The Other Daughter

  “I want to go home,” Melanie said flatly.

  The two men exchanged looks. “We'll talk about that downtown,” David said, reaching for her arm.

  “I don't think so. Last I knew, I wasn't under arrest, Special Agent. Which means I can do whatever I want. At this point I'm going home.”

  “Melanie, just listen to me for a minute—”

  “Listen to you? Listen to you?” Her control began to unravel. “I don't even know who you are! Why were you at my house Saturday night. Did you know about Larry Digger ahead of time? Did you think he would show up? Or does this have to do with more than him? Oh, my God. Who are you really investigating? You used me!”

  David managed to grab her arms. “Downtown, Melanie.”

  “No, I will not—”

  He snatched a raincoat, covered her head, and dragged her toward a patrol car. Suddenly she was bombarded by the sounds of snapping cameras and four TV personalities competing for a story.

  “Officer, Officer, do you have any leads?”

  “What's the motive? Is this Mafia related?”

  “Is she a witness? Or a suspect? Come on, give us a statement.”

  “Duck your head,” David said calmly. “In you go.”

  He stuffed Melanie into the backseat, and seconds later the car was pulling away. The cameras continued frantically snapping last shots in preparation for the eleven o'clock news.

  Larry Digger had finally gotten his dream, Melanie thought. The aging reporter was officially front-page news.

  THIRTEEN

  I JUST NEED TO change clothes and grab my things,” David announced nearly five hours later as he walked into his apartment and tossed his keys onto the couch. Melanie remained standing in the doorway, still so angry, she didn't trust herself to speak. She wanted to skin David Riggs alive. She wanted to stake him to a hill of red fire ants and cover him with honey.

  If she wasn't so angry, she would be afraid.

  “You're the target of a hired hit, Miss Stokes. Furthermore, you've seen the assassin, so he definitely can't let it go. We simply can't guarantee your safety if you return to your residence at this time.”

  Special Agent Riggs, who seemed to have taken personality lessons from a brick wall, had announced that he would watch her. They'd go to his apartment and pick up his things. They'd buy her some things. He'd take her to a hotel for the night. Problem solved.

  Detective Jax hadn't even looked at her. Said if the FBI had the resources to spare, it was fine by him. So nice to finally learn her place in the world.

  “It's not exactly Club Med,” David muttered now, snatching up various items of clothing strewn across the floor. “I'm not home much.”

  “No kidding,” she said sourly.

  The color of David's apartment was hard to determine as most of the space was covered by clothes, magazines, and paper. Wadded napkins had been tossed on the parquet floors. A pile of unopened mail lay on the dining room table. Mounds of paperwork nearly obscured the laptop on an old oak desk. The place didn't have a stick of furniture that looked new or a plant that required care.

  At least he'd hung two pictures. One was of Fenway Park at night, while the other was of some guy in an old-fashioned baseball uniform. There was also a line of baseball caps hanging on one wall and at least two baseball bats. Then there were the four movies piled on the floor next to the VCR: Bull Durham, The Natural, Field of Dreams, Eight Men Out. Apparently, the apartment had a theme.

  Melanie sniffed suspiciously and turned back toward the sidewalk. “I'll wait outside.”

  “I wasn't expecting company.” David scowled, then swiped up another towel. “Close the door, gimme a minute. It's not as bad as it looks.”

  “I don't think that's possible.” But Melanie returned to the foyer and shut the door. Not a good move. The room was instantly cast in darkness. Her stomach rolled. Images of bloody Larry Digger pressed against her mind, and she felt suddenly very tired.

  She pulled back the vertical blinds, seeking the reassurance of sunlight. David crossed the room and jerked the blinds shut.

  “You're not really getting this whole notion of protective custody, are you?”

  “There's nothing back there but woods.”

  “Someone can climb a tree and shoot you.”

  “Open your blinds, Agent Riggs, or I'm going to puke.”

