Remember Me (20 page)

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, savoring the mindless pleasure of the gentle finger massage and the woman's quiet breathing. So when the phone rang, he announced his displeasure with a curse.

“Duke, take a message.”

Needham's movements were fluid as he moved to do his boss's bidding. “This is Needham.”

Simon shivered. “Duke, it's me, Simon. I got a little problem down here. I need to talk to Pharaoh.”

Duke hesitated. “Boss…”

Pharaoh frowned. “Dammit, I told you to take a message.”

“It's Law. He says he's got a problem.”

Pharaoh jerked, causing the manicurist to miss the cuticle she was trimming and nip his finger instead.

“Dammit, woman, be careful!” he yelled.

The manicurist paled. “I'm so sorry, Mr. Carn. Please…I'll be careful.”

“Just get out,” he snapped, waving his hand toward the door. “Duke, get her the hell out. I've got business to discuss.”

Moments later, she was gone and Pharaoh was all alone.

“This is Carn,” he said.

Simon shuddered. His feet were freezing, and his nose was starting to run. And he was thinking of his father's dairy farm and how uncomplicated his life there had been.

“I ran into a little problem and had to leave the apartment,” he said.

“Like what?” Pharaoh asked.

Simon shuddered again. He'd rather Pharaoh curse and yell than speak with such uncommon politeness.

“LeGrand called in the cops. They stayed in his house for a while, and when they came out, they started across the street toward my place.”

“Why?” Pharaoh asked. “They wouldn't come for no reason.”

He hesitated, then blurted everything out all at once.

“Last night, I was just checking the layout, you know. They've got a hell of a security system. It's going to be a bitch to get inside. But it was dark. Everyone was asleep. I didn't do anything but look in the windows. You told me to keep an eye on them, remember?”

Pharaoh took a deep breath and closed his eyes, willing himself to stay calm.

“I also told you to stay put.”

“Yeah, but I thought—”

“I don't pay you to think. I pay you to follow orders.”

“And I did, boss. I nailed that P.I. just like you told me.”

“And you're about to get nailed in return,” Pharaoh snapped.

“No way…At least, I don't think so,” Simon said.

“Then why were the cops there?”

Simon took a deep breath. “The tracks. They could see where I walked around the house.” He started to curse. “How the hell was I supposed to know it would stop snowing? It's been snowing ever since I got here.” Then he added, “But they couldn't tell it was me. The tracks stopped at the street.”

Rage spiked, leaving Pharaoh so angry he was shaking.

“And you, you stupid fool, being new in the neighborhood, would be the first person they question.”

“What do you want me to do?” Simon asked.

Pharaoh glanced at his watch. “Do you know where the bus station is?”

“No, but I'll find it,” he said.

“Be there in two hours. Someone will be waiting for you.”

Simon breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks, boss. I'm sorry, boss. It won't happen again.” Then he disconnected.

The line went dead in Pharaoh's ear. “You're right about that,” he said softly, and hung up the phone.

True to his word, Simon Law walked into the bus station five minutes shy of the appointed time, his gaze raking the sparse crowd. He didn't recognize anyone there, but that was okay. He was a little bit early and needed to use the head.

His footsteps echoed within the confines of the large, empty room as he strolled toward the urinals on the wall. As he was in the act of unzipping his pants, the door behind him opened. He looked over his shoulder, smiling in recognition.

“Hey, Paulie, just give me a second and I'll be right with you,” he said.

“Take your time,” Paulie said, and then walked up behind him and slit his throat.

Simon slumped to the floor, dead before he could scream.

W
ith a sense of déjà vu, Betty LeGrand tiptoed down the hall of their old house and peeked in at her daughter-in-law, just as she had done so many times when Clay was a child. Her heart tugged at the innocence with which Frankie slept, her dark hair all atumble on the pillows and the covers pulled up under her chin. She smiled to herself as she turned and went back up the hall. At least Frankie was getting some rest.

Her husband, Winston, came out of the kitchen carrying two cups of coffee and handed one to her.

“How's she doing?” he asked.

“Still sleeping,” Betty said. “Which, in this instance, is probably for the best.”

Winston frowned as he followed his wife into the living room, and sat down beside her. A few moments of silence passed between them as he blew on the surface of his coffee and Betty picked up a magazine.

“This is a hell of a mess, isn't it?”

Betty looked up. “
Mess
is hardly the word,” she said softly. “I'm so worried about the kids' safety, I can hardly sleep at night.”

Winston smiled, then brushed a bit of hair away from her face. “They're not kids anymore, honey.”

She sighed. “I know, but you know what I mean. Our children are always our children, no matter how old they get.”

“When did Clay say he'd be back?” Winston asked.

“Early this afternoon. He wanted to get the crew started and then talk to his foreman. They thought they could put up the insulation and maybe even start some Sheetrock in the west wing of the annex.”

