Echoes (8 page)

“Miss Pearson and I have unfinished business.”

John looked as if he might say more, but then shrugged. Callie walked him to the door. He pressed a business card into her hand and told her to call or e-mail him and let him know how she was getting on. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mac walking back toward the bedroom, and by the time she joined him there, he had pulled the snapshot back out of its hiding place and was sitting on the bed examining it under the light from the reading lamp.

“What do you know about this so far?”

“Nothing. There's no record of my parents ever taking a trip here, they never mentioned it, and I have a birth certificate from the state of New York showing I was born October twenty-sixth.”

“Did you have anything on your computer about this? Like a digital copy?”

Callie shifted and picked at the hem of her shorts, not meeting Mac's eye. “Yes. I shouldn't have brought the original with me, but it's habit. My father always had the wedding photograph on his desk, and I've kept it close since his death.”

“Did you post the digital copy anywhere? Adoption boards, anything like that?”

“No. I told you I wasn't adopted. And given that my father hid the picture all these years, it didn't seem to me I ought to broadcast its location.”

“Is your computer password protected, or would whoever took it be able to find this on it?”

“They'd find it. The confidential files—financial stuff, things like that—have passwords to open them, but I've never worried about the computer itself. Does it matter? They took the computer; they probably already knew about the picture.”

“Maybe. Maybe they were flying blind. The fact that you look so much like Nikki can't be coincidental.” He tapped the photo against his fingers. “This is an old secret. Whoever wants to keep it hidden may have taken one look at you, scented danger, and taken the computer to see what they could find out about what you're doing here.”

“Do you think they were looking for the original at my house?”

“I don't know. It's more likely the break-in was intended to serve the same purpose as the mugging: to send you home. Finding the picture would have been a bonus, but not vital. You've seen it, scanned it at least once, possibly shown it around. Now he's doing damage control, trying to keep you away from the darkest parts of the story.”

“He's going to win. I have to go home. If the secret is here, I won't find it.”

“Maybe. I doubt the whole story is here. I've said it before: it's hard to keep something quiet on such a small island. And thirty years ago it would have been damned near impossible. Since your parents were obviously living in the States at the time this was taken, chances are good that's where the bulk of the secret is buried. It's just harder to unravel from that end, so whoever's orchestrating this thinks he's safer with you there.”

“Well, there's not much I can do now. I have to call the airlines and try to find a flight home.” She pulled her suitcase from the closet, not even noticing when he came up behind her until she turned around and practically bumped into him. He took the bag from her hand and laid it on the bed.

“Do you really want to know what's behind this picture? No matter how ugly it might be?” His voice was soft, even gentle, but when she glanced up at his face, his features had settled into an unreadable mask.

“If I stop looking now, do you think whoever is behind this will leave me alone?” He didn't answer. “Then I don't have much choice, do I?”

“In my opinion? No.” He paused, examining her. “Do you trust me?”

“I don't know.” He'd certainly behaved as if he had her best interests at heart, but she was swimming in murky waters and he could be one of the circling sharks. “Why?”

“I still have friends on the Atlanta PD. I'd like to have them run the DNA we sent off to the lab against a couple of databases. It wouldn't be official—without the proper chain of custody it couldn't be—but whatever is going on, I can't shake the feeling it has something to do with your heritage, yours and Nikki's. And if there are two of you, maybe there are more.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and dropped her head into her hands. Why had she started this? There had been nothing wrong with her childhood. Her mother's death had hurt, but her father had done everything in his power to make sure she never felt deprived. So why had she thrown it all away just because of a photograph? Why couldn't she have let it go?

“I don't see how you expect it to help, but how could it hurt?”

“Again, that depends on how much you can accept.”

“Worried about me?” She aimed for flippancy but missed the mark, and when he put one long, calloused finger under her chin and forced her eyes to meet his, she trembled under the impact of the impenetrable darkness of his gaze.

“Yeah. I'm worried. I don't need fingerprints to tell me Nikki's dead. And I don't need DNA to tell me you're related to her.” He stepped out of the room and returned with a pad and pen from the desk in the living room. “I'm going to write a note to Michel asking him to add Vince's information—that's my partner—to the DNA request. It has to come from him. If that's okay with you, you can sign the note and I'll drop it by the station for Michel.”

He scribbled the information onto the paper, then held it out to her. After a brief hesitation, she took it and signed.
In for a penny, in for a pound
. She handed it back to him, and he ripped off the top sheet, folded it in quarters, and jammed it into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Do you want me to stay for the rest of the night?”

There was a loaded question if ever she'd heard one, but he didn't seem to notice the double entendre.

“Thanks, but I'll be fine. As you say, the objective is to get me to leave, not draw attention to me with violence.”

He nodded. “If you give me your keys, I'll get your car returned to the rental company.”

Damn, she'd completely forgotten she'd left the little Toyota in the lot in Marigot.

“That would be great. I got it from Budget at the airport.” She dug out the keys and handed them over. “It'll save me the hassle of returning it before the flight, too.”

“Call me if you need a ride.”

“Oh, no, thanks, I'll just take a cab.”

“Let me give you my number anyway.” He held out a hand and she gave him her cell. He punched in his number quickly and passed it back. “I put myself at speed dial three. Call if anything comes up.”

“I will. Mac . . . thanks.” Why did she suddenly feel like a teenager after a prom date, unable to make up her mind about what kind of send-off she wanted to give her escort? This was not a man she wanted anything to do with on a personal level, and she'd do well to remember it. She walked with him through the kitchen to the back door.

