Nadine stepped off the jet into sunshine so bright it hurt her eyes. Even in December, the cloudless sky above Clearwater shimmered with heat. The asphalt tarmac beneath her heels felt crumbly and soft.
“Let’s go,” Sloane commanded, leading his contingent forward. “We’re due at the courthouse within the hour.”
Nadine lifted her briefcase and followed Madison Jarvis, Sloane’s high-priced attorney, who shadowed his client like a well-trained dog. Trent Bishop, Sloane’s latest assistant, walked behind the lawyer, and Nadine brought up the rear, resenting the fact that she was part of an entourage. She had carved out a career for herself in a male-dominated world, and it galled her to walk ten paces behind a man, even if he was her most lucrative client and one of the most charismatic men in the world.
She lengthened her stride and hurried to catch up with Sloane. She could at least walk beside him.
Though he didn’t turn to look at her, he must have sensed her presence. “I don’t want any press,” he said, keeping his gaze fastened to the narrow door that led into the main airport terminal. “Did you take care of that?”
She shifted her briefcase from one hand to the other and leaned toward him. “No one knows about the hearing but us and the Pinellas County judge. I had our judge call him this morning to discuss the pickup order, and we have every reason to expect that the local judge will go along with Judge Weaver’s recommendation.”
“Why in the world would Lara Godfrey settle here?” Trent Bishop’s crooked nose crinkled as he gestured toward the horizon that trembled in the heat haze. “Nothing but bugs and tourists and scraggly palm trees—”
“It worked, didn’t it?” Sloane snapped, interrupting his assistant. “We should have thought of Florida. The state has a large number of transients and a huge geriatric population. It makes sense, considering that our girl is a medical professional.”
“As a matter of fact,” Nadine answered, ducking as they walked under the wing of another private jet, “Rose Shepard, as Lara Godfrey is now known, is employed by the Osceola Oaks Nursing Home as a licensed practical nurse. She makes $32,000 a year—a fair wage for a single mother with a small son.”
“An LPN?” Trent glanced up, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “I thought she was a physician’s assistant. That’s practically a doctor—”
“She’s not a fool,” Sloane interrupted. They had reached the terminal entrance, and Sloane stood back, waiting for Trent or Jarvis—or maybe Nadine—to open the door.
Nadine gripped her briefcase with both hands. “We’ve been searching through medical professional organizations and databases for months, hoping she’d show up,” she told Trent. “We found a midwife named Lara Jefferson out in Milwaukee, so I sent two agents to check her out.
We spent a week investigating, but it wasn’t our girl.”
Trent regarded the door with a puzzled expression. “Is it locked?”
Sloane closed his eyes in an attitude of exasperation. “Why don’t you try it and see?”
The assistant opened the door, and Sloane passed through, his bearing imperious. Nadine gave the young man a brief smile of thanks, then sighed in relief when a blast of cool air ruffled her hair. She drank deeply of the air conditioning and wished she’d worn a lighter suit. If all went well they’d be back in Virginia tonight, but one could never be certain about child custody cases.
Sloane stopped abruptly and turned. “What’s the plan?” His face had gone pale, and faint droplets of sweat shone like pearls on his upper lip. “I want to be apprised of everything that happens.”
“Mr. Jarvis and I”—Nadine gestured toward the lawyer—“are going to the Pinellas County courthouse to confirm the pickup order. You and Trent will go to a hotel and wait for us. Once we have confirmed the local sheriff ’s department’s support, we will go to Lara Godfrey’s residence and conceal ourselves. The moment after she comes home, we’ll surround the trailer. We’ll take the child into protective custody, then bring him to you at the hotel.”
A shade of uncertainty crept into Sloane’s expression, and Nadine smiled at the sight of it. In her wildest moments she would never have imagined Sloane capable of insecurity or uncertainty.
“Don’t worry.” She placed her hand on his arm and gave him a confident smile. “Little boys are just like big boys. Play with him if he’s restless, feed him if he’s hungry, and comfort him if he cries. As soon as we get the all clear from the judge, you can take him home.”
