Fatal Identity

by Marie Force

  “That ain’t bad, all things considered.”

  “I guess. I hear Forrester is considering assault charges, but I’m not worrying about that until it happens.”

  “You should worry. He’s got a valid case, and you know it.”

  “Maybe so, but I’d do it again. And don’t tell me I’m better than him and should’ve risen above it. I heard you the other ninety times you’ve said that.”

  “It’s true.”

  “I’ve got bigger fish to fry with both my guys down with the flu.”

  “Aw, crap, that’s too bad. Wish I could come help you take care of them.”

  “You’re far better off over there away from the germ pit. I sent Shelby home to get her out of here.”

  “Probably for the best in her condition.”

  “So I caught an interesting new case today. Or a potential case.”

  “How’s that possible when you’re suspended?”

  Sam filled him in on Josh Hamilton’s story and his connection to Director Hamilton.

  Skip’s low whistle came through the phone loud and clear. “Are you shitting me?”

  “Would I shit you, Skippy?”

  “Holy... Sam, you gotta be so careful here—you know that, right?”

  “Yes, Dad, I know that.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “First step was getting the DNA. Next I’m going to call Williamson County and give them a heads-up that we have a guy who closely resembles the composite. We’ll go from there.”

  “God, those poor people. Thirty years wondering where their kid is.”

  “I know. It’s unimaginable. You think it’s possible Director Hamilton could’ve been part of something like this?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. I only know what I’ve read about him, but he has a good reputation in law enforcement circles, as you know.”

  “Yeah, Avery thinks the world of him.”

  “I can’t even begin to get my head around the implications of what this guy is saying.”

  “Neither can I. But the picture... The resemblance is uncanny.”

  “There’s a whole lot of speculation involved in the production of those age-progression photos. Just remember that.”

  “I’m operating on the presumption that Josh Hamilton is not Taylor Rollings until I have proof otherwise.”

  “Good plan, but you also need a plan for what you’re going to do if he is Taylor Rollings.”

  “What would you do with that info?”

  “I’d go directly to Farnsworth. Don’t pass Go, don’t collect two hundred dollars. Don’t do anything but go right to him.”

  “Right. I agree. That’s what I’ll do.”

  “This might be the craziest thing I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard a lot of crazy shit in my life.”

  “I know—me too. Well, I’d better go make that call to Tennessee.”

  “Keep me posted, baby girl, and be careful not to get yourself into another pot of hot water with the department over this.”

  “I do so love a good hot bath.”

  “Sam.”

  “Yes, sir. I hear you. I’ll be careful.”

  “Let me know how Nick and Scotty are later.”

  “You got it. See ya, Skippy.”

  “Bye, baby.”

  Before she made the phone call to Tennessee, Sam went upstairs to look in on Scotty, resting her hand on his forehead, which was still burning hot.

  He opened his eyes. “Hey.”

  “How’re you feeling, honey?”

  His eyes went wide all of a sudden, and Sam wondered if he was going to be sick again. “What is it?”

  “I, um, that’s what my mom—my first mom—used to call me.”

  “Oh, sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  “No, it’s fine.” He forced a weak smile. “I like it.”

  Her heart had never actually ached with love the way it regularly did for this sweet boy. She returned his smile and brushed the hair back from his forehead. “You need anything?”

  “Some water maybe.”

  “I’ll be right back.” She went downstairs and brought two glasses of ice water back up. Leaving Nick’s on Scotty’s bedside table, she helped her son sit up and take some sips.

  “Was Harry here, or did I dream that?”

  “He was here, and he said that despite how bad you feel, you’re going to live.”

  “That’s good.”

  Sam kissed his feverish cheek. “That’s very good.”

  “How’s Dad?”

  “Out cold the last time I checked.”

  “I hope he’s okay.”

  “He’ll be fine, and so will you.”

  His eyes went wide all of a sudden. “TJ’s party! It’s tomorrow night. I have to go! Everyone is going.”

  Sam hated to disappoint him, especially after all the hoops they’d had to jump through with the Secret Service to make it possible for him to attend. “Let’s see what tomorrow brings before we decide anything. You wouldn’t want your friends to get sick if you go out too soon, would you?”

  “No, but...” His chin quivered ever so slightly. “I really want to go.”

  “I know. Maybe you’ll feel a thousand times better by tomorrow.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Me too. Now get some sleep, and call me if you need anything. I’ll be close by.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Sam leaned over to kiss his cheek again before tucking the comforter in around his shoulders.

  “You’re a good mom,” he said so softly she almost missed it.

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Really?”

  “Mmm-hmm. The best.”

  “You make it easy for me.”

  His eyes were closed, but his lips curved into a smile.

  Taking the other glass of water with her, Sam left his door propped open so she could hear him if he called for her. She went into her room where Nick was exactly where she’d left him—curled up on his left side sound asleep. Other than their honeymoon, when they’d done nothing but eat, drink, sleep and have sex, she’d rarely seen him asleep at this hour of the day. It was unsettling to see her unstoppable husband felled by anything, let alone something as pedestrian as the flu.

