Undercover Babies Page 5

  The backs were all printed with the same royal blue and gold fleur-de-lis pattern. She shuffled them in her hands, absently enjoying the silky feel of the cards sliding through her fingers.

  Looking through the mullioned window, she saw that the rain had stopped. Mac was out there somewhere. She assumed he’d return for her, but then what? If she couldn’t remember who she was, if she couldn’t go home, then she at least wanted to be with him. But why in the world would he want to be with her?

  She turned away from the window and paced the elegant room, coming to a stop in front of a row of photos hung against a wall, all black-and-white and artfully suspended in gilded frames.

  She bypassed the ones that looked old and moved on down to the more recent photos. There was Mac with an older man who looked enough like him to be his father. Mac looked to be about twenty. Another photo showed Mac in fatigues, standing with his arm around another young man, both of them grinning, a helicopter serving as backdrop.

  The next picture showed Mac accepting a plaque of some kind. This time he was in a policeman’s uniform, surrounded by others wearing the same thing, all of them in front of furled flags and a large insignia affixed to a wooden partition. There was no grin on Mac’s handsome face in this photo. Resignation had replaced the enthusiastic flush of youth. The picture looked like it could have been taken the day before.

  “Grace, dear, you’re awake.”

  Still gazing at the last picture, Grace said, “Tell me about these photos, Aunt Beatrice. Tell me about Mac.”

  Aunt Beatrice had advanced far enough into the room to touch her arm. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know, but not right now,” she said softly. “We have a guest.”

  Grace whirled. A middle-aged man with a bald dome stood just inside the doorway. His eyes were thoughtful, but kind.

  “This is my accountant, George,” Aunt Beatrice said.

  George closed the gap between himself and Grace, his hand extended, his grasp firm and friendly. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “George is having lunch with us,” Aunt Beatrice added. “You are hungry, I hope,” she added.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m ravenous,” Grace said.

  George wasn’t as big as Mac, nor as intimidating. Of course, he also wasn’t as attractive or engaging, but she was willing to forgo those qualities for the moment, preferring the sense of comfort the accountant exuded. He reminded her, with just the warm pressure of his hand and the gentle sound of his voice, of a father. For the first time, Grace wondered where her own parents were. Were they looking for her?

  “I’m ravenous, too,” George said, patting her hand, “and it’s not very often I share lunch with two young ladies.”

  Aunt Beatrice giggled like a schoolgirl.

  “You’ll have to tell me all about yourself,” George said as they adjourned to the dining room.

  Grace smiled wistfully. That wouldn’t take long.

  HEAD BENT against the rain, Mac thought about Grace’s tan, which was neither dark enough nor uniform enough to have come from a tanning salon or a misting machine. That meant she’d recently spent at least a few weeks in a sunny climate, which eliminated Billington and anywhere else within easy driving distance.

  Of course, she could have gotten it on a recent vacation. The most provocative element of that tan was the whitish line on her wedding ring finger which indicated that at the time she’d been sunning herself, she’d been married. So why wasn’t her husband looking for her?

  After he’d met with Confit and turned over the report, he’d gone to precinct headquarters and, ignoring baleful glares, cornered his ex-partner, Lou Gerald. Without revealing much about Grace and the circumstances under which he’d met her, he’d coerced Lou to check missing person reports, not only for Billington, but for all over the country. No one seemed to be missing a woman matching Grace’s description.

  How could that be?

  How did she get to Billington? Why had she stripped down to her fancy underwear and donned Jake’s clothes? Where were her jewelry and her identification? Why had she lost her memory? And where was Jake?

  He slowed down near Broadhurst and approached Jake’s alley, hoping to find the old guy waiting as usual. With any luck, Jake would have a story to be told and Mac was prepared to pay to hear it. He came armed with loose bills and pastrami on rye.

  It was early, so Mac wasn’t surprised when Jake didn’t materialize out of the gloom. He turned down the alley. Maybe Jake would be sitting under some kind of protection, waiting for his sandwich.