Winston nodded, then took a slow sip of coffee.

“Getting the contract for that hospital wing will pretty much set that boy on his feet,” he said.

Betty smiled. “He is doing well, isn't he?” Then she laid her hand on his knee and squeezed gently. “But he had the best man training him from the start.”

Winston grinned, a smile so like Clay's that, for a moment, Betty just stared, amazed that such a unique feature could be duplicated so perfectly.

“We're going to get through this, aren't we, Winston?”

The concern in her voice was obvious. He set down his coffee and put his arm around her shoulders, giving her a comforting squeeze.

“Sure we will, honey. Frankie's memory is returning more and more every day. And the more she remembers, the better off we'll all be. At least now we know the face of the enemy.”

Betty shuddered and leaned her head against her husband's shoulder. “I won't rest until that horrible man is behind bars,” she muttered.

Winston hugged her again. “The police are on the case. It's just a matter of time.”

Silence followed. Betty picked up her magazine, and Winston returned to his coffee. Outside, a patrol car drove slowly past the house. It wasn't the first time, and, until this was over, it wouldn't be the last.

About a half hour later, Betty heard Frankie stirring.

“Sounds like she's awake,” Betty said. “I think I'll go check on her. Maybe she'd like some hot soup, or something to drink.”

She got up quickly and hurried into Frankie's room.

“Hi, honey, how are you feeling?” Betty asked.

Frankie was just coming out of the bathroom. “Better, I think.”

“Would you like something to eat? Maybe some soup or a—”

At the mention of food, Frankie paled and groaned, then pivoted sharply, seconds ahead of another wave of nausea.

Betty followed her into the bathroom, moments later wiping Frankie's face and hands as if she were a child.

“Bless your heart,” Betty said. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned
f-o-o-d.
”

Frankie managed a wan smile. “At least spelling the word doesn't make me sick,” she muttered.

Betty chuckled. “Nausea is a terrible feeling, I know. Why, when I was pregnant with Clay, I was sick every morning for weeks.”

She turned to rinse out the washcloth and missed seeing the look of total shock spreading across Frankie's face. But when she heard her groan, she spun, fearing the worst.

“What is it, dear? Are you feeling ill again?”

Frankie grabbed Betty's hand, unable to speak.

The utter fear on her daughter-in-law's face was spreading to Betty, as well. “Francesca, tell me, darling. What's wrong? How can I help?”

Frankie started to shake. “My period. I don't remember when I had it last.”

A slow smile of understanding spread across Betty's face as her gaze automatically slid to Frankie's belly.

“Oh, my dear, that would be wonderful,” she said softly.

But there was another image that kept overpowering Frankie's memories of making love with Clay. It was bearing the weight of Pharaoh's body and how hard it had been to catch her breath.

“Oh, Betty, you don't understand. All that time I was gone…What if…how will I know if…?”

Suddenly Betty understood, and she dropped onto the side of the tub beside Frankie and took her in her arms.

“Francesca…darling.”

Frankie couldn't stop shaking. “Oh my God, oh my God…if I'm carrying a baby, it might not be Clay's.”

“Stop it! Stop it right now!” Betty muttered. “No matter what, it will always be yours.” Then she pulled Frankie to her feet and cupped Frankie's face with her hands. “And if my son's half the man I think he is, that will be enough. He loves you, Francesca, more than he loves his own life. For a while after you disappeared, I feared for his sanity. The countless trips he made to morgues all over the country, afraid each time that the body they asked him to view would be you—and, in a way, afraid that it wouldn't. The harassment by the press, the fear that he would be arrested for a murder he didn't commit.”

Tears welled and spilled, rolling silently down Frankie's face as Betty continued.

“Can you understand? It was the not knowing that was eating him alive.” Then Betty sighed. “If you
are
pregnant…and even if it's not Clay's child…it will still be part of you.” She grabbed a handful of tissues and handed them to Frankie. “Here, wipe and blow. There's no need crying over a maybe. Let's find out for sure before we define a need to self-destruct.”

Frankie almost smiled. “I won't self-destruct,” she promised. “I fought too long and too hard to get home to quit on myself now.”

“Good,” Betty said. “That's the way I like to hear you talk. Do you feel like getting dressed?”

Frankie nodded.

“Okay, and while you're dressing, I'll make you some tea and dry toast. Trust me, whatever your ailment, it will help a queasy stomach. And I'll send Winston to the pharmacy to get a home pregnancy kit. Either way, we'll know something within the hour.”

Frankie looked startled. “Oh, but—”

Betty shook her head. “No buts, my dear. Besides, if you
are
pregnant, everyone will know soon enough. Better to know now than to stew over it and maybe make yourself sicker.”

Frankie's lips trembled. “Oh God, Betty, what if it's true? How will I tell Clay?”

