STOLEN MEMORY

by Virginia Kantra

  "That's what we need to find out," he said.

  She tilted her head. "That's going to be tough if you can't remember who attacked you."

  Even tougher if he didn't tell her the whole truth. But how could he?

  "Amnesia is usually a temporary condition," he offered instead.

  "How temporary?"

  She was persistent. He admired that, even if it was inconvenient. He shrugged. "A few seconds to a few weeks. I have been able to recall everything since I regained consciousness. My short-term memory is unaffected."

  "Great. So if I come back tomorrow you'll recognize me."

  Startled, he met her gaze. Her mouth indented at the corners. She was joking, he realized in relief. He smiled back cautiously.

  "So, this guard, the one who came with you from Chicago…" Detective Baker flipped a page in her notebook, all business again. "What was his name?"

  "Swirsky." It had meant nothing to him when Quinn had told him. "Pete Swirsky."

  Her notebook slid from her knee and hit the floor with a crack. She leaned forward to pick it up. When she straightened at last, her face was a deep, unbecoming red.

  "Is anything the matter?" Simon asked.

  "I… No, I…" She fussed with the crumpled pages on her lap. "Sorry."

  He sat back, fascinated by the sudden change in her demeanor. "Take your time."

  "I'm fine," she said, a little too sharply. "He's missing, you said?"

  "He wasn't here when Quinn returned. I don't know when—or how—he left."

  "Have to be by boat. Someone may have seen him. Anyway, since he works for you it shouldn't be much trouble to track him down." Her voice was brisk and practical. But her fingers, as she smoothed the pages of her notebook, trembled slightly. "In the meantime, I'll need a statement from Mr. Brown and a look at your lab. Has anyone been in there since your … accident?"

  Accident? How about "attack"? Or "assault"? Some other a-word that indicated she'd accepted his story.

  But maybe he was hoping for too much. At least she was going to investigate.

  Which raised another problem.

  "As far as I know, I'm the only one with any reason to go in there."

  Her brows flicked up. "Really? Who mops your floors?"

  He didn't know. "A cleaning service?"

  "Right." She made another note. "I'll talk to Mr. Brown."

  Despite her lack of inflection, Simon felt dismissed. Disparaged. Why? Because his memory loss made him useless to her? Or because he hadn't considered something so basic as the people who must work for him?

  "What will you tell him?" he asked.

  "I'll want to know who cleans for you. What their schedule is, if they have keys to the house and the lab. Stuff like that."

  "I meant, what are you going to tell him about me?"

  "About your memory loss."

  He liked that she met his gaze directly. "Yes."

  "Well… It's not a crime to forget things. Otherwise, I'd have to arrest half the population of the Sunset Pines Retirement Community." He was pretty sure this time she was kidding. "You really think it would hurt your business if it got out you had this temporary amnesia thing?"

  "Yes," he said baldly. "The value of this company depends on my research ability. Mental aberration is not reassuring to stockholders."

  "You have bigger worries right now than your investors. Once it gets out that you're walking around, whoever attacked you is going to worry you'll identify him."

  If was the first sign she'd given that she believed he'd been attacked. Something inside Simon relaxed.

  "I was struck on the side of the head, probably as I was turning around," he offered. "It's likely I never saw him."

  "He may not care. He hit you once. Do you really want to risk him coming back to finish the job?"

  "I'll take my chances."

  She scowled. "Don't take too many. You sure you won't see a doctor?"

  "Sure."

  "Well, it's your—"

  He was almost certain she was going to say "funeral." "—skull," she said. "Concussions can tire you out, though. You should try to get plenty of rest."

  Her concern, however professional, made Simon feel slightly less isolated. He had been up most of last night trying to find an answer to the puzzles that plagued him. The night before he'd spent lying on the cold floor of the lab. He was strained, exhausted and aching in every muscle.

  But of course he couldn't tell her that.

  "Thank you," he said gravely. "I will."

