Читать книгу Stolen Memory - Virginia Kantra - Страница 8

“I don’t know what to think,” Laura said honestly to her boss when he called her into his office late the following day. It was a Saturday, but they both were working. Chief Denko, because his personal life was admirably organized, and Laura, because it was her shift and she had no personal life.

“Ford definitely has a bump on the head,” she continued. “But I didn’t find any tool marks or fingerprints to support his claim of a break-in. We don’t even know for sure that a crime took place. He could have emptied the safe himself as part of an insurance scam.”

She didn’t mention Ford’s claim, that the bump on his head had affected his brain.

And as for Ford’s suspicion that it was an inside job, that the guard that night had attacked and robbed him before disappearing… Her stomach tied itself in knots. Nope, she definitely didn’t want to go there.

Not that she had a choice. She had a duty. And Police Chief Jarek Denko would demand a complete and impartial investigation in any case.

“Has Ford filed an insurance claim?” he asked.

“No,” Laura admitted.

Chief Denko regarded her levelly from the other side of his utilitarian gray metal desk, his hands folded on the stained blotter. The Eden town council didn’t believe in spending money on fancy furniture for its public servants. But somehow they’d scraped together enough sense and an appropriate salary to hire Denko, a former homicide detective from Chicago’s notorious Area 3, as their chief of police.

After the last two Bozos who’d held that the position, Laura respected the lean, harsh-featured police chief enormously. She dreaded letting him down.

Denko steepled his fingers. “No signs of forced entry, you said?”

“No, sir.”

“Who has keys to the house?”

“No keys. Entry is controlled by magnetic passcards and internal bolts operating on a tiered code system. Only the highest access codes get you into the house itself.”

“And who has those codes?”

“I’ve requested a complete list from the security company. But the guy on the phone said the master passcards were reserved for security personnel and Ford himself.”

Denko tapped the pages on the blotter in front of him. “Your report says the tapes are missing from the security cameras. They weren’t simply disabled?”

Laura shook her head. “Vandalizing the cameras would have set off the alarm automatically. So either the intruder knew where the cameras were and how they operated, or there was no intruder and someone on the inside swiped the tapes to avoid being identified.”

“Ford?” Denko suggested. “That would fit your insurance fraud theory.”

But once her chief put it into words, Laura found she didn’t like her theory anymore.

Isn’t there anyone you can trust?

That’s what we need to find out.

Simon Ford had trusted her. Or he was playing her for a fool. Neither possibility sat comfortably with her right now.

“Maybe the tapes aren’t missing. Maybe his security people forgot to load the cameras,” she offered without conviction.

Denko raised his eyebrows. “The same day Ford calls to report a break-in? But you can ask, by all means. Who installed his security system?”

“A private contractor—Executive Corporate Industrial Protection.”

“E.C.I.P.?”

“You’ve heard of them?” She shouldn’t be surprised. In Illinois law enforcement, Jarek Denko was like God, all-knowing and damn near all-powerful.

“They hire a lot of ex-cops,” he explained with a slight smile. “Military, too. Do they provide the personnel or just the system?”

“According to Quinn Brown, they provide complete security for Lumen Corp. That includes the house and the Chicago headquarters.”

“So the bodyguard, Brown, is one of theirs?”

“Household manager, sir. And no. He reports directly to Ford. He’s been with him for the past nine years. Took a couple of days off to visit his daughter. The timing is suspicious, but we can confirm his alibi easily enough.”

“What about the other man? Swirsky? Do you have a lead on him yet?”

Her stomach twisted again like wet rope. Her palms were damp. “He is an E.C.I.P. employee. He was scheduled to go on vacation next week. The company is cooperating, but I haven’t been able to reach him by phone yet. I thought I’d try him at his apartment in Chicago.”

“Family?” Denko asked.

She hesitated, her heart thumping. “Swirsky has a son living in Chicago. I left a message, but he hasn’t returned my call yet.”

“All right. Let me know when you hear something. And get that list of the safe’s contents from Ford.” Denko gave her a brief nod and pulled another file toward him.

She was dismissed.

