by Debra Webb
“That’s our job,” Windy declared. “We’ll find out who you are and why this has happened to you. We won’t stop until we do.”
Relief was evident in their new client’s eyes, but the worry remained. “I don’t understand how this could have happened.”
“There could,” Patrick offered, “be psychological reasons for your amnesia.” He turned his palms up. “There could be drugs involved. Many times when there is no physical trauma or psychological explanation, the cause of amnesia is drug related.”
Her eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Drugs? You think I might have been involved with drugs?”
“Not the kind you think,” he hastened to explain. “I’m referring to mind-altering drugs that might have been administered without your consent or your knowledge. Perhaps you agreed to partake in some sort of drug trial and are suffering a rare side effect. Our first stop today will be a private clinic. Our associate there will take the necessary samples and determine if you’ve recently been exposed to drugs.”
Sande nodded. “And if we find something, what then?”
Windy picked up from there. “The hospital where you awoke insists you were never a patient in their facility. They have no record at all of you, they claim. But based on your story, you were a patient there, however briefly. Their denial gives us reason to suspect there’s a cover-up of some sort going on.”
“I don’t remember how I got there or anything that happened before I woke up on that gurney.” Sande closed her eyes for a long moment. “I don’t understand how this could be happening.” When her eyes opened, her gaze locked with Patrick’s. “How could a person just lose all they were? It seems crazy.”
He wouldn’t say so just now, but there were a number of mental illnesses that presented with amnesia. Most often because the patient simply did not want to remember who she or he was. That diagnosis would take time, time spent with the patient.
“We’ll operate under the assumption that you’re a victim,” Windy assured her. “Your safety will be our top priority during our investigation.”
Sande Williams bit her bottom lip as the fingers of her right hand twisted and twirled a lock of her long blond hair. “But there is the possibility that I’m just plain crazy.”
“Not crazy,” Patrick corrected. “You may have suffered a psychotic break. Stress. Any number of triggers could have set off the episode. But that doesn’t explain the hospital’s denial of your presence in their facility. These are the questions we have to consider and find explanations for.”
She contemplated his words before she spoke again. Looking directly at him, she asked, “But you’ll fix whatever it is, right?”
Patrick infused all the reassurance he could into his gaze. “You have our word we will find the problem—” he leaned forward slightly for emphasis “—and will do whatever it takes to rectify that problem, or get you to the people who can.”
Relief filled her eyes. “Thank you.”
What he suddenly felt contradicted all that he had just stated to this woman. For the first time since he’d entered Victoria’s office and learned of this assignment, Patrick had second thoughts.
Sande Williams was a complete mystery. A woman in serious trouble. Whatever demons, real or imagined, haunted her, he had promised that he would take care of her and the situation.
How the hell could he make that kind of assurance when he hadn’t even really known his own wife? He had lived with her for years and hadn’t experienced the slightest inkling that all was not as it should be. He’d failed her and he’d failed himself.
As if Windy sensed his mental retreat, she took the reins. “Ms. Williams, this is what we do at the Colby Agency, and we’re very, very good at what we do. We will find the truth and take whatever steps are necessary to resolve your dilemma. You’re in good hands.”
On cue, Patrick felt a tremor.
Maybe he wasn’t as ready for a field assignment as he’d thought.
This wasn’t a mere compilation of facts and data to be passed along to an investigator for follow through. This involved dealing directly with the people of interest in the case.
This was the real thing.
Chapter Three
2422 Johnson Lane
Chicago Suburb
“Here’s how we’re going to play this.” The first part of the job would be no hardship for Patrick. He knew how to read people. “We approach—”
“Wait.” Sande looked from him to the house across the street and back. “I’m not sure about this. What if I do or say the wrong thing?”
Fifteen minutes ago she had been fully prepared to participate in this phase of the investigation. No hesitation. The plan was simple. They would approach the residence listed on her driver’s license and see if she recognized the place or anyone residing there. At the same time, he would be analyzing any occupants for recognition of his client. In and out in a matter of minutes. No big deal.
“Windy checked out the lady living here,” he offered again, in hopes of calming Sande’s fear. “She’s a CPA. Single. And she has no criminal record, not even a parking ticket. She’s lived here for three years. There’s nothing to be worried about.”
Sande cast another furtive glance at the house. “But what if she somehow knows the people who did this to me? What if she’s involved?”
Her teeth tortured her bottom lip. He’d noticed she did that when she was nervous or uncertain. The need to protect stirred in him. Not unusual in this situation. She was vulnerable, he was not. Basic human compassion dictated that primal response. He’d tried to ignore going down that path for a few years now. But compassion was a necessary element of his interaction with the client. There was no discounting it now.
Patrick gazed at the ranch-style brick home across the street from where he’d parked along the curb. “Determining whether or not the lady of the house is involved is part of what we’ll hopefully learn on this visit. Remember, we have the element of surprise on our side. She has no idea we’re coming. She won’t be prepared to cause trouble or set any sort of trap.”
