Identity Unknown

He’d felt it. No doubt she’d seen it. Need.

Pure. Primal. Standing right there at the bathroom door. The idea of her taking off her clothes and stepping into the shower had abruptly consumed him. The desire to climb into that shower with her had been fierce.

Not once in years had he felt the compulsion for sex. Nor had he been attracted to any woman with whom he’d worked or encountered outside work. He’d assumed that component of his life was over. The part of his brain that reasoned using his formal training understood that it would take time for him to get over the tragic loss of his wife, physically and emotionally.

But his less rational side had opted not to allow that kind of pain again. The only way to avoid it was to avoid contact with another human on that level.

He’d been completely successful until now…until Sande Williams.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Patrick O’Brien – He’s working his first field assignment, but he has trust issues that may get in the way.

Sande Williams – She has no idea who she is or where she came from. The only thing she knows for sure is that anyone who might be able to help her keeps ending up dead.

Windy Millwood – Former marine captain, Windy is one of the Colby Agency’s best investigators.

Victoria Colby-Camp – The head of the Colby Agency.

Lucas Camp – A CIA legend and the man who owns Victoria’s heart.

Nancy Childers – A former co-worker of Sande’s. Or is she?

Alma Spears – She claims to know all about Sande.

Detective Lyons – The homicide detective following the bodies piling up in Sande’s wake.

Detective Cates – Lyons’s partner who has been left out of the loop.

Special Agent Wheeler – An enigma. Does he really exist or is he a part of Sande’s make-believe world?

Special Agent-in-Charge Young – Head of Chicago’s FBI field office.

Simon Ruhl and Ian Michaels – Victoria’s secondin-command.

Angela Tapley – Is she really working with the FBI? Or is she also make-believe?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Debra Webb was born in Scottsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it badly enough. She began writing at the age of nine. Eventually, she met and married the man of her dreams, and tried some other occupations, including selling vacuum cleaners, working in a factory, a daycare centre, a hospital and a department store. When her husband joined the military, they moved to Berlin, Germany, and Debra became a secretary in the commanding general’s office. By 1985 they were back in the States, and finally moved to Tennessee, to a small town where everyone knows everyone else. With the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing again, looking to mystery and movies for inspiration. In 1998, her dream of writing came true. You can write to Debra with your comments at PO Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345, USA or visit her website at http://www.debrawebb.com to find out exciting news about her next book.

Identity Unknown

DEBRA WEBB

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Sometimes we search high and low and can’t

seem to figure out who we are anymore or what

we want. Whether it’s a new phase in our lives

or just a rough patch, sometimes we question

ourselves and our destiny. This book is

dedicated to the two women who keep me

grounded. They never lose faith in me and

never let me forget who I am, what I want and

where I’m going in this life. To Donna Boyd

and Vicki Hinze. I love you both. Life would

be damned hard without you.

Chapter One

She shivered.

Goose bumps rushed over her flesh. God, she was so cold. She hugged the sheet more closely, then wrinkled her nose. Why was the sheet covering her face?

Her eyes opened.

The sheet was over her face!

She snatched it away. Gasped for air, as if the cotton were plastic, and had deprived her of much needed oxygen…

Okay, she was okay.

A frown furrowed her forehead. Where was she?

A hall or corridor. Glaring fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A nasty smell lingered in the air. Something pungent and unfamiliar.

She sat up and blinked, looked around and blinked again. Dingy white walls…long corridor. A white sheet draped her nude body.

Where were her clothes?

She stared at her breasts…at her flat belly.

What the…?

A gurney. She was sitting on a gurney. Like in a hospital.

Had she been in an accident?

She looked at her arms and hands, touched her face, ran her fingers through her hair… She didn’t feel different. She wasn’t in pain. There were no lumps or bumps. No wet sticky spots.

Where the hell was she?

She looked around again. Then she saw the door directly across from where her gurney stood.

A plaque on the door marked it as… She squinted. It was…the morgue.

Her heart missed a beat.

The morgue?

She stared down at herself once more. No blood. No bruises.

She jerked free of the sheet, stumbled off the gurney and staggered as if she hadn’t stood in a long time. Her legs felt weak and rubbery.

What was wrong with her?

Voices. Someone was coming.

She snatched the sheet from the gurney and wrapped it around her naked body. She had to hide.

If they found her… Her mind couldn’t grasp the concept of why the unfamiliar voices terrified her, but instinct warned that she should be afraid.

She had to run!

She half stumbled, half fell down the corridor, grabbed the knob of the first door she encountered and yanked it open.

Janitor’s closet.

She threw herself inside, closed the door soundlessly and struggled to catch her breath.

