Ryan's Return (33 page)

Every word Maggie uttered reminded Lisa of her own guilt, her own anger. And it was so pointless. "Maggie, you have to stop torturing yourself."

"Why? I'm torturing everyone else."

"You're not."

"I am. I need you, Lisa. I'm desperate."

"Me? What about -- your brothers?" God, she was pathetic. She couldn't even say his name out loud.

"I can't reach Nick. He might be away for the weekend, Joe moved up to Monterey last year, remember? And his wife is expecting a baby any day now. My parents are finally taking their second honeymoon. I can't ask them to come home,"

"What do you want me to do?"

"Watch my kids for the weekend. I know I shouldn't ask. You're getting married in a month, and you must be busy, but I could use a friend right now." Her voice tightened. "And -- and you owe me, Lisa. There, I said it. I've felt it for a long time, and now I've said it. You didn't even come for Keith's funeral. I still can't believe you didn't come."

Her stomach turned over at the anger and bitterness in Maggie's voice. Maggie was right. Lisa had been a lousy friend. "I came down the week after," she protested.

"So you wouldn't have to see Nick and my parents and my kids. Your feelings came before mine."

"You're right. I was scared." Lisa twisted the phone cord between her fingers. She'd felt guilty for weeks. She still did. "I should have been there for you. If you don't want to be my friend, I won't blame you."

"You're not getting out of it that easily. I need you now, Lisa. You have to come. You just have to."

'"I'll be down as soon as I can, a couple of hours." Lisa mentally ran through the list of what she was supposed to accomplish that weekend. Raymond wouldn't be happy. Neither would Mrs. Carstairs, but Maggie was right. Lisa owed her this. Heck, she owed her a lot more than this.

"Really?" Maggie's voice filled with hope. "I know you hate it here, all the memories and Nick..."

"I can handle the memories; it's your children I'm concerned about. Are you sure you want to leave them with me?"

"I wouldn't trust anyone else," Maggie said softly.

Lisa's gaze dropped to the charm bracelet once again. Someone else had trusted her, and she had let her down. "Are you sure?''

"It's the only thing I am sure about. Lisa?"

"What?"

"Hurry."

Lisa hung up the phone, worried more than ever by the note of panic in Maggie's voice. Maggie had always been the cool one, sensible, reasonable, dependable -- nothing like her older brother, Nick. Lisa's heart raced at the thought of him. But just because she was going back to San Diego didn't mean she had to see Nick. She'd managed to avoid him for almost eight years. Surely, she could make it through one more weekend.

Cool wet fingers of fog brushed against his face as Matt Winters walked up the hill to his San Francisco apartment building. At the sound of a siren, he automatically stiffened. He'd been chasing ambulances for so long he couldn't help but wonder what new story was developing, what tragedy was unfolding, what family was about to receive an unwelcome late-night phone call.

As the siren drew closer, he glanced down the street behind him. All was quiet. Parked cars, shadowy buildings, the light from the street lamps broke the darkness, but nothing looked out of place. Still, Matt felt the prickles of uneasiness stab the skin on the back of his neck. He felt like someone was watching him, and his instincts screamed caution even though his brain couldn't figure out why.

Taking one last look down the street behind him, he moved to unlock the front door of his apartment building. He frowned when he saw that the door was ajar and the lock appeared to be jammed. Matt wasn't particularly concerned about his barely furnished apartment or even his own safety. He'd lived in places far more dangerous than this. The broken lock aggravated his sense that something was wrong, but a quick look around the lobby revealed nothing amiss.

With a weary sigh, Matt pressed the elevator call button and rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. He hadn't slept more than three hours in a row in the last seventy- two. He'd been chasing a news story, following a money trail that had led him straight up the steps of City Hall. Tomorrow the rest of San Francisco would read about the corruption of one of its supervisors in the morning edition of the Herald.

His mission accomplished, Matt should have been feeling satisfied. Instead he felt restless, once again reminded that no matter how many truths he unveiled, no matter how many mysteries he solved, he couldn't solve the one that mattered most.