Laura cleared her throat. “There’s, uh, one other thing you should probably know that’s not in my report.”

The chief looked up from his file.

“Peter Swirsky…the missing guard?” She braced her shoulders. “He’s my father.”

Denko froze. “The hell he is.”

She rushed to explain. “It’s not a conflict of interest. We haven’t spoken in years. I wouldn’t even have brought it up, except—”

“Except if you hadn’t and I found out about it, I’d have your ass,” Denko said.

She winced. “I can promise you, it won’t affect my ability to do my job at all.”

“You’re right. It won’t. I’m reassigning this case to Palmer.”

Dan Palmer was the detective on the swing shift, 2:00 p.m. to midnight. Laura liked him—respected him, even—but for reasons she wasn’t prepared to examine, she didn’t want this case snatched away.

“I conducted the investigation of the scene,” she argued. “I interviewed Ford. I can remain impartial. I can…”

Get her father to talk to her? Hardly. She hadn’t been able to accomplish that in ten years.

She switched tactics. “Let Dan take Swirsky’s statement. One interview. I don’t have a problem with that.”

“If it stops at one interview,” Denko said. “What if we establish that a crime was committed? What if Swirsky becomes a suspect?”

“It’ll never happen,” she said with conviction.

“Why not?”

“Because he’d never commit a crime. Pete Swirsky doesn’t break the rules. He doesn’t even bend them.”

He never deviated, never doubted, never forgave. His inflexibility made him a lousy father. But it didn’t make him a suspect.

“People change,” Denko observed.

She certainly had. But the old man never would.

“Then I’ll live with that,” she said. “Let me do my job, sir.”

The chief rubbed his jaw with his thumb. “‘Swirsky,’ huh?”

“Maiden name. I was married. Briefly.”

Nine weeks. That’s how long it had taken her to figure out she’d made the second biggest mistake of her life. But by the time her marriage to Tommy Baker ended, her estrangement from her father was complete.

“Good Polish name,” the chief said.

Laura relaxed a fraction. She was forgiven, then. “Yes, sir.”

“All right, thank you,” Denko said. “You did a good job processing the scene. But you’re off the case. Turn your notes over to Palmer.”

She owed him.

Laura gripped the wheel of the battered police boat as it chugged across the lake. She didn’t owe him her loyalty. Or even an explanation. But the memory of Simon Ford’s clear, light eyes lingered at the back of her mind like a question. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she owed him…something.

A warning, maybe. Or a goodbye.

Around her, the water teemed with inner tubes and motor boats, wind surfers and sails, as tourists and townspeople took advantage of the three-day weekend. She was working harbor patrol, answering radio calls for service, checking permits and boating licenses, keeping an eye out for inebriated fishermen and inexperienced sailors.

When she was a rookie, Laura used to bust her hump on patrol. As if the number of citations she wrote for open alcohol containers or out-of-date landing permits somehow proved she was the baddest, best cop on the force.

She knew better now. Good cops didn’t get hung up on busy work when a fellow officer requested backup on the other side of the lake. But a discretionary detour to Angel Island wouldn’t interfere with her doing her job.

She hoped.

The wind tugged at the curled brim of her EPD ball cap. She set her feet against the swell of a passing speedboat. Behind her, the marina faded to a smudge of red brick and gray shingles. The town slid away to her left, the spire of St. Raphael’s Catholic Church like a mast against the horizon.

Her heartbeat quickened as she headed out to open water. Nerves, she told herself firmly. It had to be nerves. It certainly wasn’t anticipation at seeing Ford again.

His private pier jutted into the water, aggressively new, the treated wood standing out like dental work against the tumbled shore. Laura looped a line around a post and hopped onto the dock, ignoring the posted warning: No Trespassing. Shrugging, she started up the service road that wound through the trees to the house.

A surly Quinn answered the door and stomped ahead of her up the steps to Ford’s office. Climbing the long, curving staircase made Laura feel like she was in some fairy tale, braving the tower to rescue the princess. Except she made a lousy Prince Charming.

And the man at the top of the stairs was definitely no Sleeping Beauty.

