Without a Trace

  Balling her hands into fists, she turned her head to glare at her rifled file cabinet. Kids, my foot. Fiery anger inched up her spine. It might take her two days to get back on track, but back on track she would be. And when she was, she wouldn't waste a second before trying to find something under the name Santini in major cities that experienced heavy snowfall. Robert De Lorio was going to find out what war tactics were. He'd probably counted on her running straight to Michael. And of course Michael would call the investigation off, not because he wanted to but because he wasn't the type of man to let someone else take the heat for him. Well, Sarah wasn't going to play according to that game plan. She'd taken this case with the intention of seeing it through to the end, and that was exactly what she would do.

  Five days later, Sarah had cause to wonder if sticking with the De Lorio case had been such a great idea. She didn't know whether to smile or frown when she saw Michael standing outside the door of her office. When he hadn't shown up by closing time, as he'd promised, she had convinced herself he wasn't coming. And she had been re­lieved.

  "Hello, Michael."

  "Sorry I'm late. I had a heavy patient load this after­noon." He stepped inside, closed the door and lowered himself into the chair across from her, propping his arms loosely on the rests, one foot on his knee. "So what's up?"

  For an instant, she thought about lying, saying she had found nothing. "Um, I think I've found your mother."

  His hands curled around the ends of the armrests, his knuckles turning white. "My mother?"

  Sarah felt her mouth curving in a smile. This was the good part, the easy part. "I put out feelers on the name Santini in several large cities that experience heavy snowfall. Three days ago, I finally located a Giorgio Santini in the Chicago area whose brother, Angelo, adopted an infant boy whose birth date matches yours." His throat tightened. "His adoptive parents named him Gino." So far, so good. He hadn't made the connection yet. "Giorgio said the birth mother was a sixteen-year-old girl named Eleanora Pierce, the father a boy named Adam St. John. A teenage preg­nancy, from what he said, which is probably why your mother gave you up." The metallic taste of dread shriveled the back of her tongue. "I called and checked county rec­ords and found a marriage license on Eleanora Pierce to a Darrell Miller."

  "Hold a sec. My folks were named De Lorio, not San­tini."

  He had finally cued in. "De Lorio's their name now."

  "What d'you mean, now?"

  "The Santinis that adopted Eleanora Pierce's child dis­appeared without a trace when the boy was about three years old. Giorgio Santini hasn't seen his brother since. Add it up."

  Michael leaned forward in his chair. "What in hell are you saying? You add it up. That is what I'm paying you to do."

  The tension in the room made the air seem to crackle be­tween them. Sarah licked her bottom lip, then looked Michael directly in the eye. "If you're going to hold this against me, then let's just drop it right here, shall we?"

  A muscle in his jaw flickered. "You know I won't."

  "Then why are you angry before I even get started?"

  Sarah could hear the clock ticking on the wall, the low hum of her computer terminal, the ragged edge of Michael's breathing. His eyes were black with emotion.

  At last he replied, "Because I love my dad."

  It was so simple an answer, but it revealed his feelings much more clearly than eloquence might have. A part of him didn't want to hear what she had to say, had probably been blind to the truth for years rather than accept it. She not only couldn't blame him for that, but she admired him for it. This was his father she was talking about.

  A gray line etched his full lips. "Just what the hell did you find?"

  "I just told you. And you're pretending not to hear. I don't think De Lorio was your parents' real name."

  "Of course it was."

  "Are you certain of that?"

  He sprang from his chair to rest his hands on her desk, his face scant inches from hers. "What possible motivation could two people have for moving to a new place and living a lie?"

  "Your father might have had a criminal record or some­thing that he was trying to hide."

  Incredulity lined his face. He wheeled away from her, took two paces, then rounded for a verbal attack. "My dad is a baker, for heaven's sake, not a criminal. He's a little man with a great big grin who goes to Mass every Sunday and confession every Saturday night. As far as I know, he's never even had a traffic ticket. Why do you persist in paint­ing him the bad guy?"

