by Debra Webb
Did that mean today was Thursday? Didn’t really matter. Sande hastily tugged on the clothes. She didn’t care what they were or their condition, or even how they fit, as long as they covered her body and protected her from the cold that had settled deep into her bones.
The memory of those men chasing after her back at the hospital reignited her fear, which had lessened a fraction.
“Who is this man?” she asked, a little hesitant to speak to a stranger, considering recent circumstances. Whatever instincts she possessed were screaming at her to use extreme caution.
“His name is Lucas Camp.” Madge scrounged around in the bag once more until she came up with a pair of beat-up sneakers. “His wife runs some fancy private investigation agency.” She made a humming sound as she mulled over what she wanted to say next. “The Colby Agency.”
Colby Agency?
Didn’t ring any bells for Sande.
“Yep.” Madge fished a tattered jacket from her stockpile of personal goods. “They say the Colby Agency is the best of its kind. I bet you they’ll be able to figure out just what happened to you and where you come from. Seems like the best plan.”
Sande sure hoped so.
She couldn’t remember her name or where she lived…but she had a feeling. A very bad feeling that if she didn’t get help, something terrible was going to happen…
To her.
Chapter Two
Patrick O’Brien.
Dr. Patrick O’Brien.
No. Not anymore.
Patrick had given up his practice as a psychologist more than two years ago.
He wasn’t going back there.
Not ever.
Patrick surveyed his office. He liked working for the Colby Agency. Profiling clients and the subjects associated with cases had proved to be interesting work. The pay was outstanding and the benefits unmatched.
His work kept him busy. He didn’t have to think about the past…
Then what the hell was wrong with him today? He couldn’t keep his mind on the task in front of him. He felt restless. Out of sorts.
He knew the reason. Pretending wouldn’t make it otherwise.
It was the anniversary of his wife’s death. Three years ago today she had left their Oak Park home for a day of shopping with friends, but had never made it to the mall. Never even made it across town. A carjacking had left her dead on the street.
And that had only been the beginning of his life’s unraveling.
Patrick pushed away the memories, the images that instantly flooded his mind. He couldn’t live in the past, couldn’t keep looking back. Forcing his focus forward was the only way to survive.
Despite his determination not to dwell on the worst of his history, his thoughts appeared to have a will of their own. For the first few weeks after his wife’s murder he’d asked himself why it couldn’t have been him. Why her? An angel as surely as he lived and breathed. His angel. That was what she had been.
Or so he had thought. Slowly but surely, as the investigation into her death had played out, he had learned that he’d never really known his wife at all. She had led a double life. Beautiful, devoted wife to him, to all appearances; obsessive-compulsive adulteress when no one was watching.
That old familiar knot formed in his gut. How could he have studied and worked to heal the human mind when he hadn’t recognized for a moment that his own wife was a habitual liar and cheater? Not once had he suspected her extramarital activities, and yet there had been dozens of men during their five-year marriage. The wife of one had hired a thug to kill the woman who had lured her husband into temptation.
Nothing Patrick did or felt could change the facts. He couldn’t let those painful memories distract him from the present and drag him back into that pit of agony and depression he had slowly risen from two years ago. Wallowing in self-pity and doubt would accomplish nothing, then or now.
He had started over. He had a life here at the Colby Agency. Patrick liked his work. For the most part he kept to himself after hours. No family ties, no social obligations. He didn’t need anything else. Nor anyone else.
He trusted no one outside his colleagues at the agency. Even that fledgling bond was strictly in the professional sense. His personal life would remain his alone. If he didn’t venture into that trust territory, he wouldn’t have to worry about being deceived.
The intercom on his desk buzzed, dragging him from the painful past. Mildred Ballard’s voice followed. “Patrick, could you come to Victoria’s office? She has a new case she’d like to discuss with you.”
“Thank you, Mildred, I’ll be right there.”
Work was the one thing he depended on now. He could trust his work. It never let him down.
The stroll to Victoria’s office was uninterrupted. Most of the investigators on staff were engrossed in cases, with no time for idle chatter. Admittedly, the entire staff operated more like a large family, but that atmosphere of camaraderie never got in the way of solving any case. Meeting or exceeding the client’s needs and expectations was paramount to Victoria Colby-Camp.
That was another thing he liked about the agency; no corners were cut, no underhanded business tactics were used. Top-notch investigative work was the order of the day. Patrick was surrounded by the best of the best in the field of private investigations. The Colby Agency’s reputation was unparalleled. No one lied. No one cheated.
“She’s waiting for you,” Mildred said as Patrick approached.
Mildred Ballard had been with Victoria for two decades. Through thick and thin, both would say. As the personal assistant to the woman in charge, Mildred ran a tight ship. She missed nothing and kept everyone in line. Mildred was outranked only by Ian Michaels and Simon Ruhl, Victoria’s seconds in command.
Patrick nodded in acknowledgment of Mildred’s broad smile and entered the private office of Victoria Colby-Camp. Lucas Camp, Victoria’s husband, rose from one of the chairs flanking the massive desk as Patrick crossed the room.
