by Debra Webb
“Sande was quite ill,” O’Brien interjected quickly. “The medication has made the past few days a little hazy.”
The older woman nodded in understanding, but her expression indicated she was less than convinced of their story.
Fear snaked its way up Sande’s spine. What if the woman called those men back and told them she had been here? Had they given Alma Spears a card? She hadn’t mentioned that, but maybe she’d been asked not to say anything. Confusion and fear had wrapped around Sande in so many layers she couldn’t draw a breath. Her heart thumped hard against her sternum.
After a few minutes more casual back and forth, they had obviously extracted all they were going to get from Alma Spears. They had learned that Sande supposedly filled in for Nancy at Peyton and Wyatt, an accounting firm in Chicago where Nancy was employed. Maybe someone at the firm would recognize Sande. Would know where she’d lived before coming to Chicago. Would remember if she had any family or friends.
“Thank you, Alma.” Sande produced a shaky smile as she used the woman’s first name in hopes of not rousing more suspicion. She suddenly couldn’t wait to get out of the woman’s house. Being there felt strange…disconcerting. The more the woman said the less real any of it felt to her. She needed air.
Once back on the sidewalk, she drew in a deep, ragged breath. She felt dazed and even more confused than when they had arrived. “This is impossible. Her story can’t be true.”
O’Brien escorted her to his car. “First thing we do is find out where Nancy Childers has really been the past two months. And if you actually filled in for her at Peyton and Wyatt.”
“We’re going to talk to her again?” Sande wished she felt something, even the slightest flicker of recognition, where Nancy Childers was concerned. But there was nothing. Not a single thing about Alma Spears felt familiar, either. If Sande had ever met one or the other, she had absolutely no recall.
“Not yet.” O’Brien opened the front passenger door of his sedan. “But we will talk to both those ladies again, count on it.”
One thing kept Sande hanging on at this point. Lucas Camp had said the Colby Agency was the very best in the business.
She had to believe that.
She had to believe in something.
Chapter Four
Patrick braked for a stop sign at the end of the street. Sande’s anxiety radiated off her in waves. There wasn’t much he could say to console her that he hadn’t already. Only time and the slowly unraveling mystery of her identity would give her the peace she needed.
Though he had worked with only one patient with this level of amnesia, he sympathized with the fears and insecurities she no doubt experienced. He’d suffered a few of those himself when he’d first come on board at the Colby Agency.
He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and put in a call to Windy, getting directly to the point. “We need a more in-depth background search on Nancy Childers.”
In answer to his partner’s prompt regarding Sande’s reaction to the woman and the residence, he kept his answer concise so as not to unnerve their client any more than she already was. “None.”
When his passenger turned to stare out the car window, he understood that she hadn’t been fooled.
As he drove through the intersection, he brought Windy up to speed about the neighbor, Alma Spears. “Let’s get some background information on her, as well.”
After hearing her promise that she would get moving on the two women, as well as the Peyton and Wyatt firm, he ended the call and put his phone away. Sande continued staring out at the passing landscape. There were few reassurances he could give her, but he could fill her in on his plan. That would at least give her hope.
“We should have something preliminary on the background searches in a few hours.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “Until then, if you’d like to stop for an early lunch, we can do that.”
She turned toward him. He glanced from the street to her and back, but even in that brief moment he recognized the anger that had replaced the fear.
“No. I want to go to the firm, Peyton and Wyatt. I need to know if they can confirm Alma Spears’s story.”
He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to wait for Windy’s report. Still, the company was an unknown element. Patrick drove another block or so as he weighed the possible ramifications to his client, and the trouble they could run into. Both were irrelevant to some degree. If he were in Sande’s shoes he would do the same thing. The waiting was the worst part.
“Let me make a couple of calls first.”
He would get the street address from Windy and then do a little recon before taking Sande there. No matter how frustrated she was waiting, her safety had to be paramount.
For the second time today his confidence took a tumble.
Profiling suspects and persons of interest was one thing, field investigation and personal security quite another. The crime scene photos from his wife’s murder flashed before his eyes. He hadn’t been able to protect the woman he married. How could he possibly trust himself to protect anyone else?
SANDE STARED at the towering skyscraper. Peyton and Wyatt was housed on an upper floor of a prestigious building right on the Magnificent Mile. Wouldn’t she remember if she’d been here before?
Wouldn’t she feel something?
How was it possible that absolutely nothing looked or felt familiar to her?
She closed her eyes and summoned the reflection of herself she’d studied in the mirror of the ladies’ room at the shelter.
Kind of short, small frame. Blond hair, blue eyes.
Where had she been born? Where had she attended school? College? First job? First boyfriend? Did she have a best friend? Any siblings?
Nothing came to mind. Not a face or name or place. Nothing.
Sande opened her eyes and stared at the unfamiliar building once more. Had she worked here for two months? Were there people in the building who knew her?
“Are you ready?”