  The alley was just as oppressive as it had been the night before, but this time Mac also felt a sinister presence, as though the shadows held more than the debris of life, as though they also concealed calculating eyes. He was just about at the far end when he saw a leg and a shoe protruding from under a big flap of cardboard tucked up against an overflowing Dumpster.

  Mac made some general noise to warn whomever was hiding under there that he was about to tear away his protection, but the foot didn’t twitch. He hauled away the soggy cardboard and found a man staring up at him.

  Jake!

  A whoop of pleasure at finally finding the old guy died in Mac’s throat and he perched on his heels with a growing sense of dread. He felt the wrinkled throat out of habit, praying he’d detect even a thread of pulse but knowing it was too late.

  “Aw, man, what happened to you?” he whispered.

  For a second, as the rain hit Jake’s grayish face and ran in rivulets down his crumpled chin, Mac saw another face, a softer face. His mother’s face…

  Was she still alive or had she, too, died alone in an alley?

  Would he ever know?

  He forced her image from his mind. It had been ten years since he’d seen his mother and he really didn’t expect he would ever see her again. He made himself come back to the alley and deal with the present.

  Jake was wearing a pair of blue jeans so new they looked stiff. A yellow shirt had a price tag stapled to the collar as though it came from a thrift store. He also wore waterproof boots and a green overcoat that had been dry before Mac moved the cardboard and exposed it. Large wet splotches now darkened the coat. Jake’s longish gray hair was covered with a dark blue watch cap, the kind seafaring men wear. One hand clutched the neck of a bottle of relatively pricey gin.

  Jake had either pulled the cardboard over his head and upper body or it had been done for him during the dry part of the day around mid-morning or early afternoon. He’d been relatively warm and dry when he died and, judging from the missing contents of the gin bottle, feeling no pain.

  Mac got to his feet and replaced the cardboard carefully, doing his best to protect what might be a crime scene. He pulled out his phone and paged Lou, knowing as he did so that he wouldn’t mention Grace, that he’d protect her from questions he knew she couldn’t answer. He figuratively crossed his fingers, hoping that Jake had finally succeeded in drinking himself to death and that no one connected with Grace had helped him along.

  But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all just too much of a coincidence. He couldn’t shake the feeling Grace was in danger.

  THEY’D BEEN closeted away in the den for over an hour and Grace knew they were talking about her. At first, she’d been patient, assuming she’d be summoned, and played endless games of solitaire. But now she was antsy and annoyed.

  She’d been waiting all day for Mac to come back, but the minute he’d hit his aunt’s house, he’d snapped at her to stay in the living room with Cooper and marched his aunt into the den, firmly closing the door without so much as looking at her.

  Who did he think he was?

  Officious, bossy…

  She turned to complain to poor old Cooper and found him dozing. With a little smile, she abandoned her game of solitaire and gathered the cards into a stack. So much for waiting like a good girl.

  As she flung open the door, Mac and his aunt stood like a couple of thieves near th
e bookcase, caught in mid argument. Aunt Beatrice startled at the intrusion, but the second Mac saw her, he strode across the room and gripped her upper arms. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, staring into her eyes. “Where’s Cooper?”

  This wasn’t the reaction Grace had expected from Mac. For that matter, the racing of her heart wasn’t the reaction she’d expected from herself. But the strength and heat of his hands, coupled with the intensity of his gaze, struck her like a bolt of lightning.

  “Where’s Cooper?” he repeated.

  She gestured behind her and watched Mac’s face relax as he caught sight of the slumbering butler.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment,” he told Grace, meeting her eyes with a troubled gaze of his own. “Just stay there with Cooper and don’t answer the front door—”

  Wrenching herself from his grasp, she felt anger burning the edges of anxiety. “You’re treating me like a child,” she said.

  “Now just a moment—”

  “She doesn’t know what’s going on,” Aunt Beatrice said calmly. “Just explain it to her.”

  Mac took a deep breath. “You might as well come in,” he said.