  At times, she’d wondered if he had superpowers that he kept secret from her. How else to explain the way he managed to get so much done while also taking excellent care of her and Scotty? Sam kissed his cheek, and even though she knew she shouldn’t, she kissed his lips too.

  “Mmm, not tonight, babe.”

  Sam laughed out loud.

  His eyes popped open.

  “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said no to me.”

  Clearing his throat, he said, “I take it back. I never say no to you.”

  “You’re allowed to today. How you doing?”

  “Never better.”

  “Now you’re lying to me?”

  “Don’t want you to worry.”

  “Too late for that.”

  “How’s the boy?”

  “Worried about TJ’s party.”

  Nick winced. “Ahh, crap. That’s tomorrow, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “What are the odds that we’re going to be free of this plague by then?”

  “Slim to none.”

  “He’ll be so disappointed.”

  “We’ll make it up to him—somehow.”

  “I’ve got to go make a call, and then I’ll come back and tell you a story you won’t believe.”

  “’K.” His eyes were already closed, his breathing heavier, his muscles relaxing as he drifted back to sleep.

  Sam went into the bedr
oom they now used as an office, since the Secret Service had commandeered their downstairs study. She fired up Nick’s computer, then knocked a few of his rigidly organized files out of alignment, smiling at the thought of him discovering her handiwork when he felt better. She did a search for Williamson County law enforcement, clicking on the link to the Franklin, Tennessee police department.

  The age-progression photo Josh had seen online and a paragraph about the photo being released on the thirtieth anniversary of Taylor’s kidnapping appeared on the department’s home page. The write-up ended with the phone number to call with information about the case.

  Sam felt unusually nervous as she placed the call. Rarely did her work cause jitters, but everything about this situation was odd—from Josh happening upon the photo on a random website to the way he’d singled her out to investigate. And then there was his connection to Director Hamilton.

  “Franklin Police.”

  “I’d like to speak to the detective in charge of the Taylor Rollings case, please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Lieutenant Holland, Metro PD in Washington, D.C.”

  Dead silence.

  “As in the vice president’s wife?”

  “As in Lieutenant Holland, Metro PD.”

  “Ah, I got it. So you don’t play the VP card, huh?”

  This guy was lucky Sam wasn’t his boss, or his ass would be grass and she’d be the lawn mower. “Could I please speak to the detective?”

  “You sure can. Just hang on one second. And may I say it was an honor to speak to you?”

  Since her head was about to explode with aggravation, she decided it would be wise to remain silent. The phone clicked to hold music that was even more annoying than the MPD’s, and that was saying something.

  “Detective Watson.”

  “This is Lieutenant Holland, Metro PD in Washington, D.C. Are you the detective in charge of the Taylor Rollings case?”

  “I am.”

  “I may have something for you.”

  After a long pause, he said, “Define something.”

  “A possible match for the age-progression photo you circulated. I’ve had someone make contact who believes it’s possible he may be the person you’re looking for.”

  “Can you send me a picture?”

  “Not yet. We’ve taken a DNA swab and will have a report for you in the next few days. If there’s a match, we’ll proceed from there. You’ll understand that he’s not interested in raising the hopes of the Rollings family without definitive proof.”

  “I do understand, and that’s the last thing I want either, believe me. I appreciate the call and the heads-up. Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

  “Just one thing—his thirtieth birthday is next week, so the timing lines up. But if the DNA doesn’t match, there’ll be no point in discussing it any further.”

  “I’ll be waiting to hear from you.” He shared his email address and cell phone number. “If you’d give me a call when you send it, I’d appreciate it.”

  “I’ll do that. Could I ask if there’ve been any other leads resulting from the photo?”

  “Lots of calls, but nothing that’s panned out. We’re following up on everything the way we always do when this case gets new attention, usually around the anniversary of the abduction.” He sounded exhausted and frustrated, which gave him tons of credibility with Sam. Most detectives she knew spent a vast majority of their careers exhausted or frustrated, often both.

  “How long have you been on the case?”

  “Fifteen years. The original detective literally worked himself into an early grave looking for Taylor. His wife left him, his kids stopped speaking to him and he turned to the bottle for comfort.”

  Sam felt for a guy she’d never met. Sometimes the job took everything you had to give and then asked for more. “And the parents...”

  “Toughest people you’ll ever meet. True salt-of-the-earth types. I don’t know how they do it, but they never give up hope. They speak of Taylor in the present tense. Micki says that until she has proof to the contrary, she believes her son is alive.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, they amaze me and everyone else who knows them.”

  “I need to warn you, if this guy turns out to be their son, it’ll be the lead story on every TV station and in every newspaper in the country for the foreseeable future.”

  “Why? What the hell? Who is he?”

  “It’s more about who his father is.”

