Remember Me (12 page)

C
lay flipped through the Rolodex on his desk, searching for the name and number of the private investigator he'd hired once before. A couple of minutes later, he was on the phone to Harold Borden, P.I. It rang once, then twice, then a half-dozen times. He kept waiting for Borden or the answering machine to pick up, but nothing happened.

It had been more than a year since he'd talked to the man, and there was always the possibility that he was no longer in business, although the idea was vaguely surprising. Harold Borden had struck Clay as the kind of man who would die of old age on the job, not puttering in his garage or out on the golf course killing time between meals.

Just when he was about to hang up, the call was finally answered. Clay could hear the short, gasping breaths of someone who'd been running.

“Borden Investigations.”

“This is Clay LeGrand. I'd like to speak to Mr. Borden, please.”

Borden put down his coffee and sack of doughnuts and sat with a thump.

“You're talking to him. And hello to you, too, Clay LeGrand. It's been a while, boy. How the hell are you doing?”

Clay's footsteps sounded hollow on the floor of his portable office as he strode to the window overlooking the construction site.

“Good…and not so good.”

Borden reached for an applesauce doughnut, took a bite, then talked as he chewed. “Give me the good news first.”

“Francesca came back.”

Borden almost choked. “The hell you say!” He took a quick swig of coffee, then leaned forward in disbelief. “How? When? And, more important, where has she been?”

Clay sighed. “That's the bad news.”

“I take it this call isn't social,” Borden said.

“No.”

“Wait,” Borden muttered. “I can't find a pen…Oh, here's one. Okay. Shoot.” Then he went back to his doughnut as Clay started to talk.

“I came home from work and found her asleep in our bed. All I can tell you for sure is that she was in an automobile accident within an hour of her arrival in Denver. Not only does she not remember where she's been, she has no memory of ever being gone.”

“And your problem is…?”

Clay took a deep breath. “Frankie believes she's in danger. She claims there's no way she would have left willingly. And we both know there's no such thing as some crazy just letting someone go—especially after two years.”

“Yeah, right,” Borden said. Then he added, “Don't take this wrong, but what do you think?”

“I believe her.”

“Okay. So what do you want from me?”

Clay combed his fingers through his hair. “This is where it gets tough. I know what I want, but I don't have much info to give you.”

Borden turned to a fresh page in his notebook. Ever since he'd quit the case, he'd been bugged by the knowledge that he'd somehow let this man down. Now was his opportunity to rectify the situation.

“What
do
you know?” Borden asked.

“The police talked to a cabdriver who picked up a woman at the bus terminal who fit Francesca's description. The cabby claimed the woman acted strange—almost afraid. But other than a few errant memories that don't make much sense and a gold ankh tattoo on the back of her neck, Frankie knows nothing.”

“What the hell is an ankh?” Borden asked.

“Picture a cross, except that the top is a loop rather than a straight line.”

“Oh, yeah. One of those Egyptian-looking things.”

“Yes, that's it.”

“Anything else?” Borden asked.

“Well, Frankie says that the man who was holding her captive had a matching tattoo on his chest. She also thinks that wherever she was, there was an earthquake. And, as you know, California recently had a big one.”

Borden's interest piqued. “It's a place to start.”

“Yeah, that's what I think,” Clay said.

Borden leaned back in his chair, mentally reviewing the file he'd collected on Francesca.

“You know, I mentioned this to you before, but we never went anywhere with it. What do you think about delving into her past while we're at it?”

Clay frowned. “I still don't think Francesca has a secret past.”

“No, you misunderstand me,” Borden said. “I don't mean that kind of past. I'm talking about her childhood.”

“She grew up in an orphanage,” Clay reminded him.

“I know, and I know it's a long shot, but maybe there's something there that could help us.”

Clay sighed. “Right now, I'm willing to try anything.”

Borden made a few more notes. “The children's home was in Albuquerque, right?”

“Yes.”

Borden fiddled with the pen, tapping it lightly on the top of the desk as his mind jumped from one scenario to another.

“You know, Clay, any branch of child welfare is usually pretty closemouthed about releasing information to outsiders. I can check out some things with no problem, but in my opinion, your best bet is to take Francesca and go back for a visit. Talk to the people who work there. Ask about her friends. Her habits. Why wasn't she adopted? Stuff like that. The worst that could happen is that you just take a trip to Albuquerque. The best is that she might remember something that will help.”

Clay's mind was turning as he glanced at the calendar on the wall. If his dad would step in and help out again, he might just make it.

“That's a good idea,” he said. “I'll talk to Frankie about it tonight.”

“Good,” Borden said. “In the meantime, I'll go at it from my end. Together, we might come up with some answers we can use.”

“Thanks, Harold. I appreciate you getting on this so quickly.”

Borden frowned. “I owe you one, boy. Remember, I worked for a year looking for that girl. It's just good to know she's back, however it happened. Say, are all your numbers still the same?”

Clay gave him their cell-phone number to add to the file.

“Okay, that should be it,” Borden said. “Keep in touch, and I'll do the same.”

Clay hung up, feeling better about the situation than he had since the day Frankie had come home. He was on his way out the door when the phone rang. He answered absently, his mind still focused on his conversation with Borden. But when he heard Avery Dawson's voice, his interest changed.