Sloane’s shoulders slumped in what looked like relief while eagerness and anxiety mingled in his expression. Nadine watched, amazed at this unusual display of emotion. He behaved as though he felt something for this little boy, though she couldn’t imagine how he could love a child he had never known. Then again, she no longer knew her own son, yet something stirred in her heart every time she thought of him . . .
Jarvis cleared his throat and glanced pointedly at his watch. “Nearly eleven thirty. If we’re going to get to the courthouse before lunch, we’d better hurry.”
“Go.” Sloane waved Nadine away. “Trent and I will take a hotel room near the airport. You have my number if you need me.”
“Got it,” Nadine said, moving away. With the lawyer at her side, she stepped into the flow of arriving tourists and headed toward the exit. Christmas carols spilled from overhead speakers, covering the murmur of welcoming voices with a joyous holiday sound.
Nadine walked silently and studied the crowd, imagining Lara Godfrey’s face upon every passing thirty-something woman. Soon she’d no longer have to engage in this habitual ritual; she’d be face-to-face with the real McCoy in only a few hours.
She stepped through the sliding doors and moved toward a taxi that would take her and Jarvis to the Pinellas County sheriff and Devin Sloane’s son.
Lara stepped into the carpeted hallway that dissected the church’s educational building and smiled as she followed the sound of a boisterous chorus of “We Three Kings.” Hunter’s preschool classroom lay around the corner from the school’s security desk, and she waved at the gray-haired officer on duty before turning the corner. The spirited carol originated in Hunter’s classroom, and she leaned on the shelf of the half door and grinned at the students’ happy enthusiasm. Hunter’s teacher, Rachel Williams, saw Lara and flashed a smile.
As the teacher’s aide continued the song, Rachel pulled Hunter’s backpack from a row of hooks along the wall, then walked toward Lara. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Shepard,” she said, placing the backpack on the shelf in front of Lara. “You’re early today.”
“Yes, my boss let me go,” Lara said, her eyes following her son. “We Three Kings” had ended and now the children were choosing parts for “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Hunter, apparently, was struggling to imitate one of the lords a-leaping.
“Actually, I’m glad you’re early.” Rachel’s blue eyes softened. “I wanted to talk to you a moment about Hunter.”
Lara tensed immediately, but forced herself to remain calm. “Oh? Did he misbehave in class?”
“Oh, no, not that. Hunter’s a little angel.” The teacher stopped suddenly. “I feel a bit disloyal for bringing this up because I don’t want to contradict anything you’re teaching him at home. But something happened today, and I’m a little concerned that you may be limiting Hunter’s full potential.”
Lara shook her head. “What on earth do you mean?”
The woman bit her lip, then answered in a rush of words. “Hunter has trouble . . . with his imagination. We played a pretending game today, and I asked Hunter to be the donkey in the manger where Jesus was born. You can imagine my surprise when he stood and said he wasn’t a donkey and he could never be one.” A look of discomfort crossed the teacher’s face. “Honestly, Mrs. Shepard, in that moment I felt like I was teaching the children to lie, but we were only pretending.”
Lara sighed as a wave of relief and frustration swept over her. “You’re right, he’s very matter-of-fact about things, but I can assure you that I’ve never told him imagination is wrong. I suppose he hasn’t yet learned to tell the difference between fancy and fact.”
“That leads me to another matter.” The teacher placed her arms on the shelf and leaned closer. “Actually, most of my kids have no trouble with lying. With a perfectly straight face some will tell me their daddy is the president or their mama is flying to the moon next week. I usually spend a lot of time teaching kids not to use their imaginations so freely. But Hunter—”
Lara lifted a brow when the teacher hesitated. “What does Hunter do?”
“Well—” Lara saw a look pass across the teacher’s face, a look she had worn herself. She had reacted the same way the first time Hunter displayed his remarkable gift.