Patrick O’Brien’s voice tugged her attention in his direction. The concern on his face was genuine. But there was more. Uncertainty? Maybe. He was very difficult to read. There was something about him that made her feel safe. Or maybe it was just the idea that he worked at the Colby Agency, and her only friend, the homeless box lady named Madge, had seemed so certain the agency could help her.
Intelligence emanated from his brown eyes. He was tall, broad shouldered, and looked quite strong and capable. Even his name sounded dependable.
Patrick O’Brien.
He had promised to keep her safe. To find her lost past. She had to count on that. No second-guessing, no hesitation.
“Yes,” she said finally. “I’m ready.”
He indicated that she should precede him. He was a gentleman, too. Always opened the car door for her and insisted she go first. His wife was a lucky woman. Instinctively, Sande glanced at his left hand. No ring. Maybe he didn’t have a wife.
Where in the world had that thought come from?
Did she have a husband?
She was allowing her thoughts to wander off in foolish territory. If she had a husband, she would be wearing a ring. Unless it had been removed along with her clothes at the hospital.
What did it matter, anyway? How would she know what kind of husband she had or would prefer, when she didn’t even know who she was? Enough stalling. Drawing a calming breath, she headed for the main entrance of the building where she had supposedly worked the past couple of months. O’Brien stayed close behind her, as if he sensed her trepidation without her having to say a word. She liked that he seemed to understand how she felt and what she needed.
Then again, maybe she was developing that strange syndrome people got when they became attached to their abductors. She felt exactly like a lost puppy following around the only human who had bothered to feed her.
The marble-floored lobby soared two stories high and encompassed the entire first floor. Windows rose to meet that grand
height, filling the space with light. Trees and lush potted plants lent a welcoming atmosphere to the elaborate decorating. Inviting upholstered chairs held court near the reception desk.
And yet not one thing about the place looked or felt familiar to Sande. Three strikes. Did that mean she was out?
O’Brien approached the desk and spoke to the security guard on duty. Sande surveyed the extensive atrium a second, then a third time, hoping to spot anything that might stimulate her memory.
Since she possessed no identification other than the printout from the DMV, O’Brien had to do some fancy talking to get her on the visitors log. When badges were finally issued, they boarded the elevator for the top floor.
Sande started to speak, but O’Brien leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Not now.”
At first she didn’t understand what he meant, then realized that there was every likelihood the elevator as well as the entire building was monitored for security purposes. Anything she might say could be overheard. A new blast of fear sent goose bumps rushing over her skin. Could those men who had chased her from the hospital, who had asked Alma Spears about her, work here?
O’Brien knew what he was doing. Relax, she ordered herself. All she had to do was follow his lead. He would take care of her.
Thank God, because she was flying blind.
The elevator glided to a stop and the doors opened silently.
Big breath. Sande stepped off the elevator, O’Brien close behind her. At the receptionist’s desk, he moved up beside her.
“Good morning. I’m Patrick O’Brien and this is Sande Williams.”
The receptionist looked at both of them. For a split second Sande was certain the woman recognized her. It was nothing more than the slightest hesitation in returning her gaze to O’Brien, but there was definitely a hesitation. Hope bloomed in Sande’s chest. This could be it.
“Do you have an appointment, Mr. O’Brien?”
“We’re here to see…” O’Brien pulled his cell phone from his pocket and checked the screen “…Marsha Patton.”
Evidently Windy had sent the name to him via a text message, because he hadn’t received a call since asking her to check out Peyton and Wyatt.
The receptionist glanced at her computer, then settled her attention back on O’Brien. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mrs. Patton has a full schedule today. I can take your card and have her get back to you.”
Sande’s heart rate sped up. She couldn’t wait until tomorrow or the day after that. How the heck was she supposed to figure out who she really was and where she’d come from if anyone who knew anything useful didn’t cooperate?
Frustration chased away the last of the fear. Damn it. She needed help! Didn’t anyone understand?
“Excuse me,” she said firmly. The receptionist stared up at her, seemingly a little startled herself. “This won’t wait. I need to see Marsha today. Now. Tell her Sande Williams will be waiting right over there.” She pointed to the small seating area.
With that announcement she walked over to one of the chairs and sat down.
O’Brien said something to the receptionist, who looked flustered or worried or both. Then he joined Sande. “Good job,” he murmured, leaning his head toward hers.
A tiny smile tugged at her lips. She might not have a clue who the heck she was, but she was finished with wallowing in that overwhelming feeling of helplessness. “Thanks.”
He turned to look directly at her. “Any flickers of recognition?”
She shook her head. “I did get the impression the receptionist recognized me, though.”
He nodded. “I picked up on that, too.”
Before Sande’s breathing had returned to some semblance of normal, a woman entered the reception area from the long corridor of offices beyond.
“Ms. Williams?”
Sande stared at her for a long moment. Dark hair, green eyes. Tall, thin. Seriously uptight-looking. She wore her hair pinned up in a no-fuss manner and her eyeglasses were practical wire frames.
Sande felt not a single flicker of recognition.
O’Brien stood. “Ms. Patton, I’m Patrick O’Brien.”
