“Come on, get out of the way,” she urged, straining her neck to see. The truck made a slow right turn. Where the heck was Francine?
Was she driving one of the two cars lined up at the pay booth?
“Hallelujah,” Paulina muttered, spotting the ginger blur of the woman’s distinctive hairstyle behind the wheel of a red Ford Escort.
Paulina experienced a few tense moments waiting for the light to change as Francine zipped out of the parking lot and headed south on Sussex Drive. The second the light turned green Paulina made a hasty left turn after her.
She tailed Francine’s progress onto Wellington Street, holding her breath as she squeaked through several amber lights and one glaring red light. Francine passed the Parliament Buildings and the Supreme Court of Canada before she turned south onto Lyon Street. Minutes later, Francine turned west onto Somerset Street. Traffic thinned, but Somerset was a main route that had changed names twice. Paulina stayed well back, not worried Francine would suspect she was being followed.
Then Francine turned south onto Island Park Drive, the beautifully landscaped emerald necklace linking the Central Experimental Farm to the Champlain Bridge. Seconds later, she whipped onto a side street in a wealthy neighborhood of Cape Cod, modernist and Tudor homes. Could a diner waitress afford to live in this neighborhood?
Paulina’s palms were sweaty on the wheel. It was harder to tail someone on deserted streets. She deliberately signaled and drew to the side of the road, watching as Francine continued down Geneva Street and made a left turn. As soon as the red car disappeared from her sight, Paulina pulled away from the curb and put on a burst of speed. She reached the street where Francine had turned in time to see the car head north on another side street three blocks up.
Had Francine suspected she was being followed?
Paulina braked when she reached the intersection where Francine had made her last turn and peered down Iona Street, frowning. Francine was parking at the far end of the block. Paulina continued straight through the intersection and parked. Tossing the baseball cap and sunglasses aside, she grabbed her purse and jumped out of her car. As she rounded the corner, she saw Francine walking up the asphalt drive of a large Tudor-style home. Francine hadn’t parked in the driveway. Did that mean she was visiting someone?
Paulina increased her pace as the bulk of a cedar hedge blocked Francine from her view. She wanted to be in a position to see who answered the door, but to Paulina’s surprise, Francine didn’t approach the front entrance. Instead, the waitress skirted around the north side of the building.
Curious, Paulina kept her eyes trained on the Tudor house as she hurried down the sidewalk. The house was well maintained; the stucco freshly painted, the landscaping professionally done. Could this be Newcombe’s home? But wouldn’t Newcombe be at his office this time of day?
Maybe, Paulina acknowledged, she was chasing a red herring.
Still, she noted the address as she passed the house, then spotted a salmon paving-stone walkway that Francine must have followed to the backyard.
When she reached the corner, Paulina crossed the street and made a beeline for the same walkway. The narrow path was shady and bordered with blue hostas. Paulina took pains not to let her heels tap on the pavers. As she neared the arbor at the end of the path, she heard the murmur of voices in the rear yard. Clearly, Francine was speaking to a man.
Paulina wasn’t close enough to make out any distinct words, but the anxious shrill to Francine’s tone suggested this might be a conversation worth overhearing.
Fortunately, Francine hadn’t closed the gate properly which allowed Paulina to ease it open and slip into the yard without making a sound. She just hoped a dog wouldn’t suddenly appear and announce her presence. Paulina stepped behind a tall, columnar juniper and peered around it, trying to locate Francine. The voices were louder now and appeared to be coming from a screen porch on the rear of the house. A dense shrubbery bed softened the projection of the porch into the yard and provided a verdant wall of privacy for the homeowners.
Her heart pounding with caution, Paulina crept across the thick, green lawn as close as she dared to the screen porch and concealed herself behind the purple foliage of a sand cherry.
“I don’t care—I want out,” she heard Francine say.