  "How am I supposed to know why they did it? He could have gotten in trouble. Way back when he was young. It's been years. People do change. Or it might have been a scandal they ran from, family trouble, a jealous ex-wife or husband." She threw up her hands. "Look, you hired me to do this."

  He stood there, jacket lapels swept back, squared chin jutting, his eyes aflame with anger. Sarah wanted to scream to end the silence. She was glad now that she had chosen not to mention the note and break-in. Blaming his father for that on top of everything else would have made things even worse.

  "Perhaps it would be better if you hired another agency to finish this investigation," she said with deceptive calm.

  His face, chiseled like granite one moment, crumpled the next. His shoulders slumped, and he returned to his chair, sinking into it as if his strength had failed him. Bending forward, he dropped his head in his hands. Sarah stared at him, not knowing what to say, what to do.

  "It isn't a nightmare, is it, Sarah? The little boy under the bed, the blood. It's a memory."

  It was more statement than question. She realized she was shaking. "I—I could be wrong. Maybe you're not the Santini child after all. It's sheer supposition at this point."

  "Now I know why the other agencies petered out on me, why everybody looked at me so strangely. They suspected my dad had changed his identity." He lifted his head. Moisture glistened in his eyes. "Is there any way it's a mis­take? Did you check to see if you could find death certifi­cates on the De Lorios?"

  "Not yet. I wanted to tell you first. We both know what I'll find, Michael. People who assume new identities quite often borrow the identity of a deceased person who was born the same year and then died at an early age."

  "I know all that."

  Sarah forced her fist open and dropped her pen onto her desk. "I think you need to have a long talk with your fa­ther. He deserves that much. No telling why he fled Chicago. It'd be a shame to bring the past crashing down around his head."

  "He's got a bad heart."

  Sarah didn't see how Robert De Lorio's health had a bearing on the matter. He'd have heart failure for sure if the law, rather than his son, showed up on his doorstep. Of course, she didn't dare say that—not straight out.

  "He gets so upset, so angry, when I talk to him about this. I have to do this on my own. Sarah...am I doing the wrong thing? Should I just let it go?"

  "Can you?"

  Seconds ticked by. "No."

  "You've answered your own question then. But you're going to have to be extremely cautious. While speaking to Giorgio Santini yesterday morning, I got the distinct impression he was anxious to know where his brother might be, but at the same time, he seemed to have some reserva­tions about seeing you. I didn't give your name to him— didn't give it to anyone—just mine and the agency's, for fear of repercussions." Sarah picked up a paper with the names, addresses and phone numbers she had written down for him. She handed it to Michael. "You'll need your mother's number off there. What you do about the other two names I've listed is up to you. I would hope that you'll respect your father's right to anonymity, though."

  "You really believe my dad ran from something in Chicago?"

  "Yes. And I think it's something nasty. Considering your dream, Michael. What should I think? If you want to see your natural mother, that should be safe enough. I doubt your biological relatives are ever in contact with your adoptive father's family. I'd steer clear of the Santinis, though. Just in case."


  "My mom—this Pierce woman—she agreed to see me?"

  "She was thrilled. Couldn't believe I'd found her. She sounded like a lovely person. I did detect a certain hesi­tancy in her voice at first, as if... Well, I think there's a possibility your existence is something she's kept secret from her family. But in my experience, unless there are extenuat­ing circumstances, that should iron itself out. She'll get around to telling her loved ones in time. Until then, you'll have to be discreet."

  Michael's expression looked a little vague. Sarah realized he was reeling from shock. "And she lives in Chicago?"

  "On the outskirts."

  "And my dad? Did you find my real dad?"

  "He's..." The word dead seemed so cold. "He's gone, Michael. I did get in touch with his brother the day before yesterday, a man named Marcus St. John, but he was none too encouraging. In fact, he was rather testy. His name and address are on the list I just gave you, but I wouldn't rec­ommend you go see him. He claimed his brother never fa­thered an illegitimate child, and I didn't get the impression he'd welcome you." Sarah paused. "But your mom was really excited when I finally located her this morning. Just think, after thirty-five years, you'll finally meet her. I'll bet you've got brothers and sisters you never knew you had. They might even look like you. Wouldn't that be some­thing? I have a little sister named Beth who's almost my double. You can't imagine how good that feels."