  David pinned her with an intent gaze, but then it softened. “You all right?” he asked roughly, as if he wasn't used to being kind.

  “Stop it,” she ordered immediately. “No playing nice.”

  “I'm not playing—”

  “Of course you are! You lied to me. You still haven't told me what's going on and you're keeping me from going home.”

  “I'm not the enemy. Jesus Christ, I just dodged bullets for you!”

  “For me? Hah. You've been following me with your own agenda the whole time.” She jabbed a finger into his chest, her temper building dangerously. “Give me some answers, David Riggs. Why were you at my house Saturday night? Who really was Detective Chenney? What the hell are you investigating and what is going on?”

  “I don't know, goddammit. I don't.” A warning gleam had come into his eye.

  Melanie ignored it, leaning closer, angling up her chin. She wanted a fight, she realized. She wanted something other than helplessness and fear. And she wanted some reaction from him. Because she'd liked David Reese the waiter. He had seemed an ally of sorts, and it was pitifully true that these days she didn't have very many of them.

  “If this has nothing to do with you, Melanie, why does your godfather care about Trash's first kid?”

  David turned away. “I want out of these clothes,” he announced curtly. “You probably need to change as well. Then we'll eat, and then we'll talk.”

  “Will you answer my questions?” she called after him.

  “Only if you ask nicely.”

  “I reserve the right to be as nasty as I want—”

  “No fucking kidding,” David muttered, and disappeared into his bedroom. Two minutes later he was back in the hall, having exchanged his slacks and jacket for jeans and a gray sweatshirt, its sleeves pushed up. His dark hair was tousled, and he sported a five o'clock shadow to go with his glower.

  He no longer looked like an FBI agent but like a red-blooded man. Dark hair smattered the backs of his hands, tendons wrapped around his forearms. Broad chest, narrow hips, grimly set jaw. A man used to control. A man who did things on his terms. Few friends. Fewer loved ones.

  And, dammit, that was a type she knew too well. Her father running her life, Brian trying to protect her, William hoarding his secrets. Her godfather too.

  David took a step forward and she caught a glimpse of the limp he was trying to hide. His expression remained shuttered. His hands fisted at his sides. Even in pain, he gave nothing away. Even in pain, Special Agent David Riggs shut her out.

  He tossed her a pair of sweats.

  “You change, I'll order the pizza.”

  Melanie nodded. Then, much to her horror, she burst into tears.

  DAVID FETCHED A large pepperoni pizza and two dinner salads from Papa Gino's on the corner. He was back in his apartment in less than five minutes, and they sat down at his recently cleared dining room table.

  Melanie seemed to have shrunk while he'd been away, her petite frame nearly swallowed by his old black sweat pants and red T-shirt. And she looked pensive.

  The crying jag had obviously embarrassed her. It had scared the crap out of him. He didn't know what to do when women cried. Hell, he didn't know where to look. He'd felt out of his league, the way he'd felt since he'd driven Melanie to his apartment and realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd brought a woman home. It had been a long time ago. Back in the days when he could sleep through the night without his muscles locking up and making him gasp for air. The kind of experiences a man really didn't need to share.

  They ate in silence for ten minutes.

  Then Melanie said
, “All right. Begin.”

  David took his time to finish chewing a bite of pizza. “You ask first. I'll see if I can answer.”

  “Oh, well, that certainly promises clear and coherent communication.”

  He grinned. “I'm a G-man. We're famous for clear and coherent communication.”

  Melanie thinned her lips disapprovingly. “Are you really with the FBI?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you really have arthritis?”

  His jaw tightened. “Yes.”

  She gazed at him curiously. “They don't mind?”

  “I can fulfill the duties required of the job.”

  “But aren't there physical tests—”

  “I passed.”

  “And wouldn't other agents worry about being partnered with someone who—”

  “I like to think that my sparkling personality more than compensates for such concerns.”

  Melanie rolled her eyes. “So what do you do?”

  “White collar crimes.”