  She hesitated as if she wanted to say something more and then shrugged. "I left my field kit on the boat. I'll go get it, and then I'll talk to your guy, Brown, and poke around."

  He watched her slim, straight figure climb the stairs and cross the echoing hall. She was leaving. He was alone.

  Simon had the uncomfortable sense he was often alone.

  But this time, this once, he didn't like it at all.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  "I don't know what to think," Laura said honestly to her boss when he called her into his office late the following day. It was a Saturday, but they both were working. Chief Denko, because his personal life was admirably organized, and Laura, because it was her shift and she had no personal life.

  "Ford definitely has a bump on the head," she continued. "But I didn't find any tool marks or fingerprints to support his claim of a break-in. We don't even know for sure that a crime took place. He could have emptied the safe himself as part of an insurance scam."

  She didn't mention Ford's claim, that the bump on his head had affected his brain.

  And as for Ford's suspicion that it was an inside job, that the guard that night had attacked and robbed him before disappearing… Her stomach tied itself in knots. Nope, she definitely didn't want to go there.

  Not that she had a choice. She had a duty. And Police Chief Jarek Denko would demand a complete and impartial investigation in any case.

  "Has Ford filed an insurance claim?" he asked.

  "No," Laura admitted.

  Chief Denko regarded her levelly from the other side of his utilitarian gray metal desk, his hands folded on the stained blotter. The Eden town council didn't believe in spending money on fancy furniture for its public servants. But somehow they'd scraped together enough sense and an appropriate salary to hire Denko, a former homicide detective from Chicago's notorious Area 3, as their chief of police.

  After the last two Bozos who'd held that the position, Laura respected the lean, harsh-featured police chief enormously. She dreaded letting him down.

  Denko steepled his fingers. "No signs of forced entry, you said?"

  "No, sir."

  "Who has keys to the house?"

  "No keys. Entry is controlled by magnetic passcards and internal bolts operating on a tiered code system. Only the highest access codes get you into the house itself."

  "And who has those codes?"

  "I've requested a complete list from the security company. But the guy on the phone said the master passcards were reserved for security personnel and Ford himself."

  Denko tapped the pages on the blotter in front of him. "Your report says the tapes are missing from the security cameras. They weren't simply disabled?"

  Laura shook her head. "Vandalizing the cameras would have set off the alarm automatically. So either the intruder knew where the cameras were and how they operated, or there was no intruder and someone on the inside swiped the tapes to avoid being identified."

  "Ford?" Denko suggested. "That would fit your insurance fraud theory."

  But once her chief put it into words, Laura found she didn't like her theory anymore. Isn't there anyone you can trust? That's what we need to find out.

  Simon Ford had trusted her. Or he was playing her for a fool. Neither possibility sat comfortably with her right now.

  "Maybe the tapes aren't missing. Maybe his security people forgot to load the cameras," she offered without c
onviction.

  Denko raised his eyebrows. "The same day Ford calls to report a break-in? But you can ask, by all means. Who installed his security system?"

  "A private contractor—Executive Corporate Industrial Protection."

  "E.C.I.P?"

  "You've heard of them?" She shouldn't be surprised. In Illinois law enforcement, Jarek Denko was like God, all-knowing and damn near all-powerful.

  "They hire a lot of ex-cops," he explained with a slight smile. "Military, too. Do they provide the personnel or just the system?"

  "According to Quinn Brown, they provide complete security for Lumen Corp. That includes the house and the Chicago headquarters."

  "So the bodyguard, Brown, is one of theirs?"

  "Household manager, sir. And no. He reports directly to Ford. He's been with him for the past nine years. Took a couple of days off to visit his daughter. The timing is suspicious, but we can confirm his alibi easily enough."

  "What about the other man? Swirsky? Do you have a lead on him yet?"

  Her stomach twisted again like wet rope. Her palms were damp. "He is an E.C.I.P. employee. He was scheduled to go on vacation next week. The company is cooperating, but I haven't been able to reach him by phone yet. I thought I'd try him at his apartment in Chicago."