“Tommy stole some cookies from Lauren’s lunch box, but no one saw him, not even Hunter. He couldn’t have seen Tommy, because Hunter was on the playground with me when Tommy was here in the room. But later, when Lauren noticed that her cookies were missing, I went around and asked each child if they had taken Lauren’s snack. When I asked Tommy, he said no, he hadn’t taken them, and that’s when Hunter spoke up.” Rachel shot Lara a half-frightened look. “Without any prodding, Hunter said, ‘He’s lying, Miss Williams.’ Well, I thought Hunter had seen the theft, so I looked in Tommy’s pockets and sure enough, I found a handful of cookie crumbs. But when I asked Hunter if he saw Tommy take the cookies, he said no. When I asked how he knew Tommy was lying, Hunter couldn’t answer. He said he just knew.” The teacher’s gaze moved into Lara’s. “How does he know?”
Lara’s heart had slowed when Rachel first broached the subject. It now resumed beating much faster than usual, as though to make up for lost time. “I—I don’t know,” she stammered, resisting the troubling thoughts rising in her brain. “Perhaps Tommy mentioned something to him. Maybe he gave Hunter a cookie.”
Doubt shone in Rachel’s eyes, but she pulled away and turned toward the children. “Hunter, your mother’s here,” she called, pausing to unhook a construction paper Christmas stocking from a string along the wall. As Hunter pulled out of the circle and sprang forward like a leaping lord gone amuck, Rachel pressed the stocking into his hands and stooped for a quick hug. “You have a merry Christmas. We’ll see you after the holidays, okay?”
“Okay!” Hunter yelled, straining to be heard over the music. Rachel opened the door, and Lara wrapped her hand around her son’s, then smiled her thanks and waved as they walked away.
“Mom, can I get a book?”
“Not today, buddy; this is a quick visit. Mom just wants to check her e-mail.” Lara sat Hunter in the spare chair with his construction-paper stocking, then logged onto Juno.com with her ID and password. She smiled as a message from Connor flashed on the screen.
Dear Secondhand R:
What do you mean, long time, no hear from me? I was only away for two days. The conference was nice, but boring. Couldn’t wait to get back and check in with you.
By the way, you haven’t mentioned my Christmas card. I sent a check for the Squeaker and my very best wishes for a blessed Christmas. I hope they arrived safe and sound. If not, let me know. I’m praying for you every day and night. I’ll write more later, but things are bustling around here.
Love and blessings to you.
C.
Lara frowned as she read the message again. Connor didn’t say when he’d sent the Christmas card, but he obviously thought enough time had passed for her to receive it. It could have been lost in the Christmas deluge, of course, or misdirected in her crowded trailer park. Many of her neighbors had headed north for the holidays, so the card could be languishing in any one of their mailboxes.
Her gaze fell upon Hunter, who was lumbering silently around her cubicle, his arms dangling loosely from his shoulders as if he were a chimpanzee. He walked with an awkward gait, turning one foot outward. No telling what that was supposed to represent.
She frowned as his teacher’s words came back to her. Why would her son love to pretend in private and refuse to play a pretend role in front of his classmates?
She clicked her tongue and smiled when his wide blue gaze lifted to meet hers. His eyes were clear and trusting like Michael’s—and yet they were nothing like Michael’s. Her son was unlike any child she had ever known.
She held out her hand. “Let’s go, buddy.”
Hunter slipped his damp fingers into her palm, then stooped to pick up his crumpled Christmas stocking from the floor. That bit of construction paper art probably wouldn’t last until they got home, but at least she could say Hunter had enjoyed it to death.
As they left the library, Hunter lifted his knees and marched beside her, humming a slightly off-key version of “We Three Kings.” Lara gave the librarian a rueful grin as she led her noisy little boy out. She half-expected the woman to cast her a warning glance, but the white-haired lady only waved and winked as they walked away.