Just breathe. Deep breaths. Slow…steady.

You’re okay. You’re okay.

The stench of cleansers and damp mops assaulted her nostrils. She ignored it. She had to think!

What had happened to her?

Why would she be on a gurney in front of a door marked Morgue?

She wasn’t dead.

Was she?

She took a step back from the door and stared down at her foot. A white tag was attached to her big toe.

Panic closed her throat.

Don’t panic.

She crouched down and reached with trembling hands to remove the tag. Slowly straightening once more, she read the information written there. Sande Williams. Female. Twenty-eight years old. Sixty-four inches tall. One hundred ten pounds.

Why didn’t the name ring a bell?

There was no address or telephone number.

What did this mean?

She started to shake, and found she had to brace herself against the closed door in order to remain vertical.

What was wrong with her?

Could she be dead and not know it?

No, that wasn’t possible.

As if to deny her assertion, she touched her wrist and counted the beats.

She had a pulse.

She pressed her palm against the center of her chest to feel the frantic pounding there.

She had a heartbeat.

She was alive.

But why didn’t she remember how she got here? Was she sick? What had happened to cause her to be in this place? There had to be something wrong with her.

Why didn’t the name on the tag feel like her name?

Sande Williams.

Fear snaked around her chest and squeezed, sending panic searing through her veins.

She couldn’t find any answers in this janitor’s closet.

She had to get out of here.

Had to find help.

But what if they wouldn’t let her go?

Didn’t they institutionalize people who couldn’t remember their names? Who woke up wearing toe tags for no apparent reason?

Breathe again. Deep. Hold it. Release.

Calm down. Just calm down.

She needed help.

She had to move.

Slowly, her palms sweating with the fear mounting inside her, she opened the door a crack. She peeked into the corridor. Still deserted. Still quiet.

Someone had taken off her clothes and placed her on that gurney, had put a toe tag on her. Someone thought she was dead.

How was that possible?

Hadn’t she seen a movie like that once?

Think!

She had to get out of here.

There was something wrong with this place. People who had heartbeats weren’t sent to the morgue. There had to be a mistake.

She couldn’t stay here.

She ran. Holding the sheet tightly around her, the toe tag clutched in one hand, she ran as fast as she could to escape.

Don’t take the elevator.

She would be trapped there.

Take the stairs.

Up was the only option. She rushed up the steps two at a time. Reached the first floor and burst out of the stairwell.

The lobby.

A massive lobby with a bubbling fountain and towering green plants. People…lots of people.

They stopped and stared at her.

The sheet.

She was naked save for the sheet. Naked and barefoot. What must they think?

A woman wearing a white uniform approached her.

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

The cap, the badge…a nurse.

Nurses helped people…but this one worked here.

“I…I’m fine,” she insisted. She had to get out of here. The way the nurse looked at her…she was concerned and suspicious.

She would call those people who had done this to her.

Still clutching the toe tag, she ran. She couldn’t risk having the nurse touch her and tell her she needed to go back to that gurney and lie down because she was dead.

She couldn’t be dead.

She was running, escaping the hospital.

Voices shouted behind her, but she just ran faster.

She was alive. She didn’t care what anyone said.

As she burst out onto the sidewalk, the wind slapped her in the face. The icy sting made her quivering lips stretch into a wobbly smile. The cold of the concrete beneath her feet reinforced the conclusion.

Yes, she was alive.

Two men dressed in dark uniforms rushed from the same door she had exited and headed toward her. They shouted for her to stop.

She ran—darted between the moving cars as horns blared. She ignored them.

She had to hurry, had to run faster.

If they caught her…it would be bad. She didn’t know why, but she sensed that her life depended upon her getting away from this place.

So she didn’t stop. Not for the cars. Not for the shouts behind her.

Not for anything.

SHE COULDN’T RUN anymore.

She had to stop.

Cutting to the right, she stumbled to a standstill in an alley. Sande leaned against the brick wall.

Should she call herself Sande?

She thought of the toe tag clutched in her right hand. Maybe.

The alley was deserted, as far as she could tell. She peered toward the end, with its pockets of darkness. Nothing moved. There was no sound, other than the street noises that filtered past the cars parked along the curb and the trees lining the sidewalk.

A Dumpster accompanied by a pile of boxes sat a few yards away. She could hide there for a little while…until she figured out what to do next. Until she wasn’t so tired anymore.

Was there someone to call? Would Sande Williams be listed with directory assistance? If she had an address she could start there.

According to the newspapers she’d seen in the newsstands she’d run past, she was in Chicago. If Chicago was home, wouldn’t some emotion or memory stir? Shouldn’t she feel a connection?