Out of what? Paulina wondered, though with a keen sense of certainty she thought she already knew. Her afternoon was growing more interesting by the second.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Francine. You’re overreacting,” the man replied, trying to placate her. Paulina listened carefully to the man’s voice, trying to recognize a characteristic of it that she could attribute to Newcombe. But then, she’d only met the lawyer once.
“Overreacting? Two people are dead. I didn’t mind helping women find good homes for their babies, but I draw the line at murder.”
Paulina froze as the sour taste of bile rose in her throat. She clamped her hand over her mouth.
“Francine, you gotta believe me. We didn’t have anything to do with Cindy’s murder. Her money-grubbing boyfriend obviously killed her. We paid Cindy fair and square when she delivered the baby. What happened to her when she got back to her boyfriend has nothin’ to do with us. They must have had a fight. There was somethin’ strange about him, anyway, if you ask me.”
“You’re lying. The police on the news said Jean-Luc didn’t kill himself. He was murdered.”
“So? Maybe they sold the baby to cover a drug debt.”
“I don’t buy that, either. We both know the truth.”
“Ah, the truth. Are you suggesting I bumped them both off?” The man laughed softly, almost dangerously.
Francine didn’t reply.
Paulina felt a clammy shiver of alarm inch up her spine. This man had a rough edge that seemed out of sync with Newcombe’s measured shrewdness. She cast a wary eye at the distance remaining between her hiding spot and the porch. Could she get close enough to get an ID on the man?
She edged her way through the shrub bed toward a twometer-high golden cedar strategically suited to her purpose.
“Do I have to remind you, Francine, that we’ve got fifty thousand riding on this deal? We’ll deliver the baby as soon as the publicity dies down. Two weeks from now everyone will have forgotten about Cindy’s death.”
“We’re going to get caught,” Francine insisted. “A lady P.L has been nosing around. She came to the diner today asking questions.”
“Did you tell her anything?”
“No, of course not, but—”
“Well, then, there’s nothin’ to worry about. Lydia’s got everything all figured out. She even checked up on this P.I. you’re talkin’ about. She’s set things up so Newcombe will take the fall if anyone gets wise to our operation.”
Lydia?
An image of the confident blond paralegal working in Newcombe’s office flashed in Paulina’s mind. Anyone smart enough and cocky enough to use an ethical lawyer’s sterling reputation to camouflage her illegal activities would be instantly concerned about having a computer expert having access to the law firm’s electronic files. An impending sense of doom shifted ominously onto Paulina’s shoulders.
Gil was still at Newcombe’s office, where presumably Lydia was, too. At any moment, Lydia could link Gil’s name to the work the firm was conducting on Ted’s estate. With one warning phone call to this man, Mikey could be whisked away so fast the police could never recover him.
Paulina whirled around and examined the leaded casement windows studding the half-timbered wall of the house. Was Mikey somewhere inside? Maybe she should ascertain he was in the house and use a neighbor’s phone to call the police.
She took an uncertain step toward the house and cringed as the branch of a lilac caught on her skirt pocket and caused a faint rustling of leaves. Paulina unhooked the branch and dropped to her knees in the moist earth, her heart hammering in her ears.
The conversation had ceased in the screen porch. Had they heard her? The lil
ac’s straggly foliage provided scant coverage. The dark blue of her suit would give her away if anyone bothered to look.
Suddenly, Francine spoke again. “Fine, I’m getting out of here.”
Panic clawed at Paulina’s skin. She glanced around, searching for a better hiding place. A row of winterberry shrubs defined the edge of the bed against the house. In a crouched position, she headed for the row, hoping there would be room to conceal herself behind it.
The screen door screeched open. Paulina dove over the shrubs, her eyes widening in dismay at the river stones forming a wide band around the perimeter of the wall. She was going to make noise….
Pain shot through her as she landed with a thud and the rocks cracked together like marbles. Her arms and shins stung where her skin had laid down skid marks on the stones.