In the penthouse suite of the Airport Marriott, Devin Sloane thrust his hands behind his back and paced before the window, trying to corral his unproductive, rebellious thoughts. He and Trent had been waiting at the hotel for five hours without a word from Nadine. Madison Jarvis had called shortly after two to report that the Pinellas County judge had approved the pickup order and Nadine was en route to the sheriff ’s office to enlist the aid of several deputies.
Devin glanced at his watch again. Five fifteen, yet no news was probably good news. What did another hour or two matter? He had lost five years, but he had to admit the child may not have been harmed while in his mother’s care. He had selected Lara Godfrey because she was a warm, nurturing person. She had probably done an excellent job of caring for the boy through infancy and the toddler years. Nadine’s investigator had said the boy seemed charming and bright, so even if the boy’s genes had been slightly damaged by exposure, they’d still be of far greater quality than anything else on the planet.
He turned to Trent, who sat on the couch, his eyes fastened to the television. “Pull out that report again, please. What is she calling my son?”
Trent opened his briefcase and fumbled with the pages that had arrived an hour ago. The report, faxed from the Harrington Group in Washington, contained every scrap of information available—legally and illegally—on Rose Shepard of Osceola, Florida.
Trent flipped through the stapled pages. “On her tax returns for the last four years, she listed one son, Hunter, as a dependent. His Social Security number is 267-08-3945.”
Devin smacked his fist into his palm. “She’s amazingly good! I never would have suspected that Lara was capable of such thoroughness.”
Trent’s mouth twisted in a grudging smile. “She thought of everything. This report lists credit card numbers, her address, even her Social Security earnings. But the earliest record of her reported earnings is dated February 1999.”
Sloane turned back to the window. “Of course. For all intents and purposes, our Rose Shepard was born that month. But she is finished now.”
He jerked his chin toward the laptop on the coffee table. “Read the media list back to me. Who have I forgotten?”
Trent dropped the report back into the briefcase, then leaned forward to scroll through the computer list. “The list looks complete, sir. You’ve included Katie Couric, Tom Brokaw, Barbara Walters, Oprah Winfrey, the four major networks, Fox News, CNN, the Washington Post, the New York Times, and the Los Angeles Times. I think we’ve covered the major media.”
“Good.” Sloane thrust his hands behind his back. “As soon as the child arrives, I want a press release faxed to everyone on that list. ‘Devin Sloane wishes to announce the safe return of his son’—” He paused. “What do you think? I had planned to call him Adam, but perhaps it’s not wise to change a child’s name right away. I wouldn’t want to traumatize him.”
Trent quirked his brow. “Do you like the name Hunter?”
Laughter floated up from Sloane’s throat. “I think it marvelously apt. I’ve spent almost six years searching for the boy, and our missing mother names the child ‘Hunter.’ I adore the irony.”
Trent turned back to his keyboard. “Keep the name,” he said, his voice flat. “Spare the child and retain the name. It’ll be good PR.”
Sloane nodded, satisfaction pursing his mouth. “I’ll leave the particulars of the announcement to you, Trent; just make certain it’s dignified and restrained. We’ll hold a press conference one week—no, we’d better give the doctors more time—two weeks from today. Mention that all questions will be answered, the truth revealed, etc. List Madison Jarvis as the contact person.”
Trent’s fingers flew over the keyboard; then his hands stilled. “Anything else?”
“No.” Devin’s gaze moved toward the wide windows, where the blazing Florida sun had already begun to dip toward the western horizon. Surely by now Lara Godfrey had left work and was driving home.
Keeping his eyes upon the narrow ribbon of highway that ran beside the hotel, Devin leaned on the back of a chair in a vain attempt to control the spasmodic trembling within him. His phase-two project, for which he had nearly abandoned all hope, would soon be in full development, paving the way for phase three and his own immortality.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but can I get you a cup of coffee?”
Nadine turned from the window of the bland little community building and gave the fresh-faced deputy a distracted smile. “No, thank you. I’m keyed up enough as it is.”
She looked back to the window, but the man would not be dissuaded. “If you’re nervous about Bob, ma’am, you can rest assured he knows what he’s doing. Bob’s a good guy under pressure; he won’t let anything slip.”
