Dead Ringer (10 page)

Nicole
glanced to Kendall trying to convey her sudden panic.

Kendall
seemed to sense all this and without betraying any of Nicole's worries turned
to Carnie. "This is a very stressful situation for Nicole, as you must know."

Carnie's
gaze was soft. Bracelets jangled softly as she leaned forward and touched
Nicole's arm. "I don't want you to worry or feel any kind of pressure. We are
here today just to talk."

Nicole
managed a weak smile and didn't feel so boxed into a corner. "I know."

"I
haven't relinquished a child, but I was adopted, so I have a personal
connection to the process."

Kendall
shifted, but her expression didn't show any emotion.

Nicole
swallowed. "You were? Do you ever see your mother--your birth mother?"

"I
haven't found her yet. I've become something of an expert on searches, but no
luck with my mother yet. My adoption wasn't exactly black market but very
gray." She seemed relaxed, as if she'd told this story a thousand times before.
"My murky roots are why I'm so committed to open adoption."

The
tightness in Nicole's throat didn't vanish but it eased. "Do you know anything
about her?"

"Only
that she was young when she had me. My associate, Debra Weston, couldn't be
here today because her youngest is in the winter play at his elementary school.
But Debra gave up a child when she was in college. She'd be the first to tell
you that it was the hardest thing she's ever done."

"Was
she able to keep up with her child?"

"She
lost track until he turned twenty-one. Then he came searching for her. Now they
exchange pictures and his parents have even sent her a scrapbook filled with
pictures of him growing up."

Kendall
removed an imaginary piece of lint from her skirt. "How does someone go about
searching for a birth parent? I know you support open adoption, but what if
Nicole chose a closed adoption?"

"Then
the petitioner--the birth child or parent--would request a court order and ask
the state to unseal the adoption records. It can be a very complicated and long
process."

"How
long would something like this take?" Kendall asked.

"It
varies, depending on the original adoption order. Adoptions done pre-nineteen
eighty-nine are a little harder to open. I've one client who's been searching
for three years."

"I
didn't realize it was so complicated," Kendall said. "Somehow I pictured this
room full of files that could be opened at will."

Carnie
smiled. "I wish."

By
all appearances, Kendall looked relaxed and cool. But Nicole had learned over
the last couple of months that strong emotions ran under her cool exterior.
Something was brewing behind her eyes.

"You'll
have to excuse me," Kendall said easily. "I've a reporter's mind. It's hard not
to ask questions."

Carnie
didn't seem to mind.
"Of course."

The
interlude between Kendall and Carnie gave Nicole a chance to collect herself.
She was far from comfortable but she could think a little better now. "Can you
show me that book of families you were talking about?"

Carnie
smiled. "I'd be glad to."

Kendall
leaned forward. "Do you want some privacy?"

As
much as Nicole had appreciated Kendall's help getting her this far, she knew
the next steps she'd have to take alone. "Do you mind?"

Kendall's
face softened.
"Not at all.
I'll talk to you later."

"Thanks."

Kendall
rose and left the office. Carnie reached for the binder on the coffee table. It
was blue with flower stickers.
Our Families
was written in black Magic
Marker on the cover. "Let's have a look at some of our profiles."

When
Jacob knocked on Dr. Christopher's office door, he was fifteen minutes late and
unapologetic. He had a murder investigation on his desk and he didn't have time
to waste with a shrink.

"Come
in." She sounded annoyed.

He
pushed open the door. "Dr. Christopher."

She
sat at her desk, her gaze on a magazine. A silver barrette held gray hair back
in a tight ponytail. Blackrimmed glasses perched on the edge of her nose, and
she wore a loose black sweater, jeans, and sneakers.

Dr.
Christopher's office was located in the medical office building of Mercy
Hospital. The office was neat, organized, small, and efficient, like the woman
herself.

She
didn't rise from her desk or look up from the magazine she was reading. Slowly
she turned a page. "You're late."

"Yes."

He
shrugged off his jacket and moved into the office, closing the door behind him.
The space always felt cramped once he entered it. He took his place on the
couch across from her desk and felt a little like a kid summoned to the
principal's office. "Let's get started."

She
finished the line she was reading and closed the magazine. "So what are you
working on these days?"

He'd
expected a lecture on tardiness and was grateful she skipped it.
"A murder investigation.
A young woman strangled, dumped by
the river."

She
frowned. "I read about that in the paper. That must be tough for you."

He
set his jacket aside and sat back on the couch, determined to look relaxed. "No
tougher for me than the other cops working the case."

Her
gaze narrowed. "Why do you say that?"

"I
can see their faces.
The strain.
Each one of them is
thinking about a wife.
A sister.
A
daughter.
It's hard not to personalize a case like this when it appears
the woman lived her life by the straight and narrow."

"Do
you personalize it?"

His
shrug was meant to look casual. "I feel bad for the victim. It's a waste to die
so young, but I don't have a woman in my life
whom
I'm
particularly close to, so I don't personalize it."

She
lifted a brow. "There's no woman in your life whom you are close to?"

He
crossed his leg, resting his ankle on the opposite knee. "You know this."
Tension crept up his spine. "We've been through this before." He'd stopped
short of confessing his real fear--that if he were tested again in the line of
duty he'd freeze, as he had last summer.