  “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

  “None of us are.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SAM SPENT MOST of Friday night and early Saturday morning running between her puking son and her puking husband. She was about to fall over from exhaustion when she crawled into bed next to Nick after changing the sheets on Scotty’s bed for the second time.

  She’d no sooner closed her eyes when her cell phone rang. That only happened at this hour when she was on call, so she was immediately concerned about her dad. “Hello.”

  “Sam.”

  She groaned loudly and then regretted it when Nick stirred. Rubbing his back to settle him, she said, “What do you want, Darren?”

  “I heard you were suspended for assaulting a fellow officer, and Forrester is considering charges. I wanted to give you a chance to comment before I go with it.”

  How in the hell had a reporter from the Washington Star caught wind of her suspension? That was supposed to be an internal department matter, thus the term internal affairs.

  “Sam?”

  “No comment, other than to say if you run that I’ve been suspended when I haven’t, that might be embarrassing for you.”

  “So you haven’t been suspended?”

  “I’ll neither confirm nor deny. Now leave me alone. I’m sleeping.” She slapped her phone closed and put it on the bedside table. If it weren’t for her father’s precarious health, she’d turn the thing off.

  “What’s that about?” Nick muttered.

  “There’s a very good possibility that the headline in the Star tomorrow will be ‘Second Lady Suspended After Assaulting Fellow Officer, U.S. Attorney Forrester Considering Charges.’”

  “He had it coming.”

  “And that, right there, is why I love you so much.”

  “Why? What’d I say?”

  “You still say he had it coming even though it could turn into a firestorm for your team.”

  “They get paid to put out fires. What about your staff? Should you give them a heads-up?”

  “Crap, you’re right. Lilia shouldn’t hear about it on the news. I keep forgetting I have a staff.” Another thought occurred to her. “Ah damn, I never checked on Gonzo today.”

  “Today is now well into tomorrow, and you need some sleep. You can check on him later and call Lilia.”

  “He blew off his shift yesterday. Never does that.”

  Nick reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “He’s grieving. It’s going to take a while.”

  “Worried about him.”

  “I know, babe. Me too.”

  * * *

  TOMMY GONZALES COULDN’T SLEEP. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t breathe without pain rippling through his chest in agonizing waves. He couldn’t play with his toddler son without breaking down in tears because his late partner would never experience the exquisite joy of fatherhood. He couldn’t bear the touch of his fiancée while knowing that Arnold would never drop to one knee and propose to the love of his life.

  The only relief Gonzo got from the unrelenting pain was found in a bottle of whiskey. He and Jameson had become very close friends since the dreadful night in January when his partner had been gunned down.

  If you shut the fuck
up, I’ll let you take the lead.

  Those words would haunt him for the rest of his life. Of course, if he hadn’t let Arnold take the lead that night, Gonzo would be dead. His son would be fatherless, and his fiancée bereft. The thought of those scenarios was only slightly less agonizing than the loss of Arnold had been. He didn’t like to think of Alex or Christina grieving him, but he’d almost rather be dead himself than have to live with the way his partner had died.

  The gurgling sound of blood in Arnold’s throat gave Gonzo nightmares in the rare instances when he actually slept. In a career filled with things he’d much rather forget than remember, it was the single worst sound Gonzo had ever heard, the sound of life leaving his partner, one desperate gasp at a time.

  He shuddered, thinking of it now and reached for the bottle that was never far from his grasp. The whiskey burned on the way down, his empty stomach protesting its arrival. Powering through the gut pain, he took another gulp, looking for the sweet oblivion he only found at the bottom of a bottle.

  It was almost five now, and he had to work at seven. He’d missed his shift yesterday. That was a first. Under normal circumstances, he’d be freaking out about screwing up at work. Under these circumstances, he couldn’t find the wherewithal to give a shit about his fucking nightmare of a job. He could no longer remember what he’d ever loved about it.

  In what other career could you be gunned down on a sidewalk simply because you carry a badge? In what other career did you risk your life every day for people who didn’t give a shit about you?

  These days, cops were viewed as the enemy because of a few bad ones who couldn’t control themselves. Did anyone other than his family and friends and colleagues in blue even care that a young man named Arnold John “AJ” Arnold had been gunned down on a sidewalk simply because he’d approached a suspect on a cold, dark night?

  Life had gone on for everyone else. Six weeks later, it was like it never happened for the rest of the world. Despite his best efforts to carry on, to be brave and strong for the people who were counting on him at home and at work, Gonzo could still hear the echo of the gunshots, smell the blood, taste the fear and panic of knowing there was nothing he could do. He could still hear that god-awful gurgling noise.

  Gonzo had about twenty—or maybe it was thirty—unanswered calls from the department shrink, reminding him he needed to make his next appointment. Like the last time Gonzo had seen him, Trulo would make him talk about it when that was the last freaking thing he wanted to do. How in the hell would that help anything? Let’s tear the scab off the wound and poke a sharp stick in it because that’ll surely make everything better. So he was avoiding Trulo and all the other do-gooders who wanted to “help.” As if there was anything anyone could do.