Find Me (The Donovan Family Book 3)

by Margaret Watson

  "Let's check the back," Mac said.

  The slush from the night before had frozen on the grass and the dried-out stalks of last summer's flowers, and they glittered in the setting sun. The steps on the wooden porch were slippery, and they walked gingerly to the first floor door. The blinds were tightly closed.

  Lizzy Monroe's apartment on the second floor had the blinds in the door closed, as well as the window next to the door, but the slats weren't completely flat. Mac twisted and turned to see through the narrow opening. The narrow view of the kitchen showed no sign of anyone inside. No sign of an intruder or a struggle, either, and the fist in Mac's chest eased a little.

  "Take a look," he said to Rhodes.

  Rhodes stared at the room for a moment, leaned to see down the hall. "Everything looks okay. Maybe she just fell asleep."

  Mac pounded on the door, listened, but heard nothing. He pounded again, but knew Monroe either wasn't there or wasn't able to come to the door. "Let's try the third floor. See if they have a key."

  Whoever lived on the third floor wasn't home, either.

  "I'll call the office. Maybe they've heard from her."

  "They would have called us," Rhodes said, her voice flat.

  Just then, Mac's phone rang. He glanced at Rhodes and pushed the button to answer. "You at her place, Donovan?" Parmenter asked.

  "Outside the back door. No one's home."

  "Stay there and wait for the guy who owns the building. He's on his way. We've got a problem."

  Chapter 3

  By the time Lizzy pulled off Interstate 80 in a small town in eastern Iowa, the setting sun was painting the sky with pinks and purples. She'd been driving more than three hours, and she'd learned the quirks of the unfamiliar car.

  She'd seen it on the street on the way to her bank, a 'for sale' sign on the windshield, and had bought it for eight hundred bucks. The kid who owned it had long hair and an aroma of weed, and he'd forgotten to remove the license plates. Lizzy hadn't reminded him.

  One of the quirks of the old, battered import was that the window stuck. But that was all right – the frigid air blowing into the open window helped her stay awake.

  It wasn't enough anymore. She hadn't slept in more than twenty-four hours, and she needed caffeine.

  Tugging her knit cap lower on her forehead, making sure all her hair was tucked in, Lizzy pulled into the drive-through lane of a fast food restaurant and ordered a large cup of coffee. Her stomach rebelled at the first gulp of bitter liquid, begging for food, but she couldn't eat anything yet. Food would make her more sleepy.

  She sat in the parking sipping the coffee, watching the cars exiting the interstate. After fifteen minutes, she sighed and started the car. Who was she kidding? She had no idea what an FBI car looked like. Reading thrillers and watching cop shows on television couldn't tell her how to elude an actual killer.

  Her body stiff and aching, her eyes gritty, her head pounding from lack of sleep, she returned to the interstate and continued to head west. She needed to find somewhere to stop. She'd gotten away from Chicago, but that wouldn't do her much good if she fell asleep at the wheel and killed herself.

  An hour later, she turned off the interstate and drove into a small town whose name she forgot as soon as she passed the 'welcome to' sign. The night sky was black above her, the darkness broken only by faint, infrequent streetlamps. The small diner on the main street was already closed and there were a few cars on the street, but no one appeared to pay attention to her.

  The motel that had been advertised on the faded interstate billboard came into view. There were five cars parked in the lot, and Lizzy drew in a deep breath as she stopped in front of the office. The first test.

  The clerk was a young guy, probably a high school kid, with blond hair and freckles. "May I help you?"

  "Do you have any rooms available?" Lizzy asked, her voice gritty with exhaustion as she studied the lobby, looking for a surveillance camera. Nothing obvious, thank God. There would be no record she'd been here.

  "I have a single and a double."

  "The single is fine." Her gaze touched a sign that said 'No Pets', then slid away. She had to sleep. Franny wasn't going to damage the room, and Lizzy would leave an extra tip to cover any dog hair left on the floor or the bed.

  The second illegal thing she'd done today. There would be more before she was finished.

  "What credit card will you be using?" the boy asked politely.

  "No credit card. Cash."