Nadine craned her neck, searching the street for Lara Godfrey’s white vehicle. “I’m not worried about Bob.”
The Pinellas County sheriff had sent her out with four deputies, three men and a female officer, and three of the four were waiting with her in the clubhouse. The fourth, a square-faced, taciturn fellow named Bob Andrews, had parked his vehicle off the entrance road. The mobile home park manager had agreed to cooperate with what would appear to be a random check of vehicles entering and exiting the community, but Nadine cared only about one car—a white Altima, Florida license number GYZ 395, registered to Rose Shepard.
It was risky to place a cop where Lara Godfrey could see him, but Nadine wanted to be certain the child was in the car before they approached the trailer. If Lara had chanced to drop the boy at a friend’s house, their surprise raid would do more harm than good. She’d know they’d found her and would have time to convince a friend to hide Hunter.
The female deputy sat down at the ramshackle piano and proceeded to plink out the opening notes of “Heart and Soul.” Nadine grimaced, then glanced over at Madison Jarvis, who sat at a table with a sheaf of documents spread before him. He seemed oblivious to the chatter and the tinny music; the man seemed to care for little but the law. Nadine doubted she’d heard him speak more than two dozen words since he boarded the jet in Washington. She certainly hoped his tongue would loosen once they brought their civil case to trial.
“Heads up.” The deputy nearest her spoke in a low and vibrant voice. Nadine turned to the window and automatically took a half step back as a white Altima pulled into the mobile home park.
“They can’t see you,” the deputy said, a cocky smile in his voice. “No need to jump back.”
Nadine flexed her fingers until the urge to strangle the deputy had passed. She’d like to have them all fired, beginning with the wannabe concert artist on the piano.
“All right, people,” the deputy called, turning from the window. “It’s show time. Ready your weapons, show them if she resists, but don’t fire unless you absolutely must.”
“Good grief.” Nadine ripped out the words, then turned to face Mr. Machismo. “Don’t forget—this is a pickup order for a civil case and you’ll be dealing with a five-year-old child. We don’t want to frighten the boy.”
“Thank you for reminding me, ma’am,” the deputy drawled with distinct mockery.
The piano stopped tinkling and a chilly silence enveloped the room. All three deputies were staring at her; even Jarvis looked up from his legal papers.
“Sorry,” Nadine said, glancing sharply at the lawyer. “Just remember you’re not after Bonnie and Clyde. Just a mother and her kid.”
Nadine turned back to the window, then heard the soft leather brush of holsters as guns were drawn and checked. “All right, we’ll wait until she goes into the trailer; then surround it,” the deputy said, moving toward the door. “Let’s hope Bob doesn’t do anything to spook her.”
“Something wrong, officer?” Lara lowered her window and gave the sheriff ’s deputy her most innocent smile. “Trouble in the park?”
“No, ma’am.” The sheriff touched the brim of his hat as he came closer, then smiled as he glanced at Hunter. Placing one hand on her window, he leaned forward and spoke in a confidential tone. “Just a routine traffic stop. Somebody’s reported a couple of skateboarders, and the manager asked us to see if someone’s driving ’em in.”
Lara leaned back against the seat and smiled. “Yes, I’ve heard them. They go up and down the road at all hours.”
“We’ll try to find them, ma’am.” In a polite salute, the deputy touched the brim of his hat again, then straightened and waved Lara through.
As she drove away, Hunter’s voice cut through her thoughts like a knife. “He told you a lie, Mom.”
“What, buddy?”
Hunter pressed his hands together and squeezed, his worried gesture. “That policeman. He lied. That wasn’t the truth.” His velvet eyes had widened. “Policemen aren’t supposed to lie, Mom. My teacher says the policeman is my friend.”
Lara clutched the steering wheel and felt her heart leap into the back of her throat. The woman at the park. The sheriff. They had both lied. The woman wasn’t a schoolteacher, and this deputy wasn’t here to check out a complaint about skateboarders—
He’d come for her.
