Identity Unknown

“Victoria.” Patrick looked from his boss to the man whose very presence still intimidated most, even him at times. “Lucas.” He extended his hand. “How was your trip?”

Lucas shook Patrick’s hand with the same confidence his bearing conveyed, despite the ever-present cane that assisted his less-than-perfect stride. “I accomplished my mission.”

And that was all he would be getting from the mysterious Lucas Camp. The man was a CIA legend, though his activities had been and still were cloaked in secrecy. Retirement had done little to slow him. He still worked in an advisory capacity for the government and spent every possible moment with his wife—the woman he had waited twenty years to call his own.

That Lucas Camp was present for this meeting carried a great deal of significance. Patrick was definitely intrigued.

“I wouldn’t have expected anything less,” he stated as both he and Lucas settled into the comfortable wingback chairs.

“Here’s Windy,” Victoria announced. “Now we can get started.”

Patrick glanced toward the door as Windy Millwood entered the room. He frowned momentarily, but he almost immediately schooled his expression. He was, after all, merely a profiler. He should have anticipated there would be an investigator sitting in. Disappointment niggled, but he pushed it away. When Victoria thought he was ready to get in the field and take on a case, she would say as much. She wasn’t one to mince words, nor was she indecisive.

“Sorry I’m late,” Windy said. “I was waiting for a fax.” Paper in hand, the tall brunette strode to the chair on the other side of Lucas and settled into it. The formal bearing of her military days had carried over to her civilian career.

Male investigators outnumbered females five to one at the Colby Agency, but not one, male or female, was more prepared and well trained than former Marine Captain Windy Millwood.

“Now that we’re all here,” Victoria began, “let’s bring Patrick up to speed.”

Lucas began. “Yesterday afternoon one of the regulars at the soup kitchen brought in a sort of Jane Doe.”

“Sort of?” Patrick inquired.

Lucas appeared to consider for a moment how to respond, before continuing. “She had a name, but no recall of who she was or where she came from.”

As Lucas explained the circumstances of the client’s only memories, Patrick found himself increasingly intrigued. He had to confess that waking up covered by a sheet and lying on a gurney outside a morgue door was not an everyday occurrence.

“Her driver’s license is a match. Social security number, too,” Windy confirmed as she passed the page to Lucas. “But that’s where it ends.”

Lucas handed the fax to Patrick. “What about the address on the license?”

As Windy explained that the residence recorded on the license was occupied by and belonged to someone else, Patrick considered the blond woman in the DMV photo. Sande Williams. Young. Twenty-eight, according to the birth date shown. Blue eyes. Petite in size.

“Did you visit the residence?” Patrick looked at Windy. “Perhaps Ms. Williams is a friend or relative of the occupant.”

“I thought we’d go together,” Windy suggested.

“Patrick,” Victoria interjected, drawing his attention to her, “you’ll be working this case with Windy. Considering the client’s apparent amnesia, I felt you would be an asset on this one. I’ve been waiting for the right opportunity to get you into the field. I believe this is the perfect case.”

Anticipation fired in every neuron. “I agree.” Patrick had been awaiting this opportunity as well. That the client had special needs falling within the scope of his former profession was definitely a bonus.

“It might not be a bad idea to take Ms. Williams along on your visit to the residence,” Lucas suggested. That he made the statement to him rather than Windy surprised Patrick, since she was unquestionably senior. “If the client has ever lived at that address the encounter could trigger repressed memories.”

No doubt, but there could also be hazards related to such a bold move. “With all due respect, Lucas, I’d like to interview the client before taking that step. Just as a precaution.”

“Of course,” the older man replied. “The mind is your specialty.”

“The two of you can get started,” Victoria recommended, “and the research team will continue to dig for information on Ms. Williams.”

“I’ll have a colleague of mine check under a few rocks to see what he can come up with,” Lucas added. “That Ms. Williams woke up in a hospital smacks of a cover-up. I have contacts in the local medical field. I’ll sound those out…as well.”