  His eyes flickered, then he nodded. "That will be seventy-two dollars and eighty-nine cents, with tax."

  She counted out the bills and slid them across the counter. He handed her a real key. "Check out time is eleven A.M."

  "Thanks."

  She exited the office and studied the building, noting thankfully that her room was toward the end of the row. The kid wouldn't be able to see Franny when she got out of the car.

  Ten minutes later, Franny had been fed, and Lizzy had taken her around the back of the motel to take care of business. Then, knowing her dog would alert her if anyone approached, she fell into bed and was asleep immediately.

  ***

  Mac gripped his phone tightly and put it on speaker so Rhodes could hear. "What's wrong?"

  "Looks like she rabbitted on us."

  "What did you find?"

  "She cleaned out her fucking bank accounts," his boss growled. "Didn't show up at that college where she teaches. The hospital called her to come in and translate, and it went directly to voice mail. And her phone? GPS shows it's sitting in her fucking apartment."

  "Okay." Mac took a deep breath. He'd been standing outside her door, afraid she was hurt or worse, and she'd run. He'd let his cock take control of his brain. While he was mooning after Monroe, fantasizing about her hair and her ass, she'd been laughing at all of them. Feeling like a complete idiot, he said, "Who owns the building? How do we get into her apartment?"

  "The landlord lives on the third floor," Parmenter said. "He's on his way. Should be there in ten minutes."

  "Great." Mac's voice was calm, but his knuckles ached where he held the phone. "Maybe we'll find something in her place."

  "Maybe Jacobsen was right. Maybe she was in on it," Rhodes interjected. "Or maybe the killer found her."

  Mac swallowed heavily, hoping that wasn't the case. In spite of the fact that she'd fooled all of them, he didn't want to think about all the life and energy that was Lizzy Monroe crushed out of existence.

  That was his cock talking again. "How could the killer find her? Unless one of us told someone?"

  "The police knew, too," Paarmenter interjected. "Those local assholes can't keep their mouths shut. Probably told the press all about her."

  Mac opened his mouth to remind his boss that three of those local 'assholes' were his siblings. He gritted his teeth instead. "I doubt they would do that. They know it could put her in jeopardy."

  "Well, someone talked. Or she's not as innocent as she came across last night."

  Headlights pulled into the alley, slowed and finally turned into the garage at the back of the three-flat. "Looks like the landlord is here," Mac said. "We'll call you when we know anything."

  He bounded down the stairs, followed by Rhodes, and met a tall, thin, balding man as he was entering the yard. Mac held up his badge. "Agent Donovan from the FBI," he said. "This is Agent Rhodes. Are you the landlord?"

  "Yeah. Doug Hastings." The man's Adam's apple bobbed as he held out his hand tentatively. His shoulders relaxed when Mac shook his extended hand. "What's going on? Why do you need to get into Lizzy's apartment?"

  "We can't go into details," Mac said. "But we need to hurry. Do you have a key to her apartment?"

  "I'll have to get it." He took the stairs surprisingly quickly. "I'll meet you on her porch."

  "What about the first floor apartment?" Rhodes asked as Mac opened his mouth to ask the same thing. "Who lives there?"

  "It's vacant right now. My tenant moved o
ut last week."

  "Bring the key for that apartment, too," Mac said. It would be stupid not to check the building thoroughly. If they didn't find anything, they'd take a look in Hastings' apartment, too.

  Mac had to give the guy credit – he was back in under a minute. His hand shook a little as he unlocked the door, then he stood back as Mac entered the apartment, followed by Rhodes.

  Mac had his gun in his hand, but he knew almost immediately that the apartment was empty. Still, he and Rhodes checked every room, looked in every closet, behind the shower curtain, under the bed.

  "Parmenter was right. She's gone," Rhodes said, her voice flat. "Took off."

  "Maybe there's another explanation." Mac holstered his Glock.

  "Like what, Donovan?" Rhodes rolled her eyes and snorted. "You don't want her to be involved. You're thinking with your cock."

  Mac flushed red. It was bad when even Rhodes, Ms. Unsentimenal, saw through him. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Rhodes. I never saw her before last night," Mac said, his voice steady.