He wasn’t sure he’d convinced Sande, but she hadn’t flat out refused to go inside as of yet. He wondered if she would be more willing if a woman had been here. His associate was running Sande’s fingerprints and doing additional research on the hospital where she had awakened on that gurney.
Patrick didn’t need Windy for this step. He could handle an interview without his associate’s guidance. This was his specialty. All he needed was the client’s cooperation.
“Okay.” Sande took a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”
He breathed a little easier with that decision out of the way.
They crossed the street side by side. His client’s trepidation was palpable despite her determination to go through with this step. They had been watching the house for more than half an hour when the owner had come home. Since the woman had parked in the garage before emerging from her car, neither he nor Sande had been able to get a good look at her.
According to Windy’s research, the owner was Nancy Childers. Other than her occupation, the fact that she had no criminal record and that she had moved to Chicago from Detroit, they knew nothing else. She appeared to be a loner and had no listed next of kin.
The instant Patrick and Sande reached the front door of the house, she turned to him, her eyes wide with worry again. “I don’t say anything, right?”
“Exactly.” They’d been over this already. “Study the woman. The house. If you’ve been here before you may experience déjà vu or some emotional tug.”
Sande took another of those deep, bolstering breaths as she nodded.
“Try to stay relaxed and just feel.”
“I can do that.”
Her voice sounded strong despite the uncertainty in her eyes. Patrick rapped on the door and waited. A second knock was required before it opened.
A female matching Nancy Childers’s physical description looked expectantly from Patrick to San
de. “Can I help you?”
“Ms. Childers?”
The expected suspicion flashed in the woman’s eyes. “Yes.”
“My name is Patrick O’Brien, and this is my colleague, Sande Williams. We’re canvassing the area regarding a problem with burglaries. Do you have five minutes to discuss the recent rash of incidents in your neighborhood?”
When looking for a cover story, he’d read about the outbreak of robberies in the area. Any criminal activity in the community was likely to prompt immediate cooperation from residents. And if Ms. Childers reacted as expected, she would automatically assume he represented the local authorities in one capacity or another.
Nancy Childers hesitated only half a second. “Sure.” The suspicion vanished and she managed a polite smile. “Come in.” The door opened wider in invitation as she stepped back, allowing them entrance.
“We can talk in the living room.” She led the way.
When they were seated, Patrick explained briefly what he’d learned about the rash of robberies before asking, “Have you considered that someone in your neighborhood might be the perpetrator?”
Nancy frowned. “No.” She shook her head. “I discussed the problem with one of my neighbors just yesterday and we’re shocked. This isn’t the norm for this area. I guess I’m lucky my home wasn’t hit, since I’m rarely here.”
“So you haven’t noticed any suspicious activities? No strange automobiles or people loitering about?”
“No. Not at all.”
“May I use your restroom?” Sande interjected.
No one was more surprised by the question than Patrick. He glanced from Sande, who’d asked, to their host.
Nancy’s brow creased with another frown, this one laced with renewed suspicion. “Sure.” She hesitated a second or two, then waved her hand in the direction of the hall. “Second door on the right.”
When Sande had left the room, Patrick drew the woman’s attention back to the conversation. “Are any of the residents in the neighborhood new arrivals? Or is there anyone who perhaps keeps a particularly low profile? You’d be surprised how important small, seemingly insignificant details like that can be to an investigation.”
Nancy pondered his question. “It’s difficult for me to say, since I travel so frequently. In fact, I only just returned from several weeks in Dallas.”
“Your work keeps you away for extended periods?” She’d mentioned that, but he wanted details.
“Most of the time.” She shifted to a more relaxed position, but the tightening of her jaw gave away her continued uneasiness. “I help analyze and organize accounting departments for major corporations.”
So far he’d learned nothing he didn’t already know. Once he and Sande were gone, the woman’s actions would tell the rest of the story—if there was anything else to tell.
Noting Sande’s approach from the hall, Patrick stood. “We certainly appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Childers. If you think of anything at all out of the ordinary that you might have forgotten to mention, please give me a call.” He provided her with a card that included his name and cell-phone number. “One of us will be in touch if we think of any additional questions.”
Sande resumed her position at his side, her expression as neutral as it had been when they first entered the house. She shook Nancy’s hand and thanked her for her cooperation. Patrick studied the interaction between the two women. Nothing. Not a flicker of recognition.
Nancy Childers was either an accomplished actress or a dead end.
Patrick didn’t question his client until the door was closed behind them and they were nearing the street. “Nothing, huh?”
Sande shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Sande!”
Patrick’s attention jerked left, toward the source of the greeting. An older woman, seventy or seventy-five, waved from the yard next door to Nancy Childers’s home. As he watched, she leaned her rake against the fence, tugged off her gloves and started in their direction.
“I thought that was you!” The spry woman hurried to the sidewalk to meet them. “I’ve missed our garden chats. Where in the world have you been?” She scrutinized Sande for longer than was comfortable. “You don’t look well. Have you been ill?”
Sande’s expression left no question as to her utter surprise as well as total confusion. “I…uh, yes. I’ve been in the hospital.”