Betty hesitated, torn between Frankie's needs and what she knew would be best for her son.

“Sweetheart, why don't you just take the test first? If it's negative, then you have nothing to dwell on. And if it's positive, then we'll make a new plan. What do you think?”

Frankie started to argue, but the longer she thought, the more she realized Betty was right.

“You're right,” Frankie said. “There's no need worrying Clay about something that might not be true.”

“You're not a worry to him, you're his love,” Betty said, but inside, she was beginning to panic. What if she'd been wrong about Clay's reaction? What if she set Frankie up, only to find later that Clay let her down?

“You get dressed while I send Winston to the store. This will be a first for him. He's never been able to face a salesclerk with anything more personal for me than a tube of toothpaste.” Then she grinned. “Oh Lord, I wish I could be a fly on the wall to watch his face when he takes a home pregnancy kit to the checkout counter.”

Frankie looked startled. “Oh, I didn't think about that. Maybe we shouldn't—”

“You just get dressed,” Betty said. “Winston will get over it. Besides, the lure of a possible grandchild will probably do the trick.”

After a quick kiss on Frankie's cheek, Betty left. Frankie walked into the bedroom and slumped onto the side of the bed. The wheels of her future were in motion. There was nothing for her to do but hang on for the ride.

 

“Hey, Dawson, you've got a message on your desk.”

Avery waved a thanks to the detective standing by the file cabinets and then headed for his desk, with his partner right behind him. Glad to be back in the office and out of the cold, he picked up the fax, then sat down in his chair with a solid thud. But his expression changed as he began to read.

“You don't look all that happy,” Ramsey said as he hung up his coat on a nearby coatrack.

“The van at Mrs. Rafferty's apartment is registered to Carla Brewer, of Escondido, California. She reported it stolen about a week ago.”

“Damn,” Ramsey muttered. “What do you make of that?”

Dawson looked up. “It means that the man who lived across the street from Francesca LeGrand was a thief and a liar, but it still doesn't make him a peeping Tom, or connect him in any way with Francesca LeGrand's previous disappearance.”

“Anything come up on the name Mrs. Rafferty gave us?”

Dawson glanced back at the fax and then flipped it toward Ramsey.

“No. There were hundreds of Peter Rosses in the system. And considering the fact that he was driving a hot vehicle, I sincerely doubt he was using his real name.”

“What do you think about bringing Mrs. Rafferty in to look at some mug shots?” Ramsey asked.

Dawson shrugged. “May as well. We don't have much else to go on.” When Ramsey turned toward his desk, Dawson added, “Better notify the Escondido Police Department that we found the stolen van. I'm going to talk to the captain.”

 

Frankie paced the floor from window to sofa and back again, waiting for Winston to come back from the store.

“Sweetheart, sit down,” Betty said. “Relax. You may be just borrowing trouble. There
is
such a thing as an old-fashioned case of the flu, you know.”

“It doesn't feel like the flu,” Frankie muttered.

Betty sighed and returned to her tatting. Before she was nine she had learned the lace-making skill from her grandmother and had kept in practice off and on through the years. She held up the piece of lace for inspection and thought that it would be perfect for the edging on a christening quilt.

“There goes a police cruiser,” Frankie said.

“They've been going by off and on ever since the detectives left.”

Frankie stared blindly about the peaceful little neighborhood, at the Christmas decorations adorning the porches and trees, at the children playing on the sidewalks at the end of the street. Once it had seemed so perfect—so safe. Now everything seemed threatening and ugly—and all because of her. She turned away from the window in sudden anger.

“Why don't you hate me?”

Startled by the question, Betty dropped a knot, then looked up. “Why, sweetheart, why on earth would we hate you?”

“Look what I've done to your son—even to you and Winston. I feel dirty and scared, like a child who knows they've done something bad but doesn't really understand why.”

“That's absurd,” Betty said, and patted the cushion on the seat beside her.

Frankie shook her head. “I can't sit.” She turned back to the window overlooking the drive, then, a few seconds later, shrank back in sudden fright. “Oh my Lord,” she whispered. “Clay's home.”

Betty dropped her tatting and started to get up, but she wasn't fast enough to stop Frankie from bolting out of the room. Heartsick, she watched her daughter-in-law go, then went to unlock the front door to let her son in.

“Hey, Mom, where's your car?” Clay asked as he entered the house.

“I sent your dad on an errand. He should be back soon.”

Clay nodded, hung up his coat, then kissed his mother on her cheek.

“How's Frankie?” he asked.

Betty bit her lip, then managed a smile. “Why don't you ask her yourself?”

Clay paused. There was something in the tone of her voice that he didn't like. “What's wrong?”

Betty shrugged. “From my point of view, absolutely nothing. Now go talk to your wife. I've done all I know how to do.”