Shouldn’t she feel something?

Other than tired. She needed to sit down. Her feet were freezing. Her hands were cold. She shuddered. Her whole body was chilled.

The date on the newspaper had said October 29. Made sense, she supposed, that the temperature outside was cold. It was almost November. Thanksgiving was in November. Snow sometimes came in November. It was supposed to be cold.

How could she remember all those everyday details and not know the first thing about herself? Not her name, her age, her address.

Nothing.

Sande pushed away from the wall. The towering brick buildings on either side of the alley kept the sun at bay. The shadows deepened the farther into the alley she ventured.

She could climb into one of those larger boxes and curl up in a ball to stay warm. That would help. Maybe she’d even put one on top to create a sort of shelter the way homeless people did.

Anticipation trickled inside her.

Was she homeless? A kind of sadness filtered through her. Did Sande Williams have anyplace to go? Any family? Friends? Or was she completely alone?

She couldn’t worry about that right now. Staying warm took priority. Survival had to come first.

She reached for a box. It was just what she needed.

“Hey! That’s my box!”

Sande jerked her hand away. Lurched back a couple of steps. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

The stringy-haired lady who had scolded her stepped from the shadows beyond the pile of cardboard boxes. Her heavy coat made her look like an Eskimo. “I don’t mind sharing,” the Eskimo woman said as she swiped her hands against the ragged jeans she wore. “But you should always ask first.”

Sande nodded. “Sorry.” She hadn’t meant to invade anyone else’s territory. She was just so tired. Cold and lost. And she was scared. Terrified.

The woman’s eyes narrowed as she assessed Sande from forehead to feet. “Where’s your clothes, girl?”

Good question. Wearing a white bedsheet certainly didn’t count. “I’m not sure what happened.” Might as well tell the truth. “I woke up like this.”

The woman pursed her lips thoughtfully. She didn’t appear that old, just looked a little haphazard and world-weary. Her jeans and coat were old, worn-out.

“I probably got something you could wear.”

Sande almost refused her generosity. Clearly, the woman had very little in the way of assets. Sande hated to take anything from her. But at the moment, she was pretty much desperate. Beyond desperate, actually.

Why couldn’t she remember anything?

“I’d appreciate that,” she said, thankful for the assistance.

The woman motioned with her right arm. “Come on.”

She dug her way through the piles of boxes until she reached what might have been the center. Sande realized then that the boxes were stacked in such a way that they created a refuge.

She followed the woman into the cardboard sanctuary. “What’s your name?” her new friend asked.

The toe tag clutched in Sande’s hand came immediately to mind. Though she hesitated before giving that answer, nothing else occurred to her. “Sande Williams.”

“I’m Madge,” the older woman said, “but you don’t look like a Sande to me.”

Sande didn’t know what to say to that statement. The name didn’t set off even a flicker of recognition within her. And other than her height and weight, she didn’t know anything about how she looked. Fear surged inside her once more. How could she not know her own hair color? Or eye color?

She grasped a strand of her hair and pulled it in front of her face. Blond. She had blond hair.

“You from out of town?”

Sande shook off the disturbing questions churning in her brain and nodded, then, with resignation, wagged her head. “I really don’t know.”

Equal parts suspicion and sympathy stirred in the woman’s eyes. “Something wrong with you, girl?”

“Maybe.” Sande shrugged. “I’m not certain. I woke up in a—” she cleared her throat “—in a hospital.” She swallowed hard. “Dressed like this.”

“You don’t know how you got there?”

Another shake of her head answered that question.

Madge’s eyes narrowed with increasing suspicion. “You ain’t got no strange disease, do you?”

Sande bit her bottom lip. She hadn’t thought of that. The possibility took her anxiety to a whole new level. “I don’t think so.”

“Well.” Madge considered the situation a moment. “I tell you what.” She stooped down and dug through a large plastic shopping bag. The colorful words printed on the bag were partially worn off, as if its owner had lugged it around for quite some time. “You get these clothes on—” Madge offered Sande the items she had retrieved “—and we’ll go down to the church and have us some lunch. There’s a man who serves there on Thursdays who might be able to help you out.”

Did that mean today was Thursday? Didn’t really matter. Sande hastily tugged on the clothes. She didn’t care what they were or their condition, or even how they fit, as long as they covered her body and protected her from the cold that had settled deep into her bones.

The memory of those men chasing after her back at the hospital reignited her fear, which had lessened a fraction.

“Who is this man?” she asked, a little hesitant to speak to a stranger, considering recent circumstances. Whatever instincts she possessed were screaming at her to use extreme caution.

