“Join us, Moran.” Sawyer McNamara motioned him over and pointed to an empty chair. “We’ll get started as soon as Dom and Lucie arrive. I couldn’t reach her by phone this morning, so I sent Dom by to pick her up.”
Dante noted the frown on Sawyer’s face and suspected that Lucie Evans was the cause. Before joining the Dundee agency, he’d heard about the ongoing feud between Sawyer and Lucie, both former FBI agents. And since he’d come on board and gone through several weeks of orientation, he’d seen the two of them in action. Whenever those two occupied the same space, sparks flew. The words “dynamite” and “lit match” instantly came to mind.
After sitting, Dante glanced around the room, nodded cordially to the other two agents and settled comfortably into his chair. His gaze kept wandering in J. J. Blair’s direction and when she caught him staring, she smiled and winked. Grinning, he winked back at her. Now, there was one good-looking woman. Petite and curvy, with jet-black hair and big, dark eyes that appeared black, but were, on closer inspection, a deep bluish purple. Judging her by using his vast experience with the ladies, he figured Ms. Blair was one tough cookie, the type of woman who could easily devour a man in one bite and then spit him out in little pieces.
“I don’t think we’ve met.” A burly guy, with a rough face, military-short blond hair and friendly smile offered Dante one of his big hands. “I’m Geoff Monday. I’ve been on assignment in London for the past month.” The man’s accent was decidedly British, with just a hint of something else. Scottish?
Dante stood and shook hands with Monday. “Dante Moran. I’m the new guy.”
“Yeah, you were a fed, weren’t you?”
The office door flew open and Lucie Evans stormed in, her long, curly red hair hanging wildly around her shoulders and her green eyes shooting fire in Sawyer’s direction. Domingo Shea came in behind her and paused in the doorway, as if he wanted to distance himself from any fallout that might occur.
“What do you mean sending Dom to fetch me?” Lucie planted her palms down atop Sawyer’s desk and glowered at him. “I just got in from D.C. last night and I’m supposed to be starting a five-day vacation.”
“Your vacation has been canceled,” Sawyer said.
“The hell it has!”
“Sit down and shut up.” Standing, Sawyer faced Lucie, who rose to her full six-foot height. Their gazes locked in mortal combat. “We have a special case on our hands and I need every available agent here so we can decide who’s the best qualified to take on the assignment and to head up the team I’ll be sending to Mississippi this morning. With your background in psychology and your stint as a profiler with the bureau, it’s possible you’ll be the best agent for the job.”
Breaking eye contact first, Lucie gritted her teeth, then turned around and sat in the chair that was farther away from Sawyer’s desk than the other two empty chairs. “If it turns out this isn’t my assignment, I’m taking those five days off.”
Sawyer didn’t reply, instead he turned to Dom Shea. “Close the door and take a seat so we can get started.”
Dom followed instructions and within minutes Sawyer patted a stack of file folders on his desk. Files containing information on what Dante assumed was a high-profile case.
There was a good chance that since he was the new man at the agency and low on the totem poll, so to speak, he would be sent in as backup for the agent chosen to head up the assignment. And that suited him just fine. He had to get his feet wet sooner or later. So why not the first day on the job?
“This is a special case,” Sawyer McNamara told them. “Both Mississippi state senators and the governor himself put in calls to Sam Dundee early this morning to let him know they’d take it as personal favors if we accepted this assignment.”
Lucie Evans let out a long, low whistle. “Who’s involved? Must be somebody pretty important.”
“G. W. Westbrook is one of wealthiest businessmen in the South and his family is one of the most prominent in Mississippi.” Sawyer lifted the stack of thin file folders and passed them around the room, one for each agent. “His granddaughter has run away from home. She’s sixteen. Not wild. Not into drugs. No special boyfriend. From all accounts, a good kid.”
“What would make a good kid run away from home?” Vic Noble asked.
“That’s an excellent question,” Sawyer replied. “It’s one her grandfather and her mother want answered. But first and foremost, they want Ms. Leslie Anne Westbrook found and returned home. She’s an only child and the apple of Grandpa G.W.’s eye.”