  “Like fraud cases, banking, money laundering?”

  “There you go. The glamorous life.”

  “I see.” She gazed at him levelly, and he suddenly saw the killer instinct spring to life in her eyes. “So that story about how you were a cop and then got arthritis . . . That was just a load of crap designed to earn my sympathy and make me easier to manipulate? Wasn't it?”

  “I needed a credible reason for you to let me help—”

  “Why not the truth? Or are agents famous for lying as well?”

  “Yes, ma'am,” he said in a steely voice. “We sure as hell are.”

  She leaned closer. “What about Detective Chenney? Bureau as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the whole display of bagging the scene in my room? The candles, the toy horse, the questions you made me suffer through—”

  “Bags are at the crime labs, information is being processed. It's a real investigation, dammit. I am trying to help you.”

  She nearly laughed in his face. “Then tell me what you were doing at my house, Agent. Finally give it to me straight.”

  David took another bite of pizza. Then he helped himself to a drink.

  “I was investigating Dr. William Sheffield,” he said, gambling that William's betrayal would have cost him Melanie's loyalty. “His bingo problem has led him to take loans from some very questionable sources and gained our interest.”

  Melanie looked suspicious. “Then how did you end up following me?”

  “You have a history with the man. I couldn't be sure what your exact involvement with him might still be. Then you left the party with someone who obviously didn't belong.”

  “You thought I was making a payment for William? Oh, please, I wouldn't give him water in a desert.”

  “Of course.”

  Melanie sat back. He supposed he'd passed round one, because the intensity had drained from her face. Now she looked confused, then troubled. “If William was your subject, why get involved in my case?”

  “I think your life is in danger.”

  “I think you're right. But why?”

  “I started researching Russell Lee Holmes. I also requested the Meagan Stokes case file just out of curiosity. I haven't received the full case file yet, but I've gotten to read enough newspaper accounts to realize that there are a lot of unanswered questions about Meagan Stokes. For example, did you know that Russell Lee was never convicted of murdering Meagan Stokes?”

  “What?”

  “He confessed only after he was already convicted of six counts of first degree murder. The police never made the case because they never had any physical evidence tying him to the crime. Your brother is right, that horse, that scrap of fabric in your room—they were never found twenty-five years ago. So where did they come from? Who would still have a toy last seen with a murdered child?”

  Her eyes, those startling blue-gray eyes, went saucer wide.

  “You think someone else murdered Meagan Stokes.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” He shrugged, but then his hunch got the best of him again. He leaned forward. “There was a ransom demand in Meagan's case, did you know that? Russell Lee didn't do that with anyone else. And it doesn't fit with him or his MO. How would an illiterate, uneducated man fashion a ransom note? That alone suggests that either it wasn't him, or there was someone else involved. An accomplice. Maybe someone close to the family who would know its schedule.”

  “You think someone in my family helped Russell Lee Holmes kidnap and murder Meagan Stokes!”

  “I think something really bad happened twenty-five years ago, and it wasn't the fault of Russell Lee Holmes. That's what I think.”

  Melanie looked like she was going to hit him, and then for a minute she simply looked scared. She picked up her soda and took a long sip, her hands shaking.

  David got up and cleared the pizza box from the table. When he sat back down, she'd composed herself once more, her face still pale but her shoulders square and her expression resolute. She said, “All right, Agent. Tell me your theory. Tell me exactly what you think is going on.”

  So he did. “Something bad happened twenty-five years ago to Meagan Stokes, something that involved more than Russell Lee Holmes. That's why the police never found more physical evidence. That's why it's possible that Meagan Stokes's toy and dress fabric appeared in your room. And whatever it is that occurred, it involved your family and friends. For twenty-five years they've kept quiet. They let Russell Lee Holmes go to the execution chamber and got on with their lives. But now someone else has entered the picture. Someone who's suddenly shaking things up.

