by Joanna Wayne
Smart answered on the second ring.
“Durk Lambert. Speak of the devil. Sorry, make that the Good Samaritan. I understand from Dr. Levy that you’re providing our friend Meghan with a week in the Bent Pine Recovery Center.”
“I’m also on the line,” Meghan said. “So you might want to keep your comments about me on a professional level.”
“Hello, Meghan. Nice to hear from you, but I would have thought you’d give me a call before you left the hospital.”
“I had nothing new to share with you. I’ve told you everything I know until the amnesia runs its course.”
“So what can I help you with now?”
“My laptop is missing and I can’t locate my cell phone or my car keys. Do you have them?”
“No. When police searched your condo and your office yesterday afternoon, they didn’t find computers or cell phones in either place.”
“Yet you found her office answering machine with the strange message intact?” Durk commented.
“We questioned that, as well, but the killer must have simply overlooked it.”
“Or he intentionally left it there for you to find that message.”
“That’s also possible.”
“I just called my service provider,” Meghan said. “They told me my account had been blocked by order of the DPD.”
“I made that decision after realizing your phone was likely in the hands of the attacker.”
“How did you come to that conclusion?”
“We tracked the location of the phone.”
“Are you saying you tracked it to the killer?” Durk asked.
“Unfortunately, no. We found the phone in the middle of a soccer field in Garland. It’s busted up pretty bad, but you can have it back if you like.”
“I’d like,” Meghan said, though she had no idea what good it would do her now.
“I’ll send someone by your office to pick it up,” Durk volunteered. “What about Meghan’s car? Do you have any idea what happened to it?”
“No, only that it’s not in the condo parking garage.But we checked your registration, Meghan. We’ve put out a description of the car and the license plate number. Every law enforcement officer in the state is on the lookout for it.”
“What kind of vehicle do I own?”
“A silver Mercedes, this year’s model. Hopefully, we’ll find it with our perp behind the wheel.”
“I hope the same.”
Smart stressed again that she should call if she remembered anything at all that might help ID the suspect.
When the call ended, Meghan dropped to a modern chair that she’d obviously chosen for style over comfort. She massaged her neck and tried to break the tension that was tightening her muscles.
“You’re running out of steam,” Durk said. “Go throw together a few items of clothing and let’s get out of here. Next stop, the Bent Pine Ranch and a long nap for you.”
The Bent Pine Ranch and a man she was growing more attached to by the second. A gorgeous, rugged, hunk of a cowboy CEO who had once been her lover. She dared not think of what would happen when those memories returned.
* * *
MEGHAN WAS RELIEVED to find that the bedroom held no new discouraging surprises. The beautiful Tiffany lamps that bracketed the king-size bed were intact. A few of the drawers in an antique chest were ajar, but no clothes were scattered about the floor.
The sleigh bed with its snowy-white coverlet and multitude of pillows looked so tempting, it was all she could do not to crawl into it and sink into the luxury.
Meghan walked to the closet and started to open the door. A shiver of dread stopped her. Suppose she opened the door to yet another nightmare? Like a body. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. Goose bumps broke out on her arms.
This was ridiculous. She couldn’t play into this kind of crippling fear. She would not be intimidated by her own home.
She yanked the door open and stared into a roomy walk-in closet. Nothing but rows of clothes, all neatly coordinated.
And there were shoes—dozens of pairs in every color and style displayed on a revolving floor-to-ceiling built-in rack. She kicked out of the horrid slippers in anticipation. Her feet sank into the thick carpet as she picked up a pair of strappy black heels. This was more like it.
She untied the trench coat and stepped out of it. She knew Durk couldn’t see her, but just knowing she was in the nude while he was nearby made her feel risqué.
She blushed to realize the feeling didn’t overly distress her. She padded to the antique chest and opened drawers until she found the one that held her underwear.
Thankfully, there were no granny panties in sight, but there were lots of silky bikini briefs and thong panties in a variety of colors. Apparently, P.I. Meghan Sinclair had her sexy side. Perhaps that was what had lured Durk into a relationship with her in the first place.
She chose a pair of black silk panties to wear under her jeans. She slipped into them and a black lacy bra and then went back to the closet for her jeans. Once she’d wiggled into them, she chose an emerald-green V-neck sweater and pulled it over her head.
She flicked through the hangers quickly. She filled a garment bag with her selections and then dropped to the edge of the bed. Fatigue was setting in and with it the dizziness that had plagued her all day yesterday.
Dr. Levy had warned her about doing too much too soon. Another day in the hospital might have been a good idea, except that being confined was maddening and that couldn’t be good for her, either.
She just needed to slow down. Pack simply.
Almost done, she went back and checked the bottom drawer of the chest, the only one she hadn’t opened. There were stacks of scarves, gloves, belts and hats. Picking up one of the jaunty, knit newsboy hats, she plopped it on her head and went to check out the results in the mirror that hung over the marble-topped dresser.