“I'll be in touch,” he said, before fading into the swaying shadows of the back garden. She heard the iron gate creak open, then swing shut, and she closed and locked the door against the night.

***

The earliest flight Callie could get a guaranteed seat on didn't leave until three in the afternoon, but she'd put herself on a standby list for one at eleven, so at nine thirty the next morning she plunked herself and her bags into a seat in the snack area at Princess Juliana airport, with a cup of abominable coffee, and focused blearily on CNN, playing on the overhead television. The perky, dark-haired anchorwoman shook her head sorrowfully as she informed viewers that incidences of animal cruelty were on the rise in the United States. In exactly the same tone, she went on to read a list of fourteen new children's toys that had been recalled because they contained lead paint.

“Tell me something I don't know,” Callie muttered.

“After the break,” the announcer said, as if in reply, “our own Christina Sargo has a live interview with millionaire hotelier John Lewis, whose sister, Nicole, disappeared eleven days ago. Police on the tiny Caribbean island of St. Martin, where the Lewises run the world-famous Paradis de la Mer resort, believe they have found Ms. Lewis's body. After the interview, we'll be talking to a forensics expert about how bodies are identified when traditional methods cannot be employed.”

A live interview? When had he arranged that? Callie tapped her foot and shredded her napkin as the commercials went on and on.

John looked even worse, more disheveled than he had the night before, and Callie wondered whether he'd slept at all. She'd expected a videophone interview, but the news station had apparently sprung for a flight, because Ms. Sargo sat opposite John in the business office of the Paradis. She opened with a few remarks for anyone who hadn't heard about the missing heiress, then segued into the actual interview with a few softball questions. Callie was ready to scream before the reporter got around to asking the question she wanted answered.

“The police can't conclusively determine the woman they found on Plum Bay Beach to be your sister. Why are you so certain it's her?”

“She was wearing Nicole's ring. The police have to take into account that someone might have stolen it or Nicole could have sold it or given it away. But that ring was Ava's, and Ava had little hands. In the summer, Nicole couldn't get it off her finger. She talked about having it resized, but she was afraid she'd lose it when the weather turned cold if it became too loose.”

“But the police don't consider that strong enough evidence of her identity?”

“No. It's not their fault. Under normal circumstances, I'd be with them one hundred percent, too, because you don't want people being misidentified. But . . .”

“But?”

“Well, until the police confirm that the woman they found is my sister, they don't have any reason to investigate her disappearance as a murder. So her killer has more time to cover his tracks.”

“Do you think he deliberately obscured her identity, then?”

“I doubt he expected her to be found at all. The police say there are indications she may have been weighed down, had something tied around her ankle.” He shook his head. “My sister was a bit of a wild child. I'm ashamed to admit it, but when she first disappeared, even I didn't consider anything serious might have happened. The man who murdered her more than likely hoped to take advantage of that as long as no body was recovered.”

Mac. John won't say his name, but he has to mean Mac.
Only Nicole's husband would benefit from her being believed alive. He'd admitted to growing up poor. Depending on Nicole's will, he'd either become immensely wealthy upon her death—which would put him squarely in the police spotlight—or he would go right back to having nothing. Either way, he was better off if people thought Nikki had run out on him.

The sound of her own name over the loudspeaker jerked Callie's attention back to her surroundings. She physically shook her head to clear it, and the airline again paged her to the gate for the early flight to New York. She looked down at the suitcase by her feet, then back up at the television, where the anchorwoman was promising further details the moment they were released. Could she really go home now? If Mac were arrested, he'd hardly be in a position to call her with the DNA results. Would the gendarmes call? She had no experience with the French legal system, but she was sure Mac's former partner wouldn't bother to inform her.

Mac would tell her to go home. Hell, he
had
told her to do so more than once. But she'd set out to find out who she was, and going home felt an awful lot like giving up. Someone, presumably someone in St. Martin, wanted her gone, and whoever it was had long-enough reach to have her house in New York broken into. So going home wouldn't make her safer.

They called her name over the public address system again.
Make up your mind, Callie. Stay or go.
But it wasn't really a choice. All that waited for her at home were insurance forms and hassles beyond measure. Erin could check to be sure nothing else had been taken, and the insurance company could wait until she went back. She'd phone and explain the situation.

And then there was Mac. Didn't she owe it to him to stay, to be sure he was okay? He'd helped her out, looked after her.

She called Erin and left a message, then walked to the ticketing area and switched her flight home back to its original date. The man behind the Budget rental counter was a little confused by the fact that she wanted to rent another car when her friend had dropped her first one off only two hours before, but he was accommodating. Doubtless he'd be telling his friends about the “crazy American woman” for weeks.

Instead of returning to the Paradis, however, Callie followed the directions her friend Marlon had given her to get to the Princess Port de Plaisance, where he had his time-share.

“The French side is beaches and bistros,” he had explained, “and the Dutch side is time-shares, casinos, and bargain shopping. Most of the Dutch hotels don't have great beachfront property—unless you count some so close to the airport the beach has warnings about the blast from departing jets causing injury—but who cares? The hotel's a place to sleep. And they have a breakfast spot at the Princess called Zee Best that's to die for, which is more than most of the time-share resorts boast.”

Callie noted the differences between the Princess and the Paradis immediately. Instead of a subtle, easily overlooked stone marker, a huge sign surrounded by flashing bulbs announced the presence of a casino, a beauty salon, and a spa. No guard asked for her identification. In fact, the guardhouse stood empty, the barrier raised to allow free entry and exit, which made sense given that casino patrons would likely go elsewhere if they had to show ID to get onto the property. The grounds were neatly tended but without the lush excess that characterized the Paradis.