan Jones. The man on the phone finally said, “Would you repeat that name?”

  Kinsey did, with the explanation that Ryan was in New Orleans that weekend working on their levee project.

  Another pause. “I’m sorry,” the man said. “I don’t know anyone named Ryan Jones.”

  “He’s one of your engineers,” she protested.

  “I’m actually the owner of this business,” he explained. “I came in early today to work on...well, you don’t care about that. Listen, we’re not all that big an operation, so I know every one of my employees. There is no one here named Ryan Jones.”

  Kinsey thought for a second. “Maybe he’s with your New Orleans section.”

  “What New Orleans section? We don’t have one.”

  “You have no contracts down here at all?”

  “None. I’m afraid someone has given you false information.”

  “Is there another A and P Engi
neering firm in New York?”

  “No,” he said gently. “Just this one. I’m sorry.”

  “One more thing. Do you know someone named Ryan Jones in another capacity, like a neighbor or someone at a club or maybe a business associate, you know, something like that?”

  He seemed to think for a few seconds. “No,” he finally said. “Sorry.”

  Kinsey murmured something and clicked off the phone, glancing up when Zane cleared his throat. He took one look at her face and moved toward her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She stared into his crystal-blue eyes. Ryan had lied to her about his job and probably everything else. He’d asked questions about her mother and then he’d disappeared right around the same time that Zane took the stage. But it hadn’t been Ryan who had pushed Zane—she was almost positive of that, even though she hadn’t seen the attacker’s face. Ryan was too tall to be that man and he didn’t move in the same way.

  So perhaps Ryan was Zane’s adversary. Or were they in cahoots? If so, in what capacity and most important, why did her mother seem to be in the middle of it? She pulled up the pictures she’d taken, almost all of paintings she’d admired or people whose faces had intrigued her. She finally found what she was looking for, a photo of a painting of the Mississippi River. She’d taken the picture at a street show a few weeks before. Ryan had walked into the frame and she’d inadvertently caught his profile.

  She handed the phone to Zane. “Does this man look familiar to you? Could he have been the man in the hospital, for instance?”

  Zane studied the image for a second. “I can’t tell. You think he’s connected to me?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe,” she answered honestly as she took her car keys from her bag.

  “Is he someone important?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know that, either.”

  *

  KINSEY PULLED UP in front of the garish Victorian and parked behind a blinding-white luxury sedan. She had a feeling Bill Dodge’s attorney had arrived at the house first and couldn’t help wondering in what shape she would find her mother.