Patrick would wager Lucas Camp had contacts in most fields, most places.

Windy stood. “Thank you, sir, ma’am,” she said to Lucas and Victoria.

Patrick assured Victoria that he and Windy would check in periodically, before following his newly assigned partner from the office.

His first case.

He took a deep breath. He was ready to make this leap.

No more looking back.

Downtown Women’s Shelter

PATRICK AND HIS PARTNER emerged from his sedan. He considered the neighborhood. Residential. Quiet. The trilevel house that served as a home for those who had no place to go looked like any other nearby. There were no posted signs or other indications that the address was any different from the rest that lined the immaculately maintained street.

But there was a major difference. This home protected the women who stayed there. A pass code was required for admittance. No official ID would serve the purpose. Your name was either on the entrance list and you possessed the necessary information or you didn’t get in.

Period.

Abused and otherwise devastated women from all walks of life sought temporary refuge here. Their troubles would never find them here, nor would their abusers, whether friend or relative. This shelter was the most successful in all of Chicago at protecting its residents. Not one had been tracked down to this location.

Precisely why Lucas Camp had brought Sande Williams here.

Patrick stayed two steps behind Windy as they approached the house. The gate wasn’t locked, but there would be an armed guard just inside the closed and secured door. There would be no getting past him without the proper authorization.

Windy knocked, then recited the necessary pass code. A couple of seconds later, no doubt after the guard had studied both Patrick and her through the cameras positioned on either end of the porch, the door opened for their admittance.

“Windy Millwood.” The guard turned his attention to Patrick. “Patrick O’Brien.”

Windy displayed her Colby Agency ID, as did Patrick.

“Welcome.” The guard stepped back and allowed them to enter.

Inside, the long, narrow entrance hall was deserted. Before Patrick could assess the setting, a middle-aged woman stepped from the first door on the left.

“Your client is waiting in the conference room,” she said before thrusting out her hand. “I’m Carlene Mitchell, the administrator.”

“Windy Millwood.” She shook the woman’s hand. “And this is my colleague, Patrick O’Brien.”

Patrick had from his first day at the Colby Agency insisted that the title of doctor be dropped. He offered his hand to their host. “We understand our presence here is an inconvenience. We appreciate your hospitality.”

Carlene nodded, but her smile was noticeably restrained. “This way.”

The administrator led the way to what had likely once been a grand dining room. Sande Williams waited there. She looked even younger than her photo and, quite frankly, scared to death. Her arms were crossed around her middle, and her shoulders shook, though she visibly struggled to control the outward display of weakness. Fear ultimately won the battle.

When the introductions had been made and Carlene had left them to their work, Windy began the interview. “Ms. Williams, why don’t you start from the beginning and tell us what happened yesterday.”

Seated across from her at the well-used dining table, Patrick analyzed the woman as she spoke. She repeated the story of waking outside the morgue and running for her life, for reasons she didn’t understand. Sande Williams, although clearly nervous, stoically went over the details of her only memories. Anything beyond the past twenty-four hours was lost to her, a very rare phenomenon, but not completely unheard of. Patrick decided to reserve conclusions until after he’d spoken with her at length.

“Ms. Williams,” he said when she’d finished her story, to the point where a kind man, Lucas Camp, had delivered her here, “putting the facts aside, how do you feel?”

She blinked, those wide blue eyes connecting fully with his for the first time. “What do you mean?”

He leaned back in his chair to further set a tone of relaxation. “You’re nervous, I’m sure. That’s to be expected. Any headaches? Dizziness? Anger or other feelings of emotion?”

Sande moved her head from side to side. “No. Well, I’m scared, but mostly I feel…disjointed. As if I’ve lost something that I don’t know how to get back. Does that make sense?”

“Yes. It makes perfect sense.” Classic disorientation response. “Do you feel apprehensive in our presence?” It was very important for her to trust those who were handling her case. They would get nowhere until she felt at ease in his and Windy’s company.