  She saw his throat work, saw him searching for words. "I... uh... apologize for yelling at you. I shouldn't have."

  Sarah's chest felt tight. "I don't think it was me you were yelling at."

  "No, I guess it wasn't." He rose from his chair, paced a moment, then paused to look at her, leaning his arm against the file cabinet. He glanced at the paper he held in his hand, then folded it and tucked it inside his jacket. Studiously avoiding her gaze, he spied the gouges above the file cabi­net's top drawer. "What happened? Molly lose the keys?"

  Sarah knew the only reason he was asking was that he needed breathing space for a second, time to collect him­self. "Yeah, something like that. It's not important. What counts is how you're feeling. I almost wish I hadn't—"

  "No, don't." He held up a hand. "You did what you were hired to do. I'm just not handling the outcome very well. Not that I didn't always suspect... I just didn't figure my dad was involved. I assumed he was protecting me, not himself." With a shrug of one shoulder, he closed his eyes for an instant. "He's like that—or at least I thought he was."

  "In his way, perhaps he was protecting you."

  He sighed. "When you're a kid growing up, your mother hugs you and says she loves you, and it never occurs to you that it's a lie. You look in the mirror and you convince yourself you have your dad's big nose and your mom's mouth and you're just tall by accident."

  "Oh, Michael...." Even from across the room, she could see the pain in his expression. "Don't throw everything away because of one deception. I'm sure your mother did love you. And your father still does."

  "Does he? There are some things you owe to people when you love them, like honesty. I don't know who I am any­more." His voice was ragged, pitched so low she almost couldn't catch the words. "According to you, Michael De Lorio is a lie from start to finish. My whole life... everything about me, even my degree is in the wrong name. I feel like a kid who's been stacking blocks, only to have someone come along and kick them over. It was bad enough when I found out I was adopted. But this? How do I pick up the pieces and make sense of anything?"

  With that, he jerked the door open and went out into the main office. Sarah could see the front exit from where she stood. He never broke stride until he was outside on the sidewalk. She watched him through the gold lettering on the glass as he hunched his shoulders, not against the wind, but against the pain.

  Feeling numb, she walked out to the window, watching him as he struck off up the street. She understood exactly what he was doing. She liked to walk when she felt upset, too. Oh, Michael, I'm so sorry. Finding his mother with so little to go on was one of the highlights of her career. So why did she feel so miserable? Some things are better left bur­ied. Perhaps Robert De Lorio had been right.

  Chapter Four

  Michael stood on the bridge, staring into the swirling green depths of the Willamette River, scarcely aware of the traffic sounds all around him. He had been walking nonstop for half an hour, but his head still swam with confusion. In his mind's eye, he was picturing the teddy bear on his closet shelf, the stain on the inner edge of the ear seam. Scenes from his nightmare eddied on the surface of the water. Helen. Had she really existed then? And died to protect the child, Gino? The thought made him feel sick. What parts of the dream were real, what parts conjured? He'd never know for sure unless he went to Chicago.

  He couldn't fathom why his father had fled to Oregon and changed his identity. All he knew was he'd never be free of the dream, never be absolutely certain of his own sanity, never be free to love and be loved, until he found out what had caused his dreams to be so violent and he could put them to rest.

  The outer office door opened. Sarah leaned sideways in her desk chair. She had been waiting for Michael to come back from his walk for over an hour. He stood just inside the entry. His hair brushed his forehead in wind-whipped, glistening black curls. She pushed up from her desk. The emotion radiating from him drew her gaze to his like a magnet. He took one step toward her. Then another.

  When he reached her office doorway, he said, "Sarah, I'm sorry for unloading on you like that. I shouldn't have."