“Doug, there’s someone back there!” Francine’s panicstricken voice rang out like a call to arms. “I think it’s that private investigator. She must have followed me from the diner. I knew we were going to get caught.”
Paulina scrambled to her feet and ran toward the gate. She had to get out on the street where she’d have a better chance of attracting attention and getting help. Doug had killed two people. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. The stones impeded her flight, sucking at her heels. She cried out as her left heel sank into a crevice and her ankle wrenched. She braced her palm against the house and kept on moving, using the wall as a crutch.
From the corner of her eye, she could see the man racing around the shrub bed to intercept her flight. He blocked her path and reached behind him, pulling a black semiautomatic pistol from the waistband of his jeans.
“Hold it right there, lady,” he barked.
Paulina halted, her breath coming in gasps as she stared down the nose of the gun.
IT WAS THE STRANGEST sensation, but Gil felt an invisible hand settle on his right shoulder, guiding him as he sat down at the computer and accessed the law firm’s personnel files. Gil pulled Lydia Kosak’s file onto the screen and scanned it for the paralegal’s address. She lived on Iona Street in Ottawa. The street didn’t sound familiar, but he had a map in his car. He’d find it.
He was about to print a copy of the file to take with him—the information on Lydia might prove useful—when he felt an insistent pressure on his right shoulder that held him firmly down in his chair.
What about emergency contacts?
Gil wasn’t sure how or why that suggestion came to him just then, but it was a damn good one. Lydia would need someone to care for Mikey while she was at work. Who better than her next of kin—or a close friend?
He printed the file and quit the program. Then retrieved the hard copy from the printer in Lydia’s workstation. Lydia’s emergency contact was a Doug Clark. Gil frowned and kneaded his forehead. The name sounded vaguely familiar. Where had he read it earlier? Which adoption file? Should he go back into the files and look up the last name Clark?
The pressure in his right shoulder twinged again.
Clark-Fitzhugh.
That was it. Susan Clark-Fitzhugh, the social worker, Gil realized in a flash, rolling his shoulder to ease the twinge in the muscle. He’d been sitting most of the day and was getting stiff. Could Doug Clark be any relation to the private social worker who conducted the home studies for the adoptions Newcombe handled?
Everything was starting to make a lot more sense. Gil reached for the phone on Lydia’s desk to call Paulina, then changed his mind. He’d learned from observing Paulina in action that phone calls were too easily traced. He dialed his office instead and asked his secretary to relay a message to Paulina’s office that he’d be calling her from his car phone in a few minutes. “Tell Paulina it’s important,” Gil said curtly.
Gil wrote Bullhauser a note explaining he’d finished the installation and would call in the morning. Then Gil turned off the computer and collected his briefcase. The spasm in his shoulder muscle seemed to have transferred to his back. Now he felt an odd prodding sensation in his scapula, as if someone were poking him with a finger.
Gil didn’t need further urging. He hustled across the lobby of Barrister House as soon as the elevator door released him, then sprinted down the block to his car. There wasn’t a cloud in the blue, Indian summer sky, but Gil felt an inexplicable anxiety overshadow him.
“LER HER GO, DOUG,” Francine said, her voice shaking.
“Shut up, Francine! I’ll handle this,” Doug snarled. He pointed the nose of the gun inches from Paulina’s belly. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you snooping isn’t good for your health?” His menacing tone made Paulina’s skin prickle.
Paulina glanced from the waitress’s pale face to Doug’s cold, hard eyes and tested her weight on her twisted ankle. A knife of panic sliced the ripples of pain throbbing through her body. She could run, maybe.
But not far.
Kicking the gun from his hand was out of the question.
Paulina focused on Doug, centering herself to attack. He was about six foot one. His bristle buzz cut and washboard physique suggested he’d spent time in the military. He held the gun as though he enjoyed the power it granted.
“You might want to rethink this decision,” she said. “My office knows I’m here. I called in the address from my car phone. You’ll have a little trouble explaining that to the police.”