Instinctively, her foot moved to the brake; then she forced it back to the gas pedal. She couldn’t stop in front of the cop, but she couldn’t back up and pull out with tires squealing, either. There were probably others waiting somewhere, and they’d stop her in an instant if they saw her try to run. Plus, there was Hunter to consider. One small boy could be hurt in a car crash . . .
But they would not take her son.
Her adrenal glands dumped such a dose of adrenaline into her bloodstream that her fingers trembled. “Hunter, buddy, listen to me.” She kept her eyes on the road, allowing the car to idle down the narrow lane. The speed limit was ten miles per hour, so the cop wouldn’t think it odd that she was moving slowly. She needed time to think, to put her plans in action.
For she had always known this day would come.
“Hunter, buddy, you know that little suitcase under your bed? When I stop the car, I need you to run to your bedroom and get it. I’m going to get out and unlock the front door for you, then I’m going to come back to the car. I want you to run and get your suitcase; then run back to the car as fast as you can, just like we practiced. Okay?”
For an instant Hunter’s flushed face seemed to open. She saw bewilderment there, a fast flicker of fear, then complete and unquestioning trust.
“Bad people lie, don’t they, Mom?”
Lara nosed the car into the driveway, shoved the gearshift into park, and cut the engine. “I don’t know if that deputy is a bad person,” she whispered, her fingers fluttering helplessly over the seat-belt buckle. She drew a deep breath, then met her son’s gaze and tried to smile. “Some-t times people lie when they’re hiding something. And when they are, sometimes we have to hide too. This is one of those times.”
“Like when you use your pretend name?”
Lara took a quick, sharp breath. Hunter had never called her anything but “Mommy” or “Mom,” and he’d never heard her called anything but Rose. But apparently not even her name rang true with him.
“Yes,” she whispered. “This is why I use a pretend name.”
Hunter nodded gravely and remained silent as she got out of the car and glanced toward the clubhouse. The deputy still stood at the edge of the parking lot; now he was bent toward Mr. and Mrs. Adams’s blue Lincoln, probably assuring them there was no cause for alarm. She waited, not moving, while Hunter clambered out of the car and walked toward the rusting wrought-iron steps that led to the front door. Lara left her purse in the car and followed, the keys jangling against her hand with a sharp metallic sound.
She would leave her photographs, her clothes, her papers. Every single remnant of Rose Shepard would remain in this trailer. After tomorrow, Lara wouldn’t care what happened to Rose. By six o’clock tonight she would be someone else and, if necessary, someone else next week. Connor had taught her to be prepared, and in the last five years she’d had time to plan for this day.
She brought her key to the door. As she unlocked it, she looked in the small window and studied the reflected street behind her. The deputy was moving toward the clubhouse with his head down.
“Okay, buddy.” She took Hunter’s hand and urged him through the door. “Run into your bedroom, grab the suitcase, and come right back out. Don’t worry about anything; just run back as quickly as you can.”
She patted him on the fanny as he scooted past; then she returned to the car, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. As the air conditioner poured cool air over her fevered face, she checked the gas gauge.
Less than a quarter of a tank. Well, that voided several options. She didn’t have enough gas to get far, so she wouldn’t try to leave town. But in Hunter’s little suitcase she had a half dozen credit cards in two new names, two sets of new birth certificates for herself and Hunter, and five thousand dollars cash.
She heard the metallic slam of the front door and looked up. Hunter was running toward her, both hands clutching the bright plastic suitcase, the picture of a grinning purple dinosaur knocking against his knees with every step. From her open door, Lara pulled him into the car and over the gearshift, then slammed the door and threw the car into reverse. She pounded the gas pedal, sending gravel and sand flying as the Altima spun back onto the street.
“Buckle up, buddy.” Galvanized by the iron in her voice, Hunter rushed to obey. Holding her body in rigid check, Lara eased down the road at a careful pace. A bead of perspiration traced a cold path down her back as she neared the clubhouse, then her breath exploded in a gasp. Through the open door a stream of uniformed officers moved into the sunshine, two of them with weapons drawn.