  "I saw the drool marks on the glass when I came out of the room," Rhodes retorted.

  "Maybe that was Jacobson."

  Rhodes rolled her eyes again. "You're not as hard to read as you think, hotshot. I saw your face when she walked into the office."

  He clenched his teeth. "You're wasting time, Rhodes." Mac stood in Lizzy's living room, scanning the area. Nothing looked out of place. No sign of a disturbance, a struggle, a hasty flight. "We need to figure out where she is. And why. Anything look off to you in here?"

  Rhodes glanced around. "No," she conceded, reluctance in her voice. "Looks like my place – she hasn't dusted in a couple of weeks, hasn't sorted through all her mail, eats her dinner in front of the television." Her gaze touched on the beer bottle and dirty plate on the coffee table, the stack of mail on the table next to the front door.

  "I'll take a look in the other apartment," Mac said. "You look around here and see if anything pops for you."

  "Got it." Rhodes headed for the kitchen, and Mac followed to where the landlord waited just inside the door.

  "Can you show me the other apartment?" Mac asked the man.

  "Sure."

  Mac trailed the other man down the stairs and waited while he opened the door. The apartment was completely empty. He walked through every room, looking for anything out of place. The only thing he found was a few pieces of dry dog food on the living room floor.

  He picked them up, studied them for a moment. "Your previous tenant have a dog?"

  Hastings shook his head. "No. But Lizzy has one."

  ***

  Four days later, late in the afternoon, Lizzy parked her car in front of a small, one-story house in a remote area east of Seattle. This was it. Make or break time.

  It had taken her two days to come up with a plan, and then she'd turned north toward Seattle. Now she was sitting in front of her old boss's house, her hands sweating, her heart racing. Would Diane help her? Or would she insist on calling the police or the FBI?

  Maybe she should go to the FBI here in Seattle.

  She was more than two thousand miles away from Chicago. Surely, whatever was going on back there wouldn't matter this far away.

  But she had no idea what was going on in the Chicago FBI office. No way of knowing who she could trust.

  Which meant she couldn't trust anyone in law enforcement.

  She didn't want to get Diane involved in this mess, but she had no choice. She trusted her friend. Her father had been killed while Lizzy had been working at Diane's language camp, and the director had been her rock. She'd steadied Lizzy, helped her find her way.

  Her throat constricted, and Franny poked her head between the two front seats, resting her chin on Lizzy's shoulder. Her hand shook as she raised it to pet her dog. "It's okay, baby. We'll be okay. Diane will help us."

  God, she hoped so. Because she didn't have a backup plan.

  Giving herself a moment to steady her breathing, she patted Franny one more time, then slid out of the car. Then she squared her shoulders and marched to the front door.

  Moments later, an attractive woman with wavy salt and pepper hair, dressed in faded jeans and a baggy sweater, opened the door. "Lizzy? My God, what are you doing here?"

  "May I come in?" Her voice sounded thin and desperate, as exhausted as she felt. "Please?"

  "Of course." Diane stepped aside and Lizzy glanced at the car once more before she stepped inside.

  "This is such a lovely surprise," Diane began, reaching to hug Lizzy. "Why didn't you let me know you were coming?"

  "Because I couldn't." Lizzy tightened her arms around the woman for a long moment, closed her eyes in relief, then stepped away. "I'm in trouble, Diane, and I need your help."

  The older woman held her shoulders, studied Lizzy's face, then nodded. "Come into the kitchen. I'll make some tea and you can tell me what's going on."

  An hour later, Lizzy picked up the almost empty tea cup and drank the bitter dregs. "So I thought maybe I could stay on Skipjack Island," she said quietly. "No one's there this time of year. It would be a safe place to hide while I figure out what to do."

  Diane frowned. "Maybe you should talk to the police here. Or the FBI.'

  Lizzy shook her head. "No. You know how the cops are. They back each other up. Protect each other. No cop is going to take my side against one of their own."

  The pain in Diane's eyes was for the teen-aged Lizzy. Her parents had sent her to Skipjack to get her away from the sheriff's deputy in their small northern Wisconsin town who'd become obsessed with her. Later that summer, the deputy had killed her father and made it look like a fishing accident. "Lizzy, that was a long time ago. One individual. You can't tar all cops with the sins of one of them."