Matt pressed the elevator button again, hating himself for not being able to let go of the past. How ironic that he lived his life in search of the truth, yet couldn't seem to accept it when it stared him in the face.

That need for closure, the desire to stop the endless hunger, the unquenchable thirst for answers had brought him back to San Francisco, the place where it had started and where it had ended.

Finally, the elevator doors opened. A minute later, Matt stepped onto the tenth-floor landing and walked down the hall to his apartment. He let himself in just in time to catch the phone before the machine picked up. "Winters," he said abruptly.

There was no reply, just the sound of someone breathing. A prank call, an informant, a threat? He didn't know which.

"Matt?" It was barely a whisper, so hushed he couldn't tell if it was a female or a male.

"Who is this?" No answer. "Look, I don't have time to -- "

The sound of a click, then the dial tone, told him the caller had hung up. Out of habit, he wrote down the caller ID number. It wasn't one he recognized, but he'd check it out later. He was simply too tired to deal with one more thing tonight.

Tossing his car keys onto the dining room table, he headed into the kitchen, wondering if by some impossible chance there was actually something edible in the refrigerator. Unfortunately, it boasted nothing more than a couple of beers, some wilted lettuce, and molding tomatoes. Popping open one of the beers, he took a long grateful swallow, then walked back into the living room.

It wasn't much of a room for living in at the moment. There was an old black leather couch along one wall and a matching overstuffed armchair, an oak coffee table that held his array of newspapers and magazines, a stereo system, because he couldn't live without music, and a punching bag hanging from a hook in the ceiling, because he didn't know a better way to relieve stress than to beat the hell out of that bag. Boxing had gotten him through some tough times, given him a sense of control over himself and the chaos that had once been his life.

At some point, he'd have to invest in some furniture -- or maybe not. Who knew how long he'd stay in San Francisco? Who knew how long he'd stay anywhere? His life had been a series of entrances and exits, new places, new faces.

The phone rang again and Matt's muscles tensed. For a second he was tempted to let it ring, but he'd never been one to run from a fight or avoid a confrontation, although there had been plenty of people in his life who had told him to do just that. He reached for the phone again and said, "Winters."

"Congratulations," David Stern replied.

Matt relaxed at the sound of his editor's voice.

"I can't wait until the morning paper hits the streets," David crowed. "Your story will rock this town."

"As long as Keilor doesn't file a libel suit."

"Let him try. You covered your ass quite well."

"Yours, too," Matt reminded him.

"That's why I pay you the big bucks."

"Yeah, right." Matt walked across his living room with the portable phone in one hand. "What's next?"

"Why don't you take a break? You've been on this story nonstop since you landed in town six weeks ago. Take some time off. A few days in Lake Tahoe wouldn't do you any harm."

Matt didn't want a few days off. Vacations were for people who wanted to relax, to think, to philosophize, and he wanted to do none of the above. Too much time on his hands would only make him feel that much more reckless.

"I'm fine. I don't need a break," he said.

"I figured you'd say that. By the way, that P.I. friend of yours stopped by the paper today. Want to tell me what you're working on?"

"It doesn't involve the paper."

"So it must have something to do with why you surprised the hell out of me by actually accepting my job offer and leaving Chicago," David said, obviously fishing.

"Could be."

"We've been friends a long time, Matthew. I'm going to have to pull rank on you and insist on the truth."

Matt laughed. "You can try."

"I can do my own investigation."

"If you were any good at investigating, you'd be writing the stories instead of editing them."

"Now that hurts. Did anyone ever tell you that you wield honesty like a blunt instrument to the head?"

"And your point is?"

Matt's attention drifted as David launched into a long-winded reminder of how any investigation Matt was involved in could ultimately affect the newspaper. Matt didn't bother to interrupt. He simply stared out at the lights of San Francisco weaving like drunken sailors up and down the city hills. It was a staggeringly good view, but most days he wondered what had possessed him to take this tenth-floor apartment in Pacific Heights. The burnished hardwood floors, the big bay window, the ultramodern kitchen felt wrong. This wasn't him. He was back alleys and bad neighborhoods, Chinese take-out and cigarette smoke. But somehow David had convinced him that a new location might change his perspective.