Belatedly, Sande pushed herself to her feet. She blinked, tried not to continue staring at the woman who acted as if she did not know her. And whom Sande had no substantiated reason to believe she had ever seen before.
“I’m Marsha Patton, operations chief of Peyton and Wyatt.” A professional smile slid into place. “Why don’t we talk in my office?” She looked from Patrick to Sande, lingered only a moment or two before refocusing her attention on him.
When she turned to head back down the corridor, Patrick touched Sande’s elbow and ushered her along in her wake. He had watched Marsha Patton’s reaction closely as she’d scrutinized both of them. Unfortunately, he had noted little that indicated she had ever met Sande before, other than an almost imperceptible hesitation. But the receptionist, that was a different story. She had definitely recognized her.
Ms. Patton led the way to her spacious corner office. She indicated the two upholstered chairs in front of her gleaming desk and then settled into the tufted leather one on the other side.
“Your request seemed rather urgent. So…” she clasped her hands in front of her and relaxed into her chair “…how can I help you this morning?” She peered first at Sande, then at Patrick.
“Ms. Williams,” he began, taking a shot in the dark, “is looking into her legal recourses related to her employment at your firm these past couple of months.” Beside him Sande shifted uncomfortably. He hoped she would keep her cool and go along with him on this.
A frown furrowed Ms. Patton’s brow. “I’m not sure I understand.” She glanced at Sande again. “I’ve worked at this firm for five years, and until the two of you arrived a few moments ago, I’ve never heard the name Sande Williams before.”
If the woman was lying she was quite good at the game of deceit. Like his wife.
Patrick banished the thought and focused his full attention on the woman behind the desk. “Let’s not go the denial route, Mrs. Patton. Ms. Williams has a legitimate grievance and it would be easier for all concerned if this matter were settled quietly.”
The slightest hint of apprehension appeared in Patton’s firm expression, but she quickly schooled the reaction. “Perhaps I’ve not made myself clear,” she suggested. “Ms. Williams is not, nor has she been, an employee of this firm. I cannot imagine what either of you hope to gain by this preposterous assertion.”
“Well.” Patrick rose to his full height. “In that case, perhaps we’ll take our evidence to a criminal attorney and start from there.”
No visible reaction this time. Marsha Patton picked up a business card from the display tray on her desk and handed it to him. “If your attorney has any questions, he or she may feel free to call me directly.”
Patrick accepted the card, then escorted Sande from the office. He kept a loose grasp on her elbow until they were aboard the elevator and moving downward. When she looked at him, frustration written all over her face, he shook his head in a silent warning. They couldn’t talk until they were out of the building.
Two minutes later they were on the sidewalk and headed for the car. “I know that receptionist recognized me,” she insisted. “And I think that Patton woman did, too.” She had to be lying.
Patrick opened the passenger door for her. “I got the same impression but that doesn’t mean she knows you. As for Patton, my gut says she lied, but, if she did, she was damned good at it.”
“She knows me,” Sande argued as she dropped into the seat. “They both do.”
He closed the door and rounded the hood. When he’d settled behind the steering wheel, he met her frustrated gaze. “You could have belonged to the same yoga class as the receptionist.”
“I don’t do yoga.”
He started the car. “Are you sure about that?”
Staring straight ahead, arms crossed over her chest, she kept her lips pressed tightly
together. Of course she couldn’t remember, but she was too furious to admit it right now.
“Maybe you shared the same hairstylist,” he offered, despite her silence.
She opened her mouth to deny that suggestion as well, but just as quickly closed it.
“There are hundreds of possibilities, none of which you would remember,” he reminded her gently, knowing it was not what she wanted to hear. “However, if Patton is hiding something as I suspect, our visit will have done its job.”
Sande waited until he’d eased into the flow of traffic and glanced back at her before asking, “How?”
“She or someone in the firm will react, attempt to figure out what we’re up to, or how to stop us.”
“Oh.”
Judging by the uncertainty crammed into that one word, Sande Williams hadn’t considered the latter. “That’s what we want them to do,” he explained. “Without some sort of reaction from someone, we’ll keep spinning our wheels and getting nowhere.”
“What do we do now? Just wait?”
He started to clarify that yes, they would be waiting, though that wouldn’t stop their investigation into other avenues. But the dark sedan in his rearview mirror suddenly gave him pause. That same vehicle had matched their last three turns.
Patrick took an abrupt left.
The black or navy sedan did the same.
He sped up.
So did the car behind him.
Driver and one passenger, both male, he noted as the car moved in closer and closer to his rear bumper.
Patrick pressed the accelerator more firmly. “Maybe we won’t have to wait.”
Chapter Five
Sande gripped the armrest as the car charged forward.
She held her breath.
O’Brien swerved left to avoid a too-close encounter with the vehicle directly in front of them. He cut in front of the car he’d passed and rushed forward.
If one of the pedestrians on the sidewalk stepped off the curb…
No sooner had the thought formed than a woman moved toward the crosswalk.