“Do they know for sure she ran away?” Dante Moran flipped open the file folder and quickly scanned the information condensed into a couple of paragraphs by the ever efficient Dundee office manager, Daisy. “Since Westbrook is a multimillionaire, can we be certain the girl wasn’t kidnapped for ransom?”
“The girl’s been missing for over twenty-four hours and no one has contacted the family with a ransom request,” Sawyer said. “The mother is out of her mind with worry and old G.W. is ready to offer a quarter mil reward for information on the girl’s whereabouts. Sam told me to get somebody to Fairport, Mississippi, ASAP and to send them on the Dundee jet.”
“Are the feds involved?” Domingo Shea asked.
Sawyer shook his head. “There’s no evidence of a kidnapping and the family says that they’re certain the girl simply ran away. They don’t want the feds. The local police and sheriff’s departments are handling the case. But Sam suggested one of our former FBI agents might be the best choice to head up this assignment.” He glanced from Lucie to Dante.
“Want to flip a coin?” Lucie smiled at Dante.
“Works for me,” he replied, absently twisting the onyx and diamond ring on his finger.
“Read over the information we have and take a look at the girl’s picture her grandfather faxed us.” Sawyer spread apart his file and lifted the eight-by-ten photo. “She’s a pretty girl. I’d hate to think of what might happen to her if she fell in with the wrong crowd or got picked up by the wrong person.”
Dante’s last case for the FBI had been to oversee an operation that busted apart a decade-old infant abduction ring. He supposed because of his background, he was now the Dundee expert on missing children and this case was perfect for his first assignment. He’d been with Dundee only a few weeks, undergoing their strict orientation, and was chomping at the bit to see some action.
Lucie looked at the photograph. “Oh, she is a pretty thing, isn’t she? All blond and delicate. God, what a white slave ring would pay for a girl like this.”
Dante pulled out the picture intending to give it a quick glance, but the moment he gazed at the girl’s familiar face, he couldn’t look away. His gut tightened painfully as he stared at what was obviously a studio photograph of a breathtakingly lovely girl.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Dom Shea punched Dante’s shoulder. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Yeah, he’d seen a ghost. That’s exactly what it felt like. Unconsciously Dante lifted his hand and ran the tip of his index finger tenderly over the girl’s cheek and across her jawline. He closed his eyes, waited a minute and reopened them, thinking maybe his imagination was working overtime, that it had played a trick on him. He glanced back at the photograph. Damn! How was it possible that this sixteen-year-old girl was the spitting image of Amy? His Amy. His first and only love, who had died at seventeen. Died a lifetime ago.
“Are you all right?” Lucie asked.
“I’m fine,” Dante said. “And I’ll take this assignment.”
“Good.” Sawyer closed his file folder. “I’d hoped you’d take it. Despite this being your first job for us, I believe you’re the best qualified, but I wanted to give you the chance to volunteer.”
Lucie shrugged. “I guess that settles that. Will you need me to go along as backup?”
Sawyer’s gaze narrowed on Lucie. “It’s probably a good idea for you to go with him. You can keep the mother calm while Dante
deals with the situation.”
Dante nodded in agreement, but didn’t take his eyes off Leslie Anne Westbrook’s photo. Her resemblance to Amy was uncanny.
And impossible. Amy was gone. It had taken him a long time to accept the loss, and yet something about this young girl made him want to believe that somehow his true love still existed. That Amy was still alive.
Maybe it was the hope that still burned in his gut that had made him take the assignment. Though Dante had all but given up hope…
What the hell are you doing to yourself? Amy is dead. She’s been dead for seventeen years. Just because her body was never found, just because you’ve hung on way too long to a hopeless dream doesn’t mean Amy is alive, that this girl—he stared at the photograph—could be Amy’s daughter.
“Go home, pack for a week’s stay and go straight to the airport. The Dundee jet is ready and waiting,” Sawyer said. “Moran will head up this assignment. Lucie, you’ll be strictly panic control. You keep the mother and old G.W. in line, smooth their ruffled feathers and calm their fears. Dom, you and Vic go in as his backup and do the leg work. We’ll coordinate everything from here.”