They weren’t expecting to see her, but one of the deputies pointed and yelled. Lara stomped the gas pedal, leaving her pursuers to scramble for their vehicles.
She had to get away. “Father God,” she whispered, her car rattling and bounding over the shoulder as she tried to weave her way into the highway traffic, “help us now.”
Behind her, above the sound of Hunter’s frightened whimper and the blare of horns, she heard the loud whoop of a siren.
The deputies sprinted for their vehicles, but Nadine remained rooted to the concrete sidewalk like a witness to a fatal accident. Her well-laid plans had just gone awry, and she had no idea why. Did Lara Godfrey have some kind of sixth sense? Abby reported that the woman was a creature of habit, the trailer park manager confirmed that she rarely went out after coming home from work. Yet the woman had just pulled away, and from the way she took that corner, any fool could see she wasn’t popping back to the grocery store to pick up something she’d forgotten.
What had tipped her off?
She heard the clubhouse door click, then Jarvis’s deep voice broke her concentration. “I take it the woman ran.”
“Like the hounds of hell were giving chase.” Nadine crossed her arms. She’d let the deputies handle the pursuit; they’d probably enjoy the excitement. With any luck, they’d pull Godfrey over within the hour and she’d still be able to tell Sloane that the boy had been taken into custody.
Jarvis thrust his hands in his pockets and gave her a sly grin. “You going to call Sloane?”
Nadine returned his smile. “No, I’m going to see him. I can call the sheriff from the hotel, and if they pull her over in the next few minutes, we’ll be able to give Sloane good news.”
As she moved away, she kept that smile on her lips like a label on a bottle, hiding her humiliation. She had been so certain, so sure of herself, and yet Lara Godfrey had managed to slip away. How? The woman was a glorified nurse, for heaven’s sake, not a brain surgeon . . .
“I’m glad I’m not in your shoes,” Jarvis said, following her inside the clubhouse. “I’d hate to be the one to tell the boss that he came all the way to Florida for nothing.”
“You couldn’t wear my shoes,” Nadine snapped, her irritation rising as high as the temperature outside. She yanked her briefcase from the table, then threw the lawyer a defiant glance. “And the day is not over yet, Mr. Jarvis. By now every cop in this county has Lara Godfrey’s license plate number. It’ll be a miracle if she makes it another ten miles.”
Nadine sat on a sofa in Sloane’s suite, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. She’d given up the habit months before, but a few minutes ago Madison Jarvis pulled a pack from his pocket and Nadine extended her hand. Smoking was a nasty business, bad for her health and her budget, but neither seemed to matter now that she had lost Devin Sloane’s son.
The county sheriff had called a few minutes after eleven. He spoke to directly to Sloane, who hung up and relayed the information in a clipped voice. He did not, Nadine noticed, look in her direction.
The sheriff had put out an all points bulletin on the white Altima, Sloane told them, but the last hour of daylight passed without any reports of the vehicle. Finally, after dark, they began a search of public areas. At ten thirty a deputy reported finding the car abandoned at Clearwater Beach, its tag facing the Gulf and smeared with wet sand. “Clever girl,” Sloane concluded, his mouth twisting in something not quite a smile.
“Where could she have gone from the beach?” Trent asked, his ruddy brows rising. “This is not Manhattan. Surely there aren’t too many places she could have gone.”
Sloane glared at his assistant. “Clearwater Beach is a haven for tourists. There are a dozen hotels within walking distance, and each hotel would have a taxi stand. She could have gone anywhere.”
“I’ve already spoken to a sheriff ’s deputy about checking the car rental agencies and the bus station.” Nadine tasted her cigarette, but only barely; she was anxious to make her point. “They said they’d also fax her description to the airports. She won’t get away without someone seeing her.”