"How's Jackie?" Matt interrupted, knowing if there was anything guaranteed to distract David, it was his wife.

"Whining about getting fat. She asked me today if she looked like a glowing pregnant woman or a fat penguin."

'Tell me you chose glowing pregnant woman."

"Glowing penguin wasn't good enough?"

"I hope you like sleeping on the couch."

"It's warmer than our bed these days. Sometimes I wonder why I ever wanted to have a kid."

"Well, you'll need someone to mow the lawn someday."

"Thanks for the reminder. That might get me through tonight's cravings. Jackie usually gets hungry just about the time I'm falling asleep." David paused. "You know, I must have babies on the brain, because I can almost hear one crying."

Matt frowned and turned his head toward the door as the crying grew louder.

"It's not your imagination. I hear it, too." Another shriek made Matt pause. "I'll talk to you later." He put the phone down and walked to the door. The only other tenant on this side of the L-shaped building was a single woman he had yet to meet. He opened the door, but there was no one there. Actually, there was someone there, way down there ...

On the floor, in a car seat, was a tiny baby with a few strands of fuzzy black hair on its head, red cheeks, teary eyes, and a mouth that screamed in fury. "What the hell?" Matt looked around the empty hallway, wondering where on earth the baby's mother was.

"Okay, just be quiet for a second, would you?" He squatted down next to the baby and patted the baby's head, which only seemed to make him -- or was that her? -- more angry.

"Where is your mother?" Matt asked, the uneasy feeling returning to his gut.

He looked at the door across the hall and hesitated. There appeared to be a light on, but it was almost midnight. Still, what choice did he have? Leaning over, he pounded on the door. A moment later, a female called out, "Who is it?"

"It's your neighbor."

"I can't see you," she said warily.

Matt stood up and looked straight into her peephole. "I'm here."

"What were you doing on the floor?"

"Looking at your baby."

"My what?"

"Open the door, would you?"

"I don't think so."

"Look, we have a problem out here. Someone left a baby in the hall."

Silence followed, then she said, "All right. But I have my phone and I've already dialed 9-1, so if you're trying something funny -- "

"I'm not."

Another brief pause, then the door opened the width of a security chain. A woman's face appeared in the crack, a vision of blond curls, white lace, and some sort of filmy veil.

Matt blinked rapidly, wondering if he'd conjured up a bride to go with the baby on his doorstep.

The woman pulled the veil away from her face, and he saw that her cheeks were flushed, her brown eyes overly bright. "What do you want?" she asked, a breathless note in her voice.

"Your baby is crying." He pointed to the infant, who made a liar out of him by sitting quietly in the car seat, considering the two of them with a confused expression.

The woman peered around him. "I don't have a baby."

"You must. It sure as hell isn't my baby."

"Who are you?" she asked suspiciously. "Why are you trying to get rid of your baby?"

"It's not mine," he repeated. "And I live there." He pointed to his door. "I'm your neighbor."

Her wary gaze traveled slowly down his body, and Matt became very aware of his dirty black jeans, sweat- stained gray T-shirt, and black leather jacket. Putting a self-conscious hand to his face, he could feel a beard grazing his cheeks. "I just got off assignment," he said. "I don't usually look like this."

"What do you usually look like?"

"Well, not like this," he said in exasperation. "Look, I need some sleep, and you need to take care of this kid."

"That's not my baby. I don't know what you're trying to pull, but -- "

"Hey, wait." He instinctively stuck his foot in the space between the door and the wall as she tried to retreat, wincing when she hit it with the door. "I really am your neighbor. Matt Winters. I've got ID." He reached for his wallet and pulled out his driver's license, holding it up so she could see it. "I'm a reporter for the San Francisco Herald. And I'd be happy to give you references if you'd just open your door and help me figure out whose baby this is."