“When I get back, I want ten days off,” Lucie said.
“We’ll discuss that later,” Sawyer replied.
“There won’t be any discussion. I’m taking ten days off and that’s that.”
Sawyer’s nostrils flared. He deliberately didn’t look directly at Lucie or respond to her.
“I want two reports every day. Morning and evening. I’ll be reporting in directly to the governor and to Sam Dundee.”
Dante glanced through the thin file folder he held, searching for more information about the Westbrook family, about Leslie Anne’s mother in particular. All he found were the basic facts. Tessa Westbrook was G.W.’s only child. At thirty-five, she was single, the mother of one child and—She was thirty-five. A year older than Amy would be if she’d lived.
Every possible scenario he could think of that could explain Leslie Anne Westbrook’s remarkable resemblance to Amy Smith flooded his mind, sending his thought processes into overdrive. Maybe Leslie Anne was adopted and she really was Amy’s child. But did that mean Amy was alive now? Maybe Tessa Westbrook was a long-lost relative of Amy’s and that’s the reason her daughter looked like Amy. Maybe Tessa was Amy. Too far-fetched. And totally impossible. Or maybe in person Leslie Anne’s resemblance to Amy wouldn’t be as strong. Maybe…
Maybe I’m nuts!
“Is something wrong?” Dom clamped his hand down on Dante’s shoulder.
Dante shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong. I was just lost in thought there for a couple of minutes.” If he told anyone what was going on inside his head, they would think he was crazy. And with good reason. How could he expect anyone to understand that the past haunted him. A part of him still blamed himself for what had happened to Amy. If only he hadn’t been late that night. If only…
LESLIE ANNE kept wiping the tears away so she could see the road ahead. When she’d left home before daylight yesterday morning, she’d had no idea where she was going. All she knew was that she had to get away. She’d slipped into her mother’s room and stolen three hundred dollars from her purse and her ATM card, which she’d used to get two thousand dollars before she’d left Fairport. She’d been twenty miles outside of town before it struck her that once her mother and grandfather realized she was missing, they would call the police. Her black Jaguar, which Granddaddy had given her on her sixteenth birthday, was easily recognizable and it would be a cinch to ID the car tag. She’d backtracked, called her friend Hannah, whose parents were in Europe for the summer, and asked to swap cars with her for a few days.
“Just keep my Jag parked in your garage and don’t tell anyone that you’ve seen me,” Leslie Anne had said.
“What’s wrong? Why are you running off like this?”
“I can’t tell you. I can’t tell anyone.” She’d grabbed Hannah’s hands and pleaded with the girl who’d been one of her best buddies since they were toddlers. “Trust me. I’ve got to get away and think.”
“Think about what? If you’d tell me, maybe I could help.”
“No one can help.” How could she explain that her whole world had just fallen apart, that everything she believed in, believed to be true, was a lie? Her entire life was just one big fat lie.
“What about your mom? You two share everything. She’s the best. Nothing like—”
“No, I can’t talk to Mom. Not yet. Maybe not ever.” Hannah had always envied Leslie Anne’s great relationship with her mom, so she could hardly tell her that she now hated her mother, hated her for lying to her all these years.
That had been yesterday, which seemed weeks ago instead of only twenty-four hours. She’d driven as far away as she could before nightfall, which didn’t come until after seven. Thank goodness for daylight savings time. It had been a new and unnerving experience for her to stay at a motel. When she’d paid in cash, the clerk hadn’t ask her any questions. He’d simply given her a key and told her that checkout was at eleven. Alone in a strange place, she hadn’t slept for more than a few hours, waking over and over again when nightmares threatened her. Her mind kept replaying that horrible moment the day before when she’d opened the package addressed to her and read the letter that explained the enclosed newspaper clippings.
Leslie Anne’s stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch, and it was now nearly two o’clock. She hadn’t realized there would be so few places along Interstate 59 where she could find a decent restaurant. According to the last road sign she’d seen, she would be passing through Meridian in about fifteen minutes and there were all kinds of fast-food places where she could grab a burger and fries.