“Victoria.” Patrick looked from his boss to the man whose very presence still intimidated most, even him at times. “Lucas.” He extended his hand. “How was your trip?”
Lucas shook Patrick’s hand with the same confidence his bearing conveyed, despite the ever-present cane that assisted his less-than-perfect stride. “I accomplished my mission.”
And that was all he would be getting from the mysterious Lucas Camp. The man was a CIA legend, though his activities had been and still were cloaked in secrecy. Retirement had done little to slow him. He still worked in an advisory capacity for the government and spent every possible moment with his wife—the woman he had waited twenty years to call his own.
That Lucas Camp was present for this meeting carried a great deal of significance. Patrick was definitely intrigued.
“I wouldn’t have expected anything less,” he stated as both he and Lucas settled into the comfortable wingback chairs.
“Here’s Windy,” Victoria announced. “Now we can get started.”
Patrick glanced toward the door as Windy Millwood entered the room. He frowned momentarily, but he almost immediately schooled his expression. He was, after all, merely a profiler. He should have anticipated there would be an investigator sitting in. Disappointment niggled, but he pushed it away. When Victoria thought he was ready to get in the field and take on a case, she would say as much. She wasn’t one to mince words, nor was she indecisive.
“Sorry I’m late,” Windy said. “I was waiting for a fax.” Paper in hand, the tall brunette strode to the chair on the other side of Lucas and settled into it. The formal bearing of her military days had carried over to her civilian career.
Male investigators outnumbered females five to one at the Colby Agency, but not one, male or female, was more prepared and well trained than former Marine Captain Windy Millwood.
“Now that we’re all here,” Victoria began, “let’s bring Patrick up to speed.”
Lucas began. “Yesterday afternoon one of the
regulars at the soup kitchen brought in a sort of Jane Doe.”
“Sort of?” Patrick inquired.
Lucas appeared to consider for a moment how to respond, before continuing. “She had a name, but no recall of who she was or where she came from.”
As Lucas explained the circumstances of the client’s only memories, Patrick found himself increasingly intrigued. He had to confess that waking up covered by a sheet and lying on a gurney outside a morgue door was not an everyday occurrence.
“Her driver’s license is a match. Social security number, too,” Windy confirmed as she passed the page to Lucas. “But that’s where it ends.”
Lucas handed the fax to Patrick. “What about the address on the license?”
As Windy explained that the residence recorded on the license was occupied by and belonged to someone else, Patrick considered the blond woman in the DMV photo. Sande Williams. Young. Twenty-eight, according to the birth date shown. Blue eyes. Petite in size.
“Did you visit the residence?” Patrick looked at Windy. “Perhaps Ms. Williams is a friend or relative of the occupant.”
“I thought we’d go together,” Windy suggested.
“Patrick,” Victoria interjected, drawing his attention to her, “you’ll be working this case with Windy. Considering the client’s apparent amnesia, I felt you would be an asset on this one. I’ve been waiting for the right opportunity to get you into the field. I believe this is the perfect case.”
Anticipation fired in every neuron. “I agree.” Patrick had been awaiting this opportunity as well. That the client had special needs falling within the scope of his former profession was definitely a bonus.
“It might not be a bad idea to take Ms. Williams along on your visit to the residence,” Lucas suggested. That he made the statement to him rather than Windy surprised Patrick, since she was unquestionably senior. “If the client has ever lived at that address the encounter could trigger repressed memories.”
No doubt, but there could also be hazards related to such a bold move. “With all due respect, Lucas, I’d like to interview the client before taking that step. Just as a precaution.”
“Of course,” the older man replied. “The mind is your specialty.”
“The two of you can get started,” Victoria recommended, “and the research team will continue to dig for information on Ms. Williams.”
“I’ll have a colleague of mine check under a few rocks to see what he can come up with,” Lucas added. “That Ms. Williams woke up in a hospital smacks of a cover-up. I have contacts in the local medical field. I’ll sound those out…as well.”
Patrick would wager Lucas Camp had contacts in most fields, most places.
Windy stood. “Thank you, sir, ma’am,” she said to Lucas and Victoria.
Patrick assured Victoria that he and Windy would check in periodically, before following his newly assigned partner from the office.
His first case.
He took a deep breath. He was ready to make this leap.
No more looking back.
Downtown Women’s Shelter
PATRICK AND HIS PARTNER emerged from his sedan. He considered the neighborhood. Residential. Quiet. The trilevel house that served as a home for those who had no place to go looked like any other nearby. There were no posted signs or other indications that the address was any different from the rest that lined the immaculately maintained street.
But there was a major difference. This home protected the women who stayed there. A pass code was required for admittance. No official ID would serve the purpose. Your name was either on the entrance list and you possessed the necessary information or you didn’t get in.
Period.
Abused and otherwise devastated women from all walks of life sought temporary refuge here. Their troubles would never find them here, nor would their abusers, whether friend or relative. This shelter was the most successful in all of Chicago at protecting its residents. Not one had been tracked down to this location.