  "Family?" Denko asked.

  She hesitated, her heart thumping. "Swirsky has a son living in Chicago. I left a message, but he hasn't returned my call yet."

  "All right. Let me know when you hear something. And get that list of the safe's contents from Ford." Denko gave her a brief nod and pulled another file toward him.

  She was dismissed.

  Laura cleared her throat. "There's, uh, one other thing you should probably know that's not in my report."

  The chief looked up from his file.

  "Peter Swirsky … the missing guard?" She braced her shoulders. "He's my father."

  Denko froze. "The hell he is."

  She rushed to explain. "It's not a conflict of interest. We haven't spoken in years. I wouldn't even have brought it up, except—"

  "Except if you hadn't and I found out about it, I'd have your ass," Denko said.

  She winced. "I can promise you, it won't affect my ability to do my job at all."

  "You're right. It won't. I'm reassigning this case to Palmer."

  Dan Palmer was the detective on the swing shift, 2:00 p.m. to midnight. Laura liked him—respected him, even—but for reasons she wasn't prepared to examine, she didn't want this case snatched away.

  "I conducted the investigation of the scene," she argued. "I interviewed Ford. I can remain impartial. I can…"

  Get her father to talk to her? Hardly. She hadn't been able to accomplish that in ten years.

  She switched tactics. "Let Dan take Swirsky's statement. One interview. I don't have a problem with that."

  "If it stops at one interview," Denko said. "What if we establish that a crime was committed? What if Swirsky becomes a suspect?"

  "It'll never happen," she said with conviction.

  "Why not?"

  "Because he'd never commit a crime. Pete Swirsky doesn't break the rules. He doesn't even bend them."

  He never deviated, never doubted, never forgave. His inflexibility made him a lousy father. But it didn't make him a suspect.

  "People change," Denko observed.

  She certainly had. But the old man never would.

  "Then I'll live with that," she said. "Let me do my job, sir."

  The chief rubbed his jaw with his thumb. "'Swirsky,' huh?"

  "Maiden name. I was married. Briefly."

  Nine weeks. That's how long it had taken her to figure out she'd made the second biggest mistake of her life. But by the time her marriage to Tommy Baker ended, her estrangement from her father was complete.

  "Good Polish name," the chief said.

  Laura relaxed a fraction. She was forgiven, then. "Yes, sir."

  "All right, thank you," Denko said. "You did a good job processing the scene. But you're off the case. Turn your notes over to Palmer."

  She owed him.

  Laura gripped the wheel of the battered police boat as it chugged across the lake. She didn't owe him her loyalty. Or even an explanation. But the memory of Simon Ford's clear, light eyes lingered at the back of her mind like a question. She couldn't shake the feeling that she owed him … something.

  A warning, maybe. Or a goodbye.

  Around her, the water teemed with inner tubes and motor boats, wind surfers and sails, as tourists and townspeople took advantage of the three-day weekend. She was working harbor patrol, answering radio calls for service, checking permits and boating licenses, keeping an eye out for inebriated fishermen and inexperienced sailors.

  When she was a rookie, Laura used to bust her hump on patrol. As if the number of citations she wrote for open alcohol containers or out-of-date landing permits somehow proved she was the baddest, best cop on the force.

  She knew better now. Good cops didn't get hung up on busy work when a fellow officer requested backup on the other side of the lake. But a discretionary detour to Angel Island wouldn't interfere with her doing her job.

  She hoped.

  The wind tugged at the curled brim of her EPD ball cap. She set her feet against the swell of a passing speedboat. Behind her, the marina faded to a smudge of red brick and gray shingles. The town slid away to her left, the spire of St. Raphael's Catholic Church like a mast against the horizon.

  Her heartbeat quickened as she headed out to open water. Nerves, she told herself firmly. It had to be nerves. It certainly wasn't anticipation at seeing Ford again.