As hard as she tried not to think about the letter she’d received and the newspaper clippings about a serial killer who’d been executed in Texas ten years ago, she could think of little else. When she’d first read the letter, she hadn’t wanted to believe it. She’d even gone straight to her mother, carrying the package with her, intending to give her mom a chance to deny everything. But the moment her mother smiled at her, she’d frozen, becoming mute and motionless.
“What is it, honey?” her mother had asked. “You look upset.”
She’d shook her head and managed to utter a succinct lie. “I’ve just got a headache, so I’d like Eustacia to bring a supper tray to my room.”
Maybe I should have told Mom about the contents of the package. Maybe I shouldn’t have run off the way I did.
Her doubts and indecision had been the very reason she’d left Fairport. She couldn’t confront her mother and grandfather with such damning accusations—not until she’d had time to sort through the information and come to terms with her own feelings. Even if every word was true, how likely was it that her mother would admit the truth? If it was the truth.
She would have lied to you. You know she would have. It’s not as if she hasn’t lied to you before.
When she’d been a preschooler and asked why she didn’t have a father like everyone else, her mother had told her that her father was dead. That had been enough to satisfy a four-year-old. And later on at ten, when she’d become more inquisitive, her grandfather had explained that her parents had been unmarried teenage sweethearts and her father had been tragically killed in an automobile accident before Leslie Anne was born. Her father’s name, he’d told her, was John Allen. It wasn’t until she was fourteen and got hold of a copy of her birth certificate that she’d learned the truth. In the slot for father’s name, the word “unknown” screamed the truth loud and clear. At the time she’d wondered several different things. Had there actually been a boy named John Allen? Or had he been a figment of her grandfather’s imagination? Had her mother been with several young men and didn’t know which one had fathered her child? Was her real father out there somewhere, and didn’t even know he had a daughter? Although her mother and grandfather had stuck to their story of a boy named
John Allen being her father, Leslie Anne had known they were lying. But not until she received the package from hell the day before yesterday had she understood why they had lied.
When the truth is too horrible to utter, too torturously painful to remember, only lies can protect you and those you love from the ugliness of reality.
CHAPTER TWO
THE WESTBROOK ESTATE consisted of five hundred acres and an antebellum mansion that had been in G.W.’s wife’s family for five generations. John Leslie settled in Mississippi before it became a state. Prior to the Civil War, his son built the home in which members of that family had resided ever since. Located in the country, six miles outside the Mississippi River town of Fairport, the old Leslie Plantation lay claim to its own legends and folklore, some stories dating back to the early eighteen hundreds. Not as well-known as her nearby sister-city of Natchez, but equally rich in history, Fairport’s economy now depended on two things—the tourist trade, which spilled over from Natchez, and the ten-year-old industrial park, comprised almost entirely of small businesses either owned by or invested in by G. W. Westbrook.
As Dante drove their rental car out of the sleepy little town, which hadn’t seen many changes since the sixties, Lucie Evans hummed along to the upbeat tune playing on the radio. She appeared to be totally absorbed in the files containing info on the Westbrook family. Usually Lucie tended to be vivacious and talkative, but she’d remained fairly quiet since they’d left the Natchez-Adams County airport where the Dundee jet had landed. Although there was no commercial service into the airport, the facility boasted a runway large enough to land a Boeing 737.
They’d just dropped off Dom and Vic at the sheriff’s department in Fairport, where they would obtain any updates on Leslie Anne Westbrook’s disappearance and coordinate their efforts with the various branches of city, county and state law enforcement. Dante had every intention of joining them as soon as he met with G.W. and stationed Lucie at the mansion to control the old man and soothe his daughter. From what Dante had read in the updated files Daisy Holbrook had hand-delivered to the agents shortly before takeoff from Atlanta, G.W. would pose a problem for Lucie. Headstrong, tenacious and accustomed to using his power and money to get whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it, G.W. seldom listened to advice. It looked as if Lucie would have her hands full keeping him in check. His guess was that Lucie’s only hope of controlling G.W. would be Tessa Westbrook. Ms. Westbrook, with a reputation for being as coolheaded as her father was hotheaded, should be able to exert enough influence over the old man to rein him in a little.
Worth Dying For Page 2