  “Gee, thanks,” she said and sidled past him, suddenly aware of him as a man in a way she hadn’t been until a few moments before. It was disconcerting, to say the least. To cover her uneasiness, she barked, “Just what’s going on? Am I right in assuming that I’m the topic of conversation?”

  “More or less,” Mac said, throwing himself into a chair facing his aunt’s desk. The older woman gestured at a matching chair but Grace declined with a shake of her head, pretty sure she’d explode if she tried to sit.

  Pacing the plush carpet, Grace said, “I know I’m a…problem…for you both and I’ve been thinking. I don’t believe I’m an addict. I don’t crave anything and my head has been clear for hours. Also, how do you explain things like my fingernails? I may not have a manicure, but my cuticles are trimmed. My feet are soft, no calluses like I assume there’d be if I’d been walking around a lot, nor am I undernourished. I think I’ve had a recent pedicure. Does that sound homeless to you, because it sure doesn’t to me.”

  Aunt Beatrice said, “I think—”

  But Grace interrupted again. “I don’t know why the thought of seeing a doctor makes me feel queasy, but okay, I’ll go see a doctor. Maybe that would help. I have to do something. I have to get back where I belong. I’m…needed. I have to hurry.”

  “You’ve already seen a doctor,” Mac said.

  “What?”

  “The man I introduced as my accountant is actually my physician,” Aunt Beatrice explained as she took a seat. “And Travis here is annoyed with me.”

  “I didn’t know she was going to sneak a doctor in to see you. I guess it did no harm.”

  “Now listen here, you two,” Grace said through gritted teeth. “I admit I haven’t been in my best form, whatever that might be, but I will no longer tolerate being left in the dark.” She knew her next question might undermine her declaration, but she had to ask it. “What did George say about me?”

  “Just what I knew by taking one good look at you,” Aunt Beatrice said. “You’re no more a homeless addict than I am. I can’t believe Mac ever thought you were.”

  “You’re the one who thought she was a spy,” Mac snarled.

  “I never—”

  “Wait!” Grace had to raise her voice. “A spy?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Aunt Beatrice insisted. “The point is, the doctor thinks you were drugged. He wants to take a blood sample and run some tests.”

  “And Aunt Beatrice was trying to think of a devious way to get you to part with a vial or two,” Mac said, which earned him a dirty look from his aunt. “However, that’s not the immediate concern—”

  “It is for me,” Grace interrupted. “The doctor can have his blood and run all the tests he wants, but no more secrets, no more tricks. Listen, I know you’re an ex-cop. Your aunt told me you’re now a private eye. How about I hire you to help me find out who I am.”

  He stared at her. “I don’t know—”

  “Of course he’ll take your case,” Aunt Beatrice said. “It’s what he does. Ever since his sense of decency got him kicked off the police force—”

  “Don’t start with that,” Mac said.

  “You know it’s true. You were the only one who didn’t participate in that cover-up.”

  “What cover-up?” Grace asked Mac. As he wouldn’t meet her gaze, she glanced at Aunt Bea and repeated, “What cover-up?”

  “It was after things went wrong on that drug unit you were part of,” she said.

  “I got myself kicked off of that, too,” Mac said bitterly.

  Aunt Bea nodded. “That’s right, you did. Whoever said honesty is the best policy never tried being a police officer in Billington.”

  “That’s not entirely fair,” Mac said. “Most of the guys are great. Besides, Grace isn’t interested in all this.”

  “Sure I am,” Grace said. “Go on, Aunt Bea.”

  “Where was I? Oh, yes. First, he was part of this elite drug response unit until his protests about their illegal search-and-seizure procedures got him demoted back to patrol officer. Things were going okay for a while and then there was that incident last year when five policemen responded to a call from a fellow officer who said he was under attack.”