“A little,” she admitted. She moistened her lips and let go a big, shaky breath. “But I know I have to trust someone to help me. I can’t do this alone.”

That was a start. “Do you have any physical injuries?” Patrick saw no visible signs, but there could be bruises, lumps, bumps or scratches beneath her clothing.

She hesitated, as if pondering his question at length. “None that I’ve discovered.”

“What about dreams?” He studied his client’s face for those reactions she wouldn’t put into words. “Did you have any dreams last night that you recall?”

Again, she shook her head. “None that I remember.”

“You understand that Windy and I want to help you learn what happened to you prior to yesterday? We’ll do everything we can to that end.”

She gave a resolute nod. “Yes.”

Now for the first big hurdle. “Then you won’t mind accompanying us to the residence listed on your driver’s license, in an attempt to prompt your memory.”

Not a question.

She hesitated a beat, then two. “No…except I worry that they’ll be watching.”

“They?”

“Whoever…the people who did this to me.” She wet her lips again. His gaze followed the movement despite his best intentions.

“That’s an understandable fear,” Windy assured her when he didn’t immediately do so.

“It’s our job to protect you from this moment forward. You understand that we’ll do all within our power to that end?” Patrick watched for the slightest change in her expression, in her eyes.

“Yes.” She drew in a deep, steadying breath. “Mr. Camp said that the people from the Colby Agency would do whatever necessary to ensure my safety while investigating my case.”

“We will,” Windy reiterated. “Whenever you’re with Patrick or myself you’ll have no reason to fear anyone. We’re both highly trained and very good at what we do. You leave the worrying to us.”

“What if I don’t remember anything?” Sande looked from Patrick to Windy and back. “I mean, I don’t know if Sande Williams is even my name.” She shrugged. “The picture on the driver’s license is definitely me. But it doesn’t feel like me.”

There was the possibility that this woman simply no longer wanted to be who she was. But that conclusion did not explain her waking up at a morgue with a sheet over her nude body and a toe tag attached to her foot. That part indicated foul play, without doubt.

“That’s our job,” Windy declared. “We’ll find out who you are and why this has happened to you. We won’t stop until we do.”

Relief was evident in their new client’s eyes, but the worry remained. “I don’t understand how this could have happened.”

“There could,” Patrick offered, “be psychological reasons for your amnesia.” He turned his palms up. “There could be drugs involved. Many times when there is no physical trauma or psychological explanation, the cause of amnesia is drug related.”

Her eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Drugs? You think I might have been involved with drugs?”

“Not the kind you think,” he hastened to explain. “I’m referring to mind-altering drugs that might have been administered without your consent or your knowledge. Perhaps you agreed to partake in some sort of drug trial and are suffering a rare side effect. Our first stop today will be a private clinic. Our associate there will take the necessary samples and determine if you’ve recently been exposed to drugs.”

Sande nodded. “And if we find something, what then?”

Windy picked up from there. “The hospital where you awoke insists you were never a patient in their facility. They have no record at all of you, they claim. But based on your story, you were a patient there, however briefly. Their denial gives us reason to suspect there’s a cover-up of some sort going on.”

“I don’t remember how I got there or anything that happened before I woke up on that gurney.” Sande closed her eyes for a long moment. “I don’t understand how this could be happening.” When her eyes opened, her gaze locked with Patrick’s. “How could a person just lose all they were? It seems crazy.”

He wouldn’t say so just now, but there were a number of mental illnesses that presented with amnesia. Most often because the patient simply did not want to remember who she or he was. That diagnosis would take time, time spent with the patient.

“We’ll operate under the assumption that you’re a victim,” Windy assured her. “Your safety will be our top priority during our investigation.”

Sande Williams bit her bottom lip as the fingers of her right hand twisted and twirled a lock of her long blond hair. “But there is the possibility that I’m just plain crazy.”

“Not crazy,” Patrick corrected. “You may have suffered a psychotic break. Stress. Any number of triggers could have set off the episode. But that doesn’t explain the hospital’s denial of your presence in their facility. These are the questions we have to consider and find explanations for.”