  “This person calls Larry Digger with a tip on how he can finally find Russell Lee Holmes's child. This person creates the altar in your room, sending a message about you trying to replace Meagan. This person is also sending notes.”

  “What notes?”

  David hesitated, forgetting she hadn't known and worried he'd just tripped himself up. “Ah . . . your father got a note.”

  “When?”

  “At the party. After you had your migraine. I over-heard your father and Jamie O'Donnell talking. Your father said he found a note on his car. It said the same thing Larry Digger's caller said. You get what you deserve.”

  Melanie was staring at him incredulously.

  “Your father also knew Larry Digger was in town,” David continued rapidly. “He mentioned it to O'Donnell, who said that someone named Annie was getting phone calls. Now, who do you think Annie is?”

  “Ann Margaret? You think he means Ann Margaret?”

  “She's from Texas, just like the rest of them. Now we know your father knows something and O'Donnell knows something and Ann Margaret knows something. Who else is from Texas, and who else is talking about receiving notes?”

  “William,” she whispered.

  “There you go. That just leaves your brother and your mom. Your brother seemed as shocked as you were about the altar in your room. But what about your mom? Notice anything unusual with her?”

  Melanie sighed. David took that for a yes.

  “Last night. She came home late, nearly midnight. She said she'd been to a bar, told me how much I meant to her. But . . . but I could tell she wasn't actually saying what had rattled her so much. And she was speaking too urgently, as if it was suddenly extremely important I understand how much she cared about me. You know, the way someone might speak if they thought something bad was about to happen. Something . . . final.”

  David nodded. “So there's theory number one. Something more happened to Meagan Stokes. It involves all of your family in one way or another. And somebody else knows now. This person is rattling everyone's chains, bringing out all the skeletons. Which brings us to theory number two.”

  He said quietly, “You are theory number two. Whatever happened twenty-five years ago, you hold the key.”

  “My amnesia. The lost nine years . . .”

  “Exactly. Larry Digger couldn't find Russell Lee Holm
es's wife on his own, but he was betting you could help him. If we assume that you are Russell Lee Holmes's child, think of what could be locked up in your mind. Certainly someone seems to believe you know something important. Hence, the scented candles and objects you might know in your room, put there to trigger a reaction—”

  “But I didn't remember anything clearly.”

  “Not yet, but you might. Therefore, you, like Larry Digger, have become a threat.”

  “Larry Digger was getting too close,” Melanie said slowly, filling in the pieces. “He honestly did have a lead, he was making progress. So someone, still trying to cover tracks, orders him killed. I might remember, so I'm a target too. But that makes no sense. If someone is pushing people to get at the truth, why order assassinations on Larry Digger and myself?”

  “It's not the same person who ordered Larry Digger and you shot. It was someone else. This person wants the truth exposed but for whatever reason can't just announce it on his own. Maybe he has no credibility, maybe he's ashamed, mentally disturbed, I don't know. So he's trying to get at things in an underhanded way. However, he's also scaring the shit out of everybody. Think about it. Your family and friends have done very well for themselves. If the truth about the past came out now . . .”

  He let the words trail off meaningfully, and once again Melanie understood.

  “You think someone I know hired that hit man. Hired the hit man to kill Larry Digger, swipe his research, and eliminate me as well. Extinguish whatever clues might be locked in my mind. Erase, once and for all, any trace of what happened to Meagan Stokes. Christ . . .”

  Melanie grew silent, grew haggard. She whispered, “It's a war, isn't it? Someone is trying to expose a secret no one else wants exposed. And I'm just the person in the middle, the adopted child who might hold the key to the truth behind a little girl's twenty-five-year-old murder. Oh, Jesus Christ, at this point, whatever is in my head, I don't want to know!”

  “I don't think you'll have a choice.”

  “I always have a choice,” she said firmly. She got up from the table, wiped it, washed her hands, paced, then sat down.

  “I probably am the child of Russell Lee Holmes,” she murmured. “The memories of the shack. The notes . . .”