To her surprise, the hat was actually flattering, the perfect cover for the bandage and short, spiky hairs that crept from the edge of the bandage.
She looked around, still feeling like she was forgetting something. When she spotted the jewelry box, she decided to take one quick look inside.
A small gold locket on a chain caught her eye. She picked it up and let the filigreed chain curl around her left hand as her fingers caressed the smooth, flawless locket.
She loosed the clasp and opened the locket. Her mother smiled back at her from the tiny, heart-shaped photo. Her mother and yet the only reason Meghan recognized her was from the snapshots Durk had shown her at the hospital.
Unwanted tears welled in the corners of her eyes. Meghan fought them for as long as she could before giving in to sobs and a crush of emotions she could no longer distinguish or control.
Durk joined her in the bedroom, walking up and standing behind her. “What’s wrong?”
“This.” She handed him the locket without turning around. She watched his reflection in the mirror as he studied her mother’s picture.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you crying because you can remember her?”
“No,” she whispered. “I’m crying because I can’t.”
He slipped the delicate chain around her neck and fastened it. She trembled at the coolness of the locket against her breast and the heat of Durk’s breath on the back of her neck.
His left hand clasped her shoulder. The fingers of his right hand trailed the chain and straightened the locket until it was perfectly centered in the swell of her cleavage.
The tears had stopped. Her pulse quickened. Without warning, she became so light-headed she had to hold on to the dresser for support.
Durk lifted her hair from her neck and his lips touched the bared flesh.
Her breath caught and held as titillating sensations zinged along her nerve endings.
She closed her eyes to savor the sensation. When she opened them, Durk had backed away.
“We should get going,” he said, his voice huskier than it had been
before. “If you’re through packing, I can carry your bags to the car.”
“No need,” she said. “Both bags are wheeled. There’s nothing to carry.”
“I made a few calls while you were packing,” Durk said. “A list of calls made to and from your cell phone during the previous thirty days will be faxed to you at the ranch. It should be there by nightfall.”
“That was fast. Money and influence obviously get results.”
“I just happen to have the right connections.”
“I’m sure. Do you always get what you want, CEO Lambert?”
He met her gaze. There was something in the depths of his whiskey-colored eyes she hadn’t noticed before. Pain or perhaps resolve. Or regret.
“No, Meghan. I don’t always get what I want.”
* * *
FIVE MINUTES LATER, bags zipped and waiting at the door with Durk, Meghan made one last trip through the condo, praying that something—anything—would scratch a nerve and shake the lost memories free.
When nothing did, she walked back to the bedroom for her handbag. And for some reason she didn’t want to think about, she opened a drawer, grabbed a silky red chemise, wrapped it in a scarf and tucked it in the bottom of her purse.
Her intercom buzzed just as Meghan was about to pull the door closed behind them. “I should get that, though I won’t know who’s waiting at the building entrance even after they tell me.”
She pushed the talk button. “Can I help you?”
“You can if this is Meghan Sinclair.”
“Who is this?”
“Connie.”
“I’m sorry. I’m drawing a blank.”
“Connie, you know? Connie Latimer. I hired you to find out who killed my sister. The cops aren’t even looking anymore.”
“And that’s why you hired me.”
“Yes. I’d heard you were the best person in Texas at finding evidence the police hadn’t discovered. Just last week you said you were getting really close to having what you needed to get this man arrested.”
“What else did I tell you?”
“Nothing else. But then when I heard on the news that you were assaulted and your assistant was killed, I panicked. I mean, I know what that guy did to my sister. I know what he’s capable of.”
“I’m fine, Connie, but unfortunately, I don’t have any further information to give you concerning the case.”
“But remember that you thought he’d killed more than one woman?”
“I recall that,” she lied, in order to keep Connie talking.
“Well, I think he killed another one down in Houston just a few days ago.”
Meghan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “In that case, Connie, I’m glad you’re here. We definitely need to talk.”
Chapter Eleven
Meghan watched as Durk walked back to join her and Connie at one of the coffee shop’s outdoor tables. His easy cowboy swagger paired well with his charismatic charm. He slid the two steamy cappuccinos he carried in front of Meghan and Connie and kept the black coffee for himself.
Thankfully, they had the patio area to themselves. The storm that had ridden in on the tail of her nightmare last night had given way to chilly temperatures and occasional wind gusts that kept the other customers inside.
Continuing their discussion at the coffee shop across from the condo had been Durk’s suggestion, but Meghan had quickly consented. Meeting a client at the scene of her brutal assault could have been unsettling for Connie.
It might have even frightened her into silence, especially considering the way Connie was staring at her bruises and head bandage. She should have kept her hat on, but she’d been afraid the wind would send it sailing.
“I’m sorry about the attack,” Connie said. “The guy really did a number on you.”
“Yes, he did. But I’m going to be fine in a few days,” Meghan assured her. Meghan uncrossed her legs and pulled her chair closer to the table. “I’m going to level with you, Connie. I don’t remember talking to you last week. I actually don’t recall anything about the case.”