  His private pier jutted into the water, aggressively new, the treated wood standing out like dental work against the tumbled shore. Laura looped a line around a post and hopped onto the dock, ignoring the posted warning: No Trespassing. Shrugging, she started up the service road that wound through the trees to the house.

  A surly Quinn answered the door and stomped ahead of her up the steps to Ford's office. Climbing the long, curving staircase made Laura feel like she was in some fairy tale, braving the tower to rescue the princess. Except she made a lousy Prince Charming.

  And the man at the top of the stairs was definitely no Sleeping Beauty.

  He hunched over his desk, a wide slab of pale, polished wood. The light from the surrounding windows cast his face in light and shadow: his deep, focused eyes, his cheeks carved with concentration, his mouth fixed in a determined line. He looked like a wizard king brooding over the fate of his kingdom.

  Laura gave herself a mental shake. This was no time for her to develop a fantasy life. She'd spent too many years fighting the prejudices of her male colleagues and her own feelings to get all moony-eyed and stupid now.

  Stuffing her hands in her pockets, she glanced around the room. She'd climbed up here the day before, testing locks, checking for broken windows. It was all spare lines and blank surfaces. Outside, the lake sparkled with light and life. But inside, the walls sealed out all sound. Despite the sun that poured through the glass, the air was cold.

  Quinn's voice dropped into the silence like a rock on an ice-filmed puddle. "It's Baker. She's back."

  Ford's concentration broke. He blinked at her, recalled from his spell.

  "I, uh… Sorry," Laura said. "I didn't mean to interrupt your—" What did he do? Laser research. Good God. "—your work."

  He raised his hand, palm out. Cutting off her apologies? Or dismissing Quinn? The butler tromped back downstairs.

  "You're not interrupting," Ford said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if he was tired. She squelched her instinctive sympathy. "And I'm not working. Any news?"

  I'm off the case.

  That's what she'd come to tell him. But when she opened her mouth, what actually came out was, "So, what are you doing?"

  "I'm writing a computer program that will let me hack into my own system and create a new password."

  "Oh." Right. She'd forgotten he was a freakin
g genius. He definitely didn't need her pity. "Sounds complicated."

  He smiled faintly. "Not particularly. Most hacking is a simple matter of repeating steps that exploit common system weaknesses."

  "Simple, huh? How long have you been at it?"

  "A few hours," he admitted.

  Reluctant admiration stirred. "You don't give up easily, do you?"

  "No." His remote, light eyes studied her a moment. "Not when there's something I want."

  Her heart went ka-thump. Stupid, she scolded herself. He didn't mean her. And she didn't want him.

  She frowned, struck by something he'd said. "Why do you need a new password?"

  "I'm updating my computer's security."

  "Okay, fine, but … why would you need to hack into your system to do that?"

  He didn't answer.

  "You didn't—" Laura pressed her lips together. Okay, now she really was being stupid. But she had to ask. "You didn't forget your password, did you? When you got hit on the head?"

  His expression never flickered. Maybe he hadn't lost his memory. Maybe she was losing her mind.

  But Simon Ford wasn't the only one who didn't give up easily. She wasn't going to let embarrassment or attraction put her off doing her job.

  "You said you couldn't remember the attack."

  He inclined his head. "That's correct."

  "What else?"

  "Excuse me?"

  He was stalling. She was sure of it. Nobody talked in that ultra-formal way unless he was either a snob and a smart-ass or stalling. Simon Ford might live in a castle and have a genius IQ, but he hadn't done anything yet to make her think he was a snob. Or a smart-ass.

  She ran through their interview in her head, trying to fit her new theory to snatches of their conversation.

  "What else don't you remember?" she asked.

  He looked at her quizzically. "If I knew that, then I wouldn't have forgotten it, would I?"

  She scowled, rethinking the smart-ass bit.

  "Never mind." Not her problem, she told herself. Not even her case. She needed to depersonalize. "I came to tell you I'm off the case."