The older lady shook her head. “I wish you’d called me. I didn’t know what in the world happened. Then those men came around this morning looking for you, and I didn’t know what to say. They wouldn’t tell me a thing, just kept asking questions.” She wrung her hands. “Frankly, I was worried you’d…” She looked left then right, as if expecting trouble from somewhere on the street. “There are so many murders these days.” She heaved out a big breath. “You never know when someone just disappears like that. I sure wish you’d called.”
“I’m sorry.” Patrick offered his hand, diverting her attention to him. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Patrick O’Brien.”
“Alma Spears.” She grasped his hand with surprising strength. “I keep a watch on Nancy’s house when she’s away. Usually.” Her gaze shifted back to Sande. “But this time she hired herself a house sitter while she was away. I was going to ask her about that, but every time I drop by she’s on her way out or tied up on the phone.” Alma glanced back at the house. “Maybe she thinks I’m getting too old for the job.” Alma smiled. “In the end I made myself a new friend in Sande here.” Her smile dimmed. “I’m so glad to see you’re all right.”
Sande stared at the woman who called herself Alma Spears. She’d said one thing that had settled like a massive stone in her stomach. “Men came looking for me?” The idea that it may have been those men from the hospital who’d come here terrified her.
“Yes. Two of ’em.” Alma dabbed at her forehead with the back of her hand. “If you’re not in a hurry, why don’t you come on in and we’ll visit over some tea?” She made eye contact with Mr. O’Brien. “Or coffee.”
Two men. More of that paralyzing fear prickled Sande’s skin. Wait. Focus. The woman had asked her a question. Tea. She wanted to visit. Maybe that was a good idea. How was it that this Alma Spears could know Sande? And she felt no sense of recognition? No connection whatsoever?
“Coffee would be great,” O’Brien agreed cordially.
Sande had to pay attention. She’d completely ignored the invitation. Pull it together, girl. O’Brien had told her to pay attention. To relax and just feel.
Alma Spears led the way through her backyard, past a lush garden. Lots of pansies and deep-green ferns set against the darkening red of dwarf nandinas.
Once inside, she said, “You two make yourselves at home and I’ll get the refreshments.”
As soon as Alma was out of earshot, O’Brien turned to Sande. “You’re certain nothing in the house next door stirred even the slightest reaction?”
She shook her head. “I explored a bit when I asked to use the restroom. Nothing felt familiar.” That was the absolute worst feeling. To know you had a history, maybe family, and not be able to access those memories. It was like some part of her—the part that mattered the most—was missing.
“What about this lady?” he prodded. “Anything?”
Sande turned her palms up. “Nothing yet.”
His next question was preempted by Alma’s return. The tray she carried was laden with a floral porcelain coffeepot and three dainty cups and saucers. “I was hoping we’d get to say a proper goodbye before you left for your next assignment.” She passed Sande a cup prepared with tea, then filled the remaining two with coffee before passing one to O’Brien. “After four days I was certain you weren’t coming back.” She cradled her own cup and sighed. “Like I said before, I feared the worst.”
“Did the men who came looking for Ms. Williams identify themselves?” O’Brien sipped his coffee as nonchalantly as if he’d just asked if there might be rain in the forecast.
&n
bsp; Alma gestured to a small plate of cookies on the tray, but both Sande and O’Brien declined. “I guess I should’ve asked for ID,” the woman admitted, “but they seemed so official. I was worried that something had happened and they just weren’t telling me one way or the other. I got a little snippy toward the end of their visit.”
Sande stared at her, stunned. Four days? She had been missing for four days? This was unbelievable.
“Did either one of the men who visited you mention the recent rash of burglaries in your neighborhood?” O’Brien asked, keeping up the pretense, or just making conversation so as not to arouse suspicion, Sande supposed.
The exchange continued on benignly about what a great neighborhood Alma lived in, how she had known everyone on the street for ages. Sande sat stone still, utterly dumbfounded, while she then chatted on and on about her garden, and the relationship the two of them had seemingly developed.
“You’re sure it was only two months ago that Sande moved in next door?” O’Brien looked to Sande. “I was thinking three?”
Before Sande could decide what he wanted her to say, Alma shook her head with complete confidence. “Absolutely not. It was Labor Day weekend. You said you didn’t know a soul in the neighborhood and that Nancy wouldn’t be back for several more weeks.”
“Wait. Yes,” O’Brien allowed, “I think you’re right. Nancy had to go to Dallas.”
Alma’s forehead furrowed. “Dallas? I thought she was in San Diego?” She turned to Sande then, a mix of confusion and suspicion in her eyes. “You took her place at the firm here while she did your work out in San Diego. I’m sure that’s what you told me.” Her head wagged again. “I’ll never understand this whole life-swap thing. People don’t like to take risks anymore. They want to try everything out before they make a commitment.”
Total numbness had overtaken Sande. Life swapping? What was she talking about?
Alma studied her for a long moment. “You act like you don’t even recall staying here. Are you sure you’re all right?”
Sande froze. How did she respond to that?