“His name is Lucas Camp.” Madge scrounged around in the bag once more until she came up with a pair of beat-up sneakers. “His wife runs some fancy private investigation agency.” She made a humming sound as she mulled over what she wanted to say next. “The Colby Agency.”

Colby Agency?

Didn’t ring any bells for Sande.

“Yep.” Madge fished a tattered jacket from her stockpile of personal goods. “They say the Colby Agency is the best of its kind. I bet you they’ll be able to figure out just what happened to you and where you come from. Seems like the best plan.”

Sande sure hoped so.

She couldn’t remember her name or where she lived…but she had a feeling. A very bad feeling that if she didn’t get help, something terrible was going to happen…

To her.

Chapter Two

Patrick O’Brien.

Dr. Patrick O’Brien.

No. Not anymore.

Patrick had given up his practice as a psychologist more than two years ago.

He wasn’t going back there.

Not ever.

Patrick surveyed his office. He liked working for the Colby Agency. Profiling clients and the subjects associated with cases had proved to be interesting work. The pay was outstanding and the benefits unmatched.

His work kept him busy. He didn’t have to think about the past…

Then what the hell was wrong with him today? He couldn’t keep his mind on the task in front of him. He felt restless. Out of sorts.

He knew the reason. Pretending wouldn’t make it otherwise.

It was the anniversary of his wife’s death. Three years ago today she had left their Oak Park home for a day of shopping with friends, but had never made it to the mall. Never even made it across town. A carjacking had left her dead on the street.

And that had only been the beginning of his life’s unraveling.

Patrick pushed away the memories, the images that instantly flooded his mind. He couldn’t live in the past, couldn’t keep looking back. Forcing his focus forward was the only way to survive.

Despite his determination not to dwell on the worst of his history, his thoughts appeared to have a will of their own. For the first few weeks after his wife’s murder he’d asked himself why it couldn’t have been him. Why her? An angel as surely as he lived and breathed. His angel. That was what she had been.

Or so he had thought. Slowly but surely, as the investigation into her death had played out, he had learned that he’d never really known his wife at all. She had led a double life. Beautiful, devoted wife to him, to all appearances; obsessive-compulsive adulteress when no one was watching.

That old familiar knot formed in his gut. How could he have studied and worked to heal the human mind when he hadn’t recognized for a moment that his own wife was a habitual liar and cheater? Not once had he suspected her extramarital activities, and yet there had been dozens of men during their five-year marriage. The wife of one had hired a thug to kill the woman who had lured her husband into temptation.

Nothing Patrick did or felt could change the facts. He couldn’t let those painful memories distract him from the present and drag him back into that pit of agony and depression he had slowly risen from two years ago. Wallowing in self-pity and doubt would accomplish nothing, then or now.

He had started over. He had a life here at the Colby Agency. Patrick liked his work. For the most part he kept to himself after hours. No family ties, no social obligations. He didn’t need anything else. Nor anyone else.

He trusted no one outside his colleagues at the agency. Even that fledgling bond was strictly in the professional sense. His personal life would remain his alone. If he didn’t venture into that trust territory, he wouldn’t have to worry about being deceived.

The intercom on his desk buzzed, dragging him from the painful past. Mildred Ballard’s voice followed. “Patrick, could you come to Victoria’s office? She has a new case she’d like to discuss with you.”

“Thank you, Mildred, I’ll be right there.”

Work was the one thing he depended on now. He could trust his work. It never let him down.

The stroll to Victoria’s office was uninterrupted. Most of the investigators on staff were engrossed in cases, with no time for idle chatter. Admittedly, the entire staff operated more like a large family, but that atmosphere of camaraderie never got in the way of solving any case. Meeting or exceeding the client’s needs and expectations was paramount to Victoria Colby-Camp.

That was another thing he liked about the agency; no corners were cut, no underhanded business tactics were used. Top-notch investigative work was the order of the day. Patrick was surrounded by the best of the best in the field of private investigations. The Colby Agency’s reputation was unparalleled. No one lied. No one cheated.

“She’s waiting for you,” Mildred said as Patrick approached.

Mildred Ballard had been with Victoria for two decades. Through thick and thin, both would say. As the personal assistant to the woman in charge, Mildred ran a tight ship. She missed nothing and kept everyone in line. Mildred was outranked only by Ian Michaels and Simon Ruhl, Victoria’s seconds in command.

Patrick nodded in acknowledgment of Mildred’s broad smile and entered the private office of Victoria Colby-Camp. Lucas Camp, Victoria’s husband, rose from one of the chairs flanking the massive desk as Patrick crossed the room.