She contemplated his words before she spoke again. Looking directly at him, she asked, “But you’ll fix whatever it is, right?”

Patrick infused all the reassurance he could into his gaze. “You have our word we will find the problem—” he leaned forward slightly for emphasis “—and will do whatever it takes to rectify that problem, or get you to the people who can.”

Relief filled her eyes. “Thank you.”

What he suddenly felt contradicted all that he had just stated to this woman. For the first time since he’d entered Victoria’s office and learned of this assignment, Patrick had second thoughts.

Sande Williams was a complete mystery. A woman in serious trouble. Whatever demons, real or imagined, haunted her, he had promised that he would take care of her and the situation.

How the hell could he make that kind of assurance when he hadn’t even really known his own wife? He had lived with her for years and hadn’t experienced the slightest inkling that all was not as it should be. He’d failed her and he’d failed himself.

As if Windy sensed his mental retreat, she took the reins. “Ms. Williams, this is what we do at the Colby Agency, and we’re very, very good at what we do. We will find the truth and take whatever steps are necessary to resolve your dilemma. You’re in good hands.”

On cue, Patrick felt a tremor.

Maybe he wasn’t as ready for a field assignment as he’d thought.

This wasn’t a mere compilation of facts and data to be passed along to an investigator for follow through. This involved dealing directly with the people of interest in the case.

This was the real thing.

Chapter Three

2422 Johnson Lane Chicago Suburb

“Here’s how we’re going to play this.” The first part of the job would be no hardship for Patrick. He knew how to read people. “We approach—”

“Wait.” Sande looked from him to the house across the street and back. “I’m not sure about this. What if I do or say the wrong thing?”

Fifteen minutes ago she had been fully prepared to participate in this phase of the investigation. No hesitation. The plan was simple. They would approach the residence listed on her driver’s license and see if she recognized the place or anyone residing there. At the same time, he would be analyzing any occupants for recognition of his client. In and out in a matter of minutes. No big deal.

“Windy checked out the lady living here,” he offered again, in hopes of calming Sande’s fear. “She’s a CPA. Single. And she has no criminal record, not even a parking ticket. She’s lived here for three years. There’s nothing to be worried about.”

Sande cast another furtive glance at the house. “But what if she somehow knows the people who did this to me? What if she’s involved?”

Her teeth tortured her bottom lip. He’d noticed she did that when she was nervous or uncertain. The need to protect stirred in him. Not unusual in this situation. She was vulnerable, he was not. Basic human compassion dictated that primal response. He’d tried to ignore going down that path for a few years now. But compassion was a necessary element of his interaction with the client. There was no discounting it now.

Patrick gazed at the ranch-style brick home across the street from where he’d parked along the curb. “Determining whether or not the lady of the house is involved is part of what we’ll hopefully learn on this visit. Remember, we have the element of surprise on our side. She has no idea we’re coming. She won’t be prepared to cause trouble or set any sort of trap.”

He wasn’t sure he’d convinced Sande, but she hadn’t flat out refused to go inside as of yet. He wondered if she would be more willing if a woman had been here. His associate was running Sande’s fingerprints and doing additional research on the hospital where she had awakened on that gurney.

Patrick didn’t need Windy for this step. He could handle an interview without his associate’s guidance. This was his specialty. All he needed was the client’s cooperation.

“Okay.” Sande took a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”

He breathed a little easier with that decision out of the way.

They crossed the street side by side. His client’s trepidation was palpable despite her determination to go through with this step. They had been watching the house for more than half an hour when the owner had come home. Since the woman had parked in the garage before emerging from her car, neither he nor Sande had been able to get a good look at her.

According to Windy’s research, the owner was Nancy Childers. Other than her occupation, the fact that she had no criminal record and that she had moved to Chicago from Detroit, they knew nothing else. She appeared to be a loner and had no listed next of kin.

The instant Patrick and Sande reached the front door of the house, she turned to him, her eyes wide with worry again. “I don’t say anything, right?”