Trent looked at her with an insincere apology in his eyes. “Excuse me, Ms. Harrington, but don’t you think Lara Godfrey will slip away long before the sheriff ’s department gets the word out? This is a densely populated area. The people working airport security are frazzled enough; they’re not going to do your work.”
Nadine felt her lower lip tremble as she returned the assistant’s glare. This arrogant brat knew nothing about security, yet here he was, lecturing her.
She drew a ragged breath and struggled for self-control. “I didn’t know she’d slip away. We had her cornered in that trailer park—”
Trent cut her off with an uplifted hand. “You still haven’t explained how she gave you the slip. What tipped her off?”
“I don’t know.” She brought the cigarette to her lips and drew deeply, rattled by the arrogant assistant’s attitude. She despised this red-haired braggart, and her antipathy grew with each passing hour. Lemuel Reis had been mournful and melancholy on occasion, but at least he had never tried to upstage her in front of Sloane.
She flicked her ashes onto the floor and narrowed her eyes at Trent Bishop. Did he know what happened to Lemuel Reis? Someday when he made a mistake, she’d take pleasure in explaining how shocked and horrified Sloane had been to find Reis’s body hanging from an oak tree on the mansion grounds. It had happened on a cold night in ’99, not more than a few hours after Lemuel confessed to sending a message intended to warn Lara Godfrey.
The body had been stiff and blue and dusted with snow when servants found it. Snow was convenient that way—any incriminating footprints had been covered over by morning. The medical examiner never did figure out how Reis managed to string himself up in that tree.
But Nadine knew. And she knew the blame for Reis’s death belonged on her head. If she hadn’t told Sloane about the e-mail they’d found on Connor O’Hara’s hard drive, Lemuel Reis might still be alive.
Another sin on her conscience. Sometimes she hoped Sloane was right about God being corrupted by time. She hated to think she would be judged by a being who had managed to remain pure and truthful while her own standards had been eroded by convenience and the pursuit of success.
She drew on her cigarette and felt Sloane’s eyes boring into her. “Nadine, do you think she went to Tampa?”
“I don’t know. But that’s where I’d go.”
Tampa lay on the other side of the bay; on the map it seemed a world away. But if a suspect wanted to fly in a hurry, she wouldn’t run to a small commuter airport like the one at Clearwater. She’d go to the largest and busiest, from which she could fly to any one of the four corners of the earth.
Nadine leaned back in her chair and let the hand with the smoking cigarette fall to her side. How could she be defeated again? She had set a trap for one of the most wanted women in America, and in the space of a heartbeat had lost the woman and the child.
She hadn’t even managed to see the kid. Aside from a few blurry Polaroids Abby had taken during her day of surveillance, none of them had a clear idea of what the boy looked like.
“I would understand,” she said slowly, her voice trembling, “if you wanted to dismiss me. Perhaps you should.”
Gathering her courage, she looked at Sloane. He had perched on the arm of Trent’s chair, a lofty location from which to radiate his disapproval.
A thunderous scowl darkened his brow. “I wouldn’t think of dismissing you,” he said, rancor sharpening his voice. “You have failed me, Nadine, but I learned long ago that most people tend to learn from their mistakes. You will have one more chance to find my son—and I doubt you’ll fail next time.”
“Did Lemuel Reis get a second chance?” The question slipped from her tongue before she could stop it.
Sloane flinched, then met her gaze. “Lemuel Reis was a troubled young man. I was deeply disturbed when he took his own life.”
Nadine leaned back and lifted her cigarette. She drew heavily on it, then let a thin plume of smoke drift from the side of her mouth. “Of course you were, Devin. Forgive me for bringing it up.”
When her employer stood and moved with oiled grace into the privacy of his bedroom, Nadine turned her stare upon Trent, who lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “He’s upset,” the assistant said, stating the obvious. “Give him time and he’ll come around. I know he still believes in you. We all do.”
She brought the cigarette to her lips again, but couldn’t stop her fingers from trembling. If only Lara Godfrey had money. It wouldn’t take much to convince Nadine to switch sides.