“Nice try, but your car doesn’t have a phone. Lydia and I checked out your operation. You don’t pull in enough income to warrant costly expenditures.” His thick lips spread into a sickening smile on his broad face. “I think we can eliminate you from this scenario, no problem. The police will think your client did you in for figuring out he knocked off Jean-Luc and Cindy.”
“There’s been enough killing,” Francine insisted. In the periphery of her vision, Paulina saw a blur of turquoise as Francine made a grab for the gun.
Paulina screamed, trying to distract Doug as he lifted his left arm and backhanded Francine. Leaning to the right, Paulina drove her right arm to the left and slapped the gun from his hand. It fell to the rocks with a clatter while she slammed the heel of her right hand into his nose. Doug grunted and instinctively clutched his nose.
Paulina used the precious second gained to reach down and grab a rock, her breath exhaling in a controlled rush as she wielded it toward his head, focusing all her strength and power into the movement. For Mikey’s sake, she had to escape.
Doug high-blocked her thrust and countered with a roundhouse blow to her head. Paulina raised her left arm in a desperate attempt to deflect the blow, but was a split second too late. His hand connected with her temple, shattering her thoughts into a million black pieces. Paulina was vaguely aware that the stone she was holding hit the ground just before she did.
The fall knocked the breath from her lungs and Paulina lay there stunned as darkness engulfed her.
She tried to lift her head and peer into the dark, but her head felt so strange and heavy. Two hands brutally seized her shoulders and yanked her upward.
“Come on, Francine,” she heard Doug say. “Give me a hand or I’ll kill you next.”
Chapter Thirteen
Tape. Duct tape.
Doug said it was in the junk drawer in the kitchen. The second drawer from the sink. Francine put a trembling hand on the drawer and pulled it open, staring blindly at a jumble of batteries, elastic bands and poker chips. Her heart thumped in her chest like a bird trying to escape from a cage.
Oh, man, what was she going to do? Lydia would be here any minute and Doug was going to kill that lady P.I.—if she wasn’t dead already. Francine had helped Doug carry Paulina to the screen porch where they’d laid her on the floor.
Doug had paged Lydia to tell her what was up, but Francine had no idea what they planned to do because Doug had sent her into the garage for rope to tie Paulina’s feet. All Doug had told her was that Lydia would be here soon.
Francine closed her eyes. There were many things in her life she wasn’t proud of. Sometimes you got backed
into a corner and you had to do what was necessary to survive. She’d been doing those young women a favor—helping them out in a difficult time. She knew what it was like to be pregnant and alone and worried enough about how to feed herself…much less raise a baby. Somewhere in southern Ontario Francine had a nineteen-year-old son.
As far as she was concerned, she’d done the kid a favor giving him a mother and a father who could pay for nice things like a university education. Folks like that had children who became doctors and teachers and engineers. It was a better life than she could have provided in the dingy run-down apartments she’d lived in over the years.
When she got up in the morning and faced herself in the mirror, her conscience was crystal clear.
But this…
No matter how hard she tried, Francine couldn’t get Cindy out of her mind. She’d been scared that Wednesday morning facing the prospect of handing her baby over to strangers. Francine had seen it and scurried away, thinking of her own cut of the money and the trip to Barbados she was planning and how it was best for everyone. With time, Cindy would get over the loss and be glad for the money that was getting her back on her feet.
Killing had never been part of the arrangement. At least she knew Mikey was being well cared for—wherever Doug and Lydia had him stashed.
Francine sucked in an unsteady breath. If she didn’t help Doug, he’d kill her. Things didn’t get any simpler than that.
She spotted the duct tape crammed in the rear of the drawer and wiggled it free. Reluctantly, she grabbed a pair of scissors, too. They’d need something to cut the tape with.
You have no choice, she told herself firmly as dread clumped in an indigestible lump in her stomach. She nudged the drawer closed with her hip and whirled around toward the arched opening that connected with the family room.
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