Connie’s face registered alarm. “But you said this was almost over. You practically guaranteed me that the arrest of the man who killed Roxanne was imminent. You used the word imminent. I’m sure of it.”
“I believe you, and I’m sure I didn’t lie to you. But I suffered a serious concussion from the attack. It’s temporarily affected my memory.”
Connie’s brow knitted. “Then you don’t even know what I’m talking about.”
“Temporary is the operative word here,” Durk said. “The doctor expects a full recovery of Meghan’s memory.”
“When?”
“At any time,” Meghan assured her. “But for now, I need your help in getting up to full speed on the case.”
“Where do I start?”
“At the beginning. Give me a quick review of the events leading up to Roxanne’s murder.”
“You have this in your files.”
“I’d like to hear it from you.” Especially since Meghan had no relevant files in her immediate possession. “But you can keep it concise.”
Connie’s gaze remained downcast as she toyed with the handle of her cup. “I thought people only had amnesia in books and movies.”
“So did I,” Meghan said. “But trust me, retrograde amnesia occurs in real life, as well.”
“I have to trust you. You’re my only hope.”
“So tell me about Roxanne.”
Connie sucked her bottom lip in her mouth, hesitated and then finally sat up straight and started talking.
“It was two years ago next January. Roxanne was in her freshman year at UT. It was a Thursday night near the end of her first semester. She’d gone out with some girlfriends to let off steam after a chemistry final.”
“Did they go to a friend’s house or to a bar?”
“They went to a pub near the university. They’d been there before. Her friends said Roxanne was laughing and drinking and seemed to be having fun. Then all of a sudden she told them she had a headache and that she was going back to the dorm.”
Connie picked up a spoon and stirred her beverage, staring at the swirling foam. “That was the last time anyone ever saw my sister alive.”
Meghan hated putting Connie through the heartbreaking task of repeating the events yet again, but it couldn’t be helped.
“Did anything unusual happen prior to your sister’s abrupt headache?” Durk asked.
“Nothing anyone could recall.”
“No confrontation with anyone? No phone calls? No text messages?”
“One of her friends said she had seen Roxanne take out her phone and check her messages a few minutes earlier, but she didn’t seem upset.”
“Did the police check her phone for texts and messages?”
“They couldn’t. Roxanne’s phone never turned up again. Neither did her computer.”
A missing phone. A missing computer. Missing evidence that might have linked the killer to the crime. But those similarities in themselves were not unusual and definitely not enough to link Roxanne’s killer to Ben.
But the additional evidence Meghan had discovered might—if she could only remember it. She struggled to choke back the aggravation before it hindered her ability to absorb all of what Connie had to say.
“What happened next?” Durk asked, keeping them on track.
“When her friends got back to the dorm and discovered Roxanne wasn’t there, they became concerned. But they figured she could have hooked up with a guy and didn’t want them to know about it. Then when she hadn’t returned by the next morning, they became really worried.”
“So she wasn’t reported as missing until the following morning?” Meghan asked.
“Right, and even then, I think the police just figured she was hanging out with other friends—or a guy. It wasn’t until late that afternoon that one of her friends finally contacted my mother. She got in touch with the police right away and deman
ded they start looking for Roxanne.”
“How long was it before they found the body?” Meghan asked.
“Two weeks, but the autopsy showed that she’d been dead less than twenty-four hours when they pulled her car out of a flooding creek with her in it. The monster had held her prisoner, repeatedly raping her while he slowly starved her to death.”
Connie buried her face in her hands. When she looked up, her eyes were wet with tears. “I want her killer found, Ms. Sinclair. I don’t care what it takes. He didn’t just kill Roxanne. He killed our mother, too. She had a stroke two days after ID’ing Roxanne’s emaciated body.”
“That must have been really hard on you.”
“It’s still hard, especially since I know the cops have given up. And there’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“When they found Roxanne’s body, she was dressed in a weird outfit that I know didn’t belong to her.”
“You mean like a costume?”
“No, more like a little girl’s dress. It was short, ruffled and buttoned to the neck. I’m not explaining this well, but it was like something they wore in the old days.”
Meghan must have set herself up as bait to lure Roxanne’s killer into a trap. Only somehow he’d found out and her plan had backfired.
That could explain the stun gun. It would have rendered her helpless but kept her alive. Then he could have tortured her the way he’d tortured Roxanne.
“Was there anything else unusual about Roxanne’s appearance?”
“Her face was smeared with bright red lipstick and her hair had been dyed a platinum blond.”
The red lipstick in Meghan’s handbag, the hideous wig in her condo. They could be connected, indicators that her assailant, Roxanne’s killer and Ben’s assassin were one and the same.
Meghan’s heart raced. She knew who the killer was. She’d tracked him down. Only now his identity had been sucked into the dead zone of her mind.
“If we don’t do something, Roxanne will never get justice,” Connie said. “And the monster will just go on killing.”
Connie pulled a folded page from the morning newspaper from her purse and shoved it in front of Meghan.