  "No? My parents tried everything. The sheriff himself. The state police. The FBI. None of them did a thing. Not even after that son of a bitch killed my father." Lizzy's voice rose, and she struggled to restrain her fear and desperation. "Who am I supposed to trust? The FBI? An FBI agent is the killer. The police? They'll just pat me on the head, tell me I've got an overactive imagination and call the FBI in Chicago."

  Diane studied her for a long moment. Finally she sighed. "Are you sure you want to stay on Skipjack? It's so isolated. What if something happened? What if you got sick? Or hurt?"

  Lizzy walked around the kitchen island and hugged the older woman tightly. "Thank you, Diane."

  "For what?" The older woman leaned back to look at Lizzy.

  "For believing me. For being your usual calm, logical self. For not insisting that I have to go to the FBI and tell them what's going on."

  Diane squeezed her shoulders one more time, then let her go. "I think you're making a mistake – I think we should get a lawyer and go to the police and let them handle it. But you're afraid to do that, and I understand why. So Skipjack it is. It's deserted this time of year, so you can hide there until we figure something out."

  Lizzy's throat swelled. "There's no 'we', Diane. I'm putting you in enough danger by coming here and asking this huge favor. You're not going to get involved."

  "Of course I am. The best camp counselor I've ever had needs help. Do you think I'm going to give you the keys to the Skipjack house then forget about you?"

  "Yes! That's exactly what I want you to do."

  "Sorry, Lizzy. Not going to happen."

  Lizzy had forgotten how stubborn and determined her former boss could be. "Fine. Maybe you could arrange for regular grocery deliveries to the island. That would be a huge help. I need to stay off-line as much as possible. I can open a new email account with a different name, but I don't want to take any chances."

  "I can do that," Diane said. She sank onto the stool next to Lizzy. "Do you have enough money?"

  "I have enough for a few months, if I don't have to pay for a place to stay." Lizzy swallowed. The beater car had gulped gas and oil on the long trip west. There was no such thing as a cheap motel anymore, at least not
along the interstate. And good, healthy food didn't come cheap.

  "You're a translator. You could work while you're on Skipjack."

  "Not as Elizabeth Monroe. The FBI would find me in about ten minutes.

  Diane looked at her hands on the counter and said nothing for a long moment. "I can help you with that." Her voice shook. "With a new identity."

  The older woman stood, and Lizzy watched her disappear into the small office at the front of the house. A minute later, she returned to the kitchen and handed Lizzy a folded piece of paper.

  It was a birth certificate. For Elizabeth Anne Gorham. She was thirty, two years older than Lizzy. "What's this?"

  Sadness drenched Diane's eyes. "My daughter. She died of SIDS when she was ten months old. While we were on a trip to Florida." She managed a weak smile. "Your application for a counselor's job caught my eye because you're an Elizabeth, too. Once I read your resume and talked to you, I hired you because I knew you'd do a great job. But if it hadn't been for the Elizabeth, I might have skipped over your application. You were a lot younger than our other counselors."

  Lizzy set the certificate on the counter and smoothed the crease in the middle. "You're...you're giving this to me? Your daughter's identity?"

  "I can't think of anyone I'd rather have use it." She squeezed Lizzy's hand. "And it's just temporary. I know we'll figure a way out of this."

  "What...what did you call your daughter?" Lizzy whispered.

  "Beth. We called her Beth."

  "Then I'll be Beth. Beth Gorham."

  "You can use it to get a credit card," Diane said. She tapped the line at the bottom of the page that held a nine-digit number. "You have a social security number. The most essential part of a new identity."

  "You read thrillers, too, don't you?" Lizzy said, smiling through the tears that pooled in her eyes.

  "Yeah, I do. And I'm so happy I can let you use this."

  "I'll be careful with it," Lizzy promised. "I'll get it back to you."

  "I know you will." She hugged Lizzy once more, then stood up. "Go get your stuff. I'm going to make you a real meal. I'm guessing you've had nothing but fast food since you left Chicago."