“Exactly.” They’d been over this already. “Study the woman. The house. If you’ve been here before you may experience déjà vu or some emotional tug.”

Sande took another of those deep, bolstering breaths as she nodded.

“Try to stay relaxed and just feel.”

“I can do that.”

Her voice sounded strong despite the uncertainty in her eyes. Patrick rapped on the door and waited. A second knock was required before it opened.

A female matching Nancy Childers’s physical description looked expectantly from Patrick to Sande. “Can I help you?”

“Ms. Childers?”

The expected suspicion flashed in the woman’s eyes. “Yes.”

“My name is Patrick O’Brien, and this is my colleague, Sande Williams. We’re canvassing the area regarding a problem with burglaries. Do you have five minutes to discuss the recent rash of incidents in your neighborhood?”

When looking for a cover story, he’d read about the outbreak of robberies in the area. Any criminal activity in the community was likely to prompt immediate cooperation from residents. And if Ms. Childers reacted as expected, she would automatically assume he represented the local authorities in one capacity or another.

Nancy Childers hesitated only half a second. “Sure.” The suspicion vanished and she managed a polite smile. “Come in.” The door opened wider in invitation as she stepped back, allowing them entrance.

“We can talk in the living room.” She led the way.

When they were seated, Patrick explained briefly what he’d learned about the rash of robberies before asking, “Have you considered that someone in your neighborhood might be the perpetrator?”

Nancy frowned. “No.” She shook her head. “I discussed the problem with one of my neighbors just yesterday and we’re shocked. This isn’t the norm for this area. I guess I’m lucky my home wasn’t hit, since I’m rarely here.”

“So you haven’t noticed any suspicious activities? No strange automobiles or people loitering about?”

“No. Not at all.”

“May I use your restroom?” Sande interjected.

No one was more surprised by the question than Patrick. He glanced from Sande, who’d asked, to their host.

Nancy’s brow creased with another frown, this one laced with renewed suspicion. “Sure.” She hesitated a second or two, then waved her hand in the direction of the hall. “Second door on the right.”

When Sande had left the room, Patrick drew the woman’s attention back to the conversation. “Are any of the residents in the neighborhood new arrivals? Or is there anyone who perhaps keeps a particularly low profile? You’d be surprised how important small, seemingly insignificant details like that can be to an investigation.”

Nancy pondered his question. “It’s difficult for me to say, since I travel so frequently. In fact, I only just returned from several weeks in Dallas.”

“Your work keeps you away for extended periods?” She’d mentioned that, but he wanted details.

“Most of the time.” She shifted to a more relaxed position, but the tightening of her jaw gave away her continued uneasiness. “I help analyze and organize accounting departments for major corporations.”

So far he’d learned nothing he didn’t already know. Once he and Sande were gone, the woman’s actions would tell the rest of the story—if there was anything else to tell.

Noting Sande’s approach from the hall, Patrick stood. “We certainly appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Childers. If you think of anything at all out of the ordinary that you might have forgotten to mention, please give me a call.” He provided her with a card that included his name and cell-phone number. “One of us will be in touch if we think of any additional questions.”

Sande resumed her position at his side, her expression as neutral as it had been when they first entered the house. She shook Nancy’s hand and thanked her for her cooperation. Patrick studied the interaction between the two women. Nothing. Not a flicker of recognition.

Nancy Childers was either an accomplished actress or a dead end.

Patrick didn’t question his client until the door was closed behind them and they were nearing the street. “Nothing, huh?”

Sande shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Sande!”

Patrick’s attention jerked left, toward the source of the greeting. An older woman, seventy or seventy-five, waved from the yard next door to Nancy Childers’s home. As he watched, she leaned her rake against the fence, tugged off her gloves and started in their direction.

“I thought that was you!” The spry woman hurried to the sidewalk to meet them. “I’ve missed our garden chats. Where in the world have you been?” She scrutinized Sande for longer than was comfortable. “You don’t look well. Have you been ill?”