  “I was too late to do much more than watch,” Mac said. “It was down near the freeway overpass. A wino had attacked an officer. By the time I got there, another officer was pulling the wino off the cop. One thing led to another, and before anyone knew what had happened, the officer had used too much force and the wino was dead. Another officer planted a knife on the dead guy. When Internal Affairs investigated, all of the other guys said the wino had had the knife all along, that it was a case of kill or be killed. There I was, hanging out in the wind by myself, telling the truth, but of course, I already had a reputation as a troublemaker and my voice carried little weight.”

  “And that’s when he quit,” Aunt Bea said, “and got his private license.”

  “And made the decision to pick my own cases,” Mac added firmly.

  “Of course,” Aunt Beatrice said.

  “Then help me,” Grace pleaded.

  “How exactly would you pay me?”

  Grace bit her lip. How did she know she could afford to hire a private detective? But what if she went to the police and they found out she was some kind of criminal or on the run from a questionable situation? Wouldn’t it be better to have someone like Mac on her side, someone obligated to stay loyal, someone she could control?

  She glanced at Mac’s face. Did she for one second think she could control Travis MacBeth? No. But he wouldn’t be bound by the same rules as the police. With him, she could consider whatever he found out about her and decide if she wanted to reenter her life or not. All she knew was what her instincts told her: she needed to find out where she belonged as soon as possible. Someone important needed her.

  And Mac looked like her best bet.

  She said, “I’ll find the money.”

  Aunt Beatrice said, “Nonsense. I have plenty of money. Travis will get almost everything I have when I pass on, so why not get some of it now through you?”

  Grace’s eyes spontaneously filled with tears. She hadn’t expected this kindness, especially as her behavior since entering this room had been surly.

  “Not so fast,” Mac said. “The fact is, I’ve already checked missing persons from all over the country. There are no recent reports that match you.”

  “Maybe Jake knows something.”

  “Jake’s dead,” Mac said, his eyes suddenly hard.

  Grace felt her lungs empty. “How did he die?”

  “Someone stuck a knife in his back,” Mac said. The anger blazing in his eyes momentarily scared her and she made a mental note not to get on his bad side. “The police are investigating.”

  “Will they want to question me?”


  “They don’t know about you.”

  “You checked missing person reports, but you didn’t mention me?”

  He studied his hands.

  “I know you must have,” she said, popping to her feet. The need to leave this house was tremendous. Where could she go? She wanted to get away from these people and yet she was terrified at the thought of being alone out in the rain in a city so foreign it was hard to believe she’d ever felt comfortable in it, ever called it home. Why wasn’t someone looking for her?

  “I talked informally to an old friend of mine. He’s willing to take your fingerprints and contact the FBI. Don’t get your hopes up. Unless you worked for the government or you’re a felon, it’s very unlikely your prints are going to help much. Bottom line here is that the police don’t know you ever met Jake. I didn’t connect you with the alley. They don’t know you had anything to do with him.”

  “But I didn’t,” she protested.

  “You were wearing his clothes,” Mac said. “You must have had at least a nodding acquaintance with the man.”

  “What was Jake wearing when they found him?”

  “Clean clothes, like from a thrift store.”

  “And Travis is the one who found him,” Aunt Beatrice added. “After he met with the police and started home, someone followed him back to his car. He lost them—”

  “Aunt Beatrice,” Mac said sternly, but he was looking at Grace. She felt weak with an unspecified alarm; if she looked as scared as she felt, he must think she was about to faint, bolt or throw up. All three alternatives seemed likely. She sat down instead.

  “I lost the tail,” Mac said. “But the fact that someone wanted to know where I was headed after discovering a murder victim, combined with our adventure last night is…worrisome.”

  “You think!” Grace said, shuddering.

  “On the other hand, all these things could be unrelated. Poor old homeless bums like Jake sometimes get themselves murdered. Maybe he came into some cash, bought new clothes, abandoned his old ones, which you then adopted. Maybe he showed a few dollars around and another derelict decided to do him in for his newfound wealth. Maybe the police chief wanted me followed, and tailing me away from the alley was simply the easiest way. I don’t know enough to connect all the dots yet.”