  Stepping around the corner of her desk, she paused, drawn to him yet hesitant. "I understood, Michael. I laid a lot on you. I'm sorry it had to be that way."

  He shook his head, his expression a mix of incredulity and relief. "Oh, I admit, it threw me. But after I walked the shock of it off, it was easier to think. You're right. It's been a long time. People change. My dad is a good man—that doesn't mean he has to be perfect." A slow smile curved his mouth. "You know, when I first heard about you, I knew you were a damn good genealogist. But deep down, even though you were my last hope, I never let myself count too much on you finding anything. After so many failures... I hired agencies as far away as Los Angeles, you know, right in the same state where my folks were supposedly born. I guess I thought a metropolitan area would have more ad­vanced technology, an edge over a small-town office. I can't thank you enough."

  "There's no need for thanks. I just did what you hired me to do. And let it be a lesson to you, bigger isn't always bet­ter."

  His eyes met hers, delving deep, at odds with the teasing smile he flashed as he moved closer. "No need for thanks? Do you know how many times I've tried this and come up against a dead end?" He raised an eyebrow. "Sarah, this might make all the difference in the world for me. If I paid you triple your usual fee, it still wouldn't be enough." With an incredibly light touch, he brushed a stray curl from her temple. Then, with a low laugh, he said, "Why not?"

  The next moment, she found herself caught in his arms, receiving a breathtaking bear hug. He did a half turn with her, lifting her off her feet. She braced her hands on his shoulders, leaning back to see his face, unable to conceal her surprise or her discomfiture. He was a strong man. His hand on her back felt large and warm. Awareness of his muscu­lar body coursed through her. Instinctively she levered herself away, her only self-defense against the wayward, inexplicable emotions pelting her.

  As if he suddenly realized he'd overstepped his bounds, he lowered her until her feet reached the floor and then dropped his arms from around her. "Uh... sorry, I guess I—" A blush rode high on his cheeks and he stepped back, smoothing his hair.

  Sarah tucked her blouse more snugly into the waistband of her skirt, straightened her jacket, gave her own hair a pat and then just... stared at him. She dated pretty regularly— at least a couple of times a month—and, the dating game being what it was, finding herself in a clinch now and then was pretty par for the course. But a racing pulse wasn't, and neit
her were hot cheeks. She felt as unsettled as a schoolgirl and twice as graceless. The feeling hit her like an ocean wave, leaving her with the same unbalanced sensation she got when the beach sand shifted under her feet. That was bad enough. But even worse was the undeniable fact that she could see no reciprocative gleam in Michael's eyes. Affec­tion? Yes. Gratitude? Unquestionably. But no sign of the same caliber of fondness that was washing over her. Since meeting him her emotions had gone topsy-turvy.

  Placing a hand on her shoulder, he gave her a quick squeeze. "Thanks, Sarah. It doesn't begin to say what I'm feeling, but thanks. This kid's on his way to Chicago." He stepped over to her desk and grabbed up her phone. "Mind? I wanna make reservations."

  "No—no, not at all."

  It was a lie. She did mind. Her business relationship with Michael De Lorio was very nearly over. Once he went to Chicago and the case was closed, it wasn't likely she'd see him again. Molto bella. According to her new dictionary, that meant very beautiful. Confusion clouded Sarah's mind. It wasn't like her to fall for a man easily, and she didn't know Michael De Lorio all that well. She should be re­lieved to have this case off her hands after the note on her door and the burglary. Instead she was wishing... She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Wishing what, Sarah?

  He punched out the number to information, then called the airport to book a flight to Chicago. While he made the arrangements, Sarah pretended to be putting things in or­der in her newly repaired file cabinet. Way deep inside, she'd been hoping their relationship might develop into some­thing much more meaningful.

  "Well, I'm on my way at seven-thirty-five in the morn­ing. I'll be there late in the afternoon. Just in case of lay­overs, though, I'll wait to call Eleanora Miller until I'm checked into the hotel."