"I'd
like to revisit some things."

"Why?
It's water under the bridge. I know a lot of women. I like to date around. But
I have no desire to settle down."

"You've
never been in love?"

Shit.
He didn't like these questions because honestly he didn't know what to say for
fear she'd peg him a nut. "Look, we've discussed my mother. She was a drunk who
cared more about booze than me. It was a fucked-up family. I get that. Anyone
who went through that would have trust issues. But I don't dwell on it."

"Knowing
you have trust issues
and
understanding how that affects your life are
two different things."

They
were traveling down the same path again. "It doesn't affect me.
At least not in my job."

"There's
more to life than work."

He
picked at the cuff of his jeans. "I'm good at my job. I stay in shape. I help a
neighbor in need. What else am I supposed to do?"

She
leaned forward. "When is the last time you felt joy?"

"That's
easy. We arrested a guy in late December. He was a dealer and he killed two of
his teenaged mules. It felt damn good to take him down." He'd ridden that high
for several days.

"That's
satisfaction. What about joy?
Laughter?"

He
tipped back his head trying to hold on to his patience. "I'm a homicide
detective. Joy isn't part of the job description."

"It
is part of the description of a balanced person."

He
could see where this was going. It wasn't enough he caught killers. Now he had
to prove he was happy. At the rate he was going with the doc she was going to
write an unfavorable evaluation. He had to come up with something. Before he
thought too much, he went back to the last happy moment in his life. "The last
time I felt joy.
Last summer.
July.
Pete and I were in the gym. He was checking the laces on my boxing gloves. He
kept warning me that I was going to injure my hands if I didn't ease up. It
felt good to know someone had my back."

She
was silent for a moment. "You miss him."

He
didn't answer. He clenched his jaw until a muscle in his face pulsed.

"You
miss him." This was new ground for them.

His
chest tightened. And with as much attitude as he could muster he said, "Yeah, I
miss him."

"And
that's okay."

He
leaned forward and laced his long fingers. The words caught in his tightening
chest. "It doesn't feel right."

"I'm
not here to defend the guy or the choices he made, but when you were young and
vulnerable he never failed
you,
did he?" She spoke softly.

Jacob
tightened his jaw. "No."

She
sat back relaxed, as if she'd got what she was after. "What are some of the
good times you remember with Pete?"

He
blew out a breath. "How did we end up on this line of conversation? I don't
like it."

"I
know." She smiled. "Think of it this way. Today is your last mandatory
session."

He
tapped his finger on his thigh. "I don't like talking about Pete."

"But
you should talk about him."

Cracking
the door to the memories now could easily lead to a flood.

"Tell
me about a happy time for you two."

Damn.
"The sooner I dish the sooner I can get back to work?"

"Yes."

"One memory?"

"I'll
take it."

He
flexed his fingers. He stared at the corner of the coffee table and let his
mind drift. It quickly landed on a memory. "When I was fifteen, he decided we
needed to go camping. I was full of mouth that summer and as usual a handful.
So Pete took me camping." The corner of his mouth lifted. "It was the worst two
days of our lives."

"How so?"

"You
name it, it went wrong. Neither one of us knew what the hell we were doing. We
were city guys. We arrived at this campground late on a Friday. It was hot and
we were tired. We tried to pitch this tent that he borrowed. We got it all
staked in the ground and then figured out it was upside down. It took another
hour to flip it and get it up. Then it started to rain.
Buckets
of the stuff.
After a month-long drought, it rained. The land around the
tent flooded and then the tent roof started to leak. Pete grumbled and cussed
all night."

Doubt
darkened her eyes. "This was a happy memory?"

"We
got up the next morning, dumped the soggy tent into the back of his van, and
drove into some small town. We picked the first diner we spotted and ordered
breakfast. We were so damn hungry at that point. Best flap-jacks I ever had
that morning." His throat tightened as he recalled the memory. "Pete told me
that morning that no matter what, he'd never give up on me. He was the first
person who ever told me that."

Dr.
Christopher let the silence settle as he drew in deep breaths. He collected his
emotions, which in an instant had turned raw. "It's okay to mourn that loss,
Jacob. There was goodness in Pete Meyers and you have to honor that."

Jacob
flexed his right hand, aware of the stiffness. "He was right about the
sparring."

"I
don't understand."

"I
overdid it last weekend. Pete would have been so pissed if he'd seen my hands
after the bout. I've got several hairline fractures in my right hand and the
doc thinks I'll end up with bad arthritis if I don't stop."

"Then
stop."

So
like a woman. She didn't get it.
"Easier said than done."

"Why
do you love boxing so much?"

"The rush.
The exercise.
The
excitement when I step into the ring."

"And
you're closest to Pete when you're in the ring."

He'd
never once considered that angle. But she was right.
"Maybe.
Yeah."

She
leaned forward.
"Honor Pete now by taking care of yourself.
That's what he'd want."

Emotion
choked Jacob's throat. "Why the hell does everyone want me to feel when
feeling
sucks so
bad
?"

She
smiled.
"Life's about the highs and lows.
You need
both to be balanced."

The
egg timer behind her rang. She turned it off.
"Looks like our
time is up."