Precisely why Lucas Camp had brought Sande Williams here.
Patrick stayed two steps behind Windy as they approached the house. The gate wasn’t locked, but there would be an armed guard just inside the closed and secured door. There would be no getting past him without the proper authorization.
Windy knocked, then recited the necessary pass code. A couple of seconds later, no doubt after the guard had studied both Patrick and her through the cameras positioned on either end of the porch, the door opened for their admittance.
“Windy Millwood.” The guard turned his attention to Patrick. “Patrick O’Brien.”
Windy displayed her Colby Agency ID, as did Patrick.
“Welcome.” The guard stepped back and allowed them to enter.
Inside, the long, narrow entrance hall was deserted. Before Patrick could assess the setting, a middle-aged woman stepped from the first door on the left.
“Your client is waiting in the conference room,” she said before thrusting out her hand. “I’m Carlene Mitchell, the administrator.”
“Windy Millwood.” She shook the woman’s hand. “And this is my colleague, Patrick O’Brien.”
Patrick had from his first day at the Colby Agency insisted that the title of doctor be dropped. He offered his hand to their host. “We understand our presence here is an inconvenience. We appreciate your hospitality.”
Carlene nodded, but her smile was noticeably restrained. “This way.”
The administrator led the way to what had likely once been a grand dining room. Sande Williams waited there. She looked even younger than her photo and, quite frankly, scared to death. Her arms were crossed around her middle, and her shoulders shook, though she visibly struggled to control the outward display of weakness. Fear ultimately won the battle.
When the introductions had been made and Carlene had left them to their work, Windy began the interview. “Ms. Williams, why don’t you start from the beginning and tell us what happened yesterday.”
Seated across from her at the well-used dining table, Patrick analyzed the woman as she spoke. She repeated the story of waking outside the morgue and running for her life, for reasons she didn’t understand. Sande Williams, although clearly nervous, stoically went over the details of her only memories. Anything beyond the past twenty-four hours was lost to her, a very rare phenomenon, but not completely unheard of. Patrick decided to reserve conclusions until after he’d spoken with her at length.
“Ms. Williams,” he said when she’d finished her story, to the point where a kind man, Lucas Camp, had delivered her here, “putting the facts aside, how do you feel?”
She blinked, those wide blue eyes connecting fully with his for the first time. “What do you mean?”
He leaned back in his chair to further set a tone of relaxation. “You’re nervous, I’m sure. That’s to be expected. Any headaches? Dizziness? Anger or other feelings of emotion?”
Sande moved her head from side to side. “No. Well, I’m scared, but mostly I feel…disjointed. As if I’ve lost something that I don’t know how to get back. Does that make sense?”
“Yes. It makes perfect sense.” Classic disorientation response. “Do you feel apprehensive in our presence?” It was very important for her to trust those who were handling her case. They would get nowhere until she felt at ease in his and Windy’s company.
“A little,” she admitted. She moistened her lips and let go a big, shaky breath. “But I know I have to trust someone to help me. I can’t do this alone.”
That was a start. “Do you have any physical injuries?” Patrick saw no visible signs, but there could be bruises, lumps, bumps or scratches beneath her clothing.
She hesitated, as if pondering his question at length. “None that I’ve discovered.”
“What about dreams?” He studied his client’s face for those reactions she wouldn’t put into words. “Did you have any dreams last night that you recall?”
Again, she shook her head. “None th
at I remember.”
“You understand that Windy and I want to help you learn what happened to you prior to yesterday? We’ll do everything we can to that end.”
She gave a resolute nod. “Yes.”
Now for the first big hurdle. “Then you won’t mind accompanying us to the residence listed on your driver’s license, in an attempt to prompt your memory.”
Not a question.
She hesitated a beat, then two. “No…except I worry that they’ll be watching.”
“They?”
“Whoever…the people who did this to me.” She wet her lips again. His gaze followed the movement despite his best intentions.
“That’s an understandable fear,” Windy assured her when he didn’t immediately do so.
“It’s our job to protect you from this moment forward. You understand that we’ll do all within our power to that end?” Patrick watched for the slightest change in her expression, in her eyes.
“Yes.” She drew in a deep, steadying breath. “Mr. Camp said that the people from the Colby Agency would do whatever necessary to ensure my safety while investigating my case.”
“We will,” Windy reiterated. “Whenever you’re with Patrick or myself you’ll have no reason to fear anyone. We’re both highly trained and very good at what we do. You leave the worrying to us.”
“What if I don’t remember anything?” Sande looked from Patrick to Windy and back. “I mean, I don’t know if Sande Williams is even my name.” She shrugged. “The picture on the driver’s license is definitely me. But it doesn’t feel like me.”
There was the possibility that this woman simply no longer wanted to be who she was. But that conclusion did not explain her waking up at a morgue with a sheet over her nude body and a toe tag attached to her foot. That part indicated foul play, without doubt.