“Detective, I was going to call you today.”

“So your wife said,” Dawson answered.

Clay frowned. “You talked to Frankie?”

“Yes. Just a little follow-up stuff for the chief before he signed her permit.”

Clay frowned. “Permit? What permit?”

Dawson hesitated. It hadn't occurred to him that Frankie would have kept it a secret, but it was too late to back out now.

“The carry permit,” he said.

“Oh, that,” Clay said. “For a minute I forgot. So is everything all right?”

“Yeah, I guess. I think the chief will probably okay it.”

“Is that why you called me?”

Dawson frowned. “No. Something happened at work the other day that I thought you should know. Someone called, identifying himself as an officer with the Los Angeles Police Department. Said he was following up on some runaway posters in trying to identify a Jane Doe.”

Clay's gut clenched as he thought of all the trips he'd made to morgues across the country, looking for Frankie. At least that was something he wouldn't have to do again.

“So what does that have to do with my wife?” he asked.

Dawson took a deep breath. “Here's where it gets weird. He asked about a missing-person poster on Francesca LeGrand. Said the Jane Doe fit her description. I told him it couldn't be her, and to throw away the flyer, because the woman was no longer missing. I told him we got lucky, that she was alive and had come back on her own.”

Clay was listening but had yet to make a connection that made sense.

“So,” Dawson continued, “we traded a few pleasantries, and I'd started to hang up when the guy had one more question. He wanted to know when she'd come back, so I told him. It wasn't until I hung up that I began to wonder why it would matter to the guy when she came back. If she was here, she couldn't be the woman in the morgue.”

“Right,” Clay said. “So what's the problem?”

He heard Dawson take a deep breath, and when he did, Clay's gut began to tighten. It was almost as if he knew what the man was going to say before he said it.

“I don't know,” Dawson said. “Chalk it up to my suspicious nature, but I called right back to the L.A.P.D., asking to speak to this officer. The receptionist told me that no one by that name worked there.”

Clay's legs went weak. “So what are you saying?”

“That someone wanted to know about Francesca LeGrand and lied about the reason why. Considering the situation as we know it, I find that extremely bothersome.”

“Sweet mercy,” Clay muttered. “She was right. She's still in danger.”

Dawson frowned. “I don't know about that,” he said. “But I felt obligated to tell you about the call. Take whatever precautions you feel necessary. We're investigating on our end, but truthfully, there's precious little to investigate. We checked phone records. All we know is that the call came from a pay phone in Las Vegas.”

“Did you tell Francesca about this?” Clay asked.

“No, considering what she's been through, I thought it best to tell you. You tell her what you see fit.”

The urge to take Frankie and run was strong, but Clay knew it would not solve the problem.

“Look, Detective, I'm taking Frankie back to Albuquerque to the orphanage where she grew up, just on the off chance that something there might be the key to what happened to her.”

Dawson made a quick note. “Not a bad idea,” he said. “Especially considering the lack of evidence otherwise. When are you leaving?”

“As soon as possible,” Clay said. “If I learn anything interesting, I'll be sure to pass it on.”

“Keep in touch,” Dawson said.

“Count on it,” Clay said. “And thanks for letting me know.”

A few moments later, Clay was on the phone again, but this time to his dad. Within the hour, Winston LeGrand was on the site and Clay was on his way home.

 

Pharaoh Carn was restless, and it wasn't the forced inactivity from his healing wounds that made him so. His body ached, but it was getting better. Each day his staying power increased. Today he'd been at his desk for almost four hours. Only days earlier he'd all but collapsed after two, but there were some positives to offset his frustration. His empire was spinning smoothly once more.

Ever since his return to Las Vegas, the phone had been ringing nonstop with calls from his business associates. He should have been pleased, but there was no way he could rejoice in his own survival when the woman who belonged at his side was gone. He wouldn't hazard a guess as to how long he could hold it all together. And no matter how hard he tried, and how much money he spent making it happen, his ride at the top wouldn't last—not without Francesca.

Before her return to his life, he'd been doing okay, but he'd been on the outskirts of the big time, one of the hundreds of middlemen for the Allejandro cartel.

The day he found her, he'd been on his way back to L.A. from Seattle, after cleaning up a small internal problem. The fact that Pepe Allejandro was now minus one brother-in-law was immaterial to the fact that Allejandro's missing millions were still intact.

Rolling the rabbit's foot between his fingers, he leaned back and closed his eyes, remembering that day on the plane. It had been so many years since he'd seen her, yet he would have known her face anywhere.

Until he'd picked up the paper, the flight had been monotonous. And when he'd first seen the picture, he almost passed it by. It was of little importance—something a Denver photographer had taken of a young woman laughing in the rain. But it had been picked up by the Associated Press and run in papers across the country. When recognition dawned, his center of gravity had literally shifted.

It was Francesca.
His
Francesca.

He felt light-headed, then weighted down by the distance of miles between them. His first urge was to move, and then he remembered where he was. Frustration set heavily on his shoulders as he faced the fact that, until they landed, he could do nothing.

He thought about her during the rest of the flight, remembering her childhood years at Kitteridge House and how she had dogged his footsteps. Remembering that he'd been there for her when her parents had not, remembering that as she'd grown, his feelings for her had changed from those of a boy for a child to how a man loved his woman.