He hunched over his desk, a wide slab of pale, polished wood. The light from the surrounding windows cast his face in light and shadow: his deep, focused eyes, his cheeks carved with concentration, his mouth fixed in a determined line. He looked like a wizard king brooding over the fate of his kingdom.

Laura gave herself a mental shake. This was no time for her to develop a fantasy life. She’d spent too many years fighting the prejudices of her male colleagues and her own feelings to get all moony-eyed and stupid now.

Stuffing her hands in her pockets, she glanced around the room. She’d climbed up here the day before, testing locks, checking for broken windows. It was all spare lines and blank surfaces. Outside, the lake sparkled with light and life. But inside, the walls sealed out all sound. Despite the sun that poured through the glass, the air was cold.

Quinn’s voice dropped into the silence like a rock on an ice-filmed puddle. “It’s Baker. She’s back.”

Ford’s concentration broke. He blinked at her, recalled from his spell.

“I, uh… Sorry,” Laura said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your—” What did he do? Laser research. Good God. “—your work.”

He raised his hand, palm out. Cutting off her apologies? Or dismissing Quinn? The butler tromped back downstairs.

“You’re not interrupting,” Ford said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if he was tired. She squelched her instinctive sympathy. “And I’m not working. Any news?”

I’m off the case.

That’s what she’d come to tell him. But when she opened her mouth, what actually came out was, “So, what are you doing?”

“I’m writing a computer program that will let me hack into my own system and create a new password.”

“Oh.” Right. She’d forgotten he was a freaking genius. He definitely didn’t need her pity. “Sounds complicated.”

He smiled faintly. “Not particularly. Most hacking is a simple matter of repeating steps that exploit common system weaknesses.”

“Simple, huh? How long have you been at it?”

“A few hours,” he admitted.

Reluctant admiration stirred. “You don’t give up easily, do you?”

“No.” His remote, light eyes studied her a moment. “Not when there’s something I want.”

Her heart went ka-thump. Stupid, she scolded herself. He didn’t mean her. And she didn’t want him.

She frowned, struck by something he’d said. “Why do you need a new password?”

“I’m updating my computer’s security.”

“Okay, fine, but…why would you need to hack into your system to do that?”

He didn’t answer.

“You didn’t—” Laura pressed her lips together. Okay, now she really was being stupid. But she had to ask. “You didn’t forget your password, did you? When you got hit on the head?”

His expression never flickered. Maybe he hadn’t lost his memory. Maybe she was losing her mind.

But Simon Ford wasn’t the only one who didn’t give up easily. She wasn’t going to let embarrassment or attraction put her off doing her job.

“You said you couldn’t remember the attack.”

He inclined his head. “That’s correct.”

“What else?”

“Excuse me?”

He was stalling. She was sure of it. Nobody talked in that ultra-formal way unless he was either a snob and a smart-ass or stalling. Simon Ford might live in a castle and have a genius IQ, but he hadn’t done anything yet to make her think he was a snob. Or a smart-ass.

She ran through their interview in her head, trying to fit her new theory to snatches of their conversation.

“What else don’t you remember?” she asked.

He looked at her quizzically. “If I knew that, then I wouldn’t have forgotten it, would I?”

She scowled, rethinking the smart-ass bit.

“Never mind.” Not her problem, she told herself. Not even her case. She needed to depersonalize. “I came to tell you I’m off the case.”

Simon’s dark brows drew together over his perfect nose. “What?”

“Chief Denko reassigned your case to Detective Palmer. He’ll be out to talk with you tomorrow. Tell him whatever you want.”

“Why are you off the case?”

He sounded annoyed, which for some perverse reason made her feel better. Not enough to confide in him, but enough to be reassuring.

“You’ll like Palmer,” she said. “He has experience.”

“I want you,” Ford said.

She ignored the little thrill his words gave her. He didn’t mean it like that. “Well, you can’t have me. I told you. The chief gave your case to Palmer.”

“I want you,” Ford repeated, unsmiling and intent, and her pulse kicked up a notch.

“Very nice,” approved an amused male voice from behind her. “Does she come with the handcuffs?”

Laura jerked around.

A preppie god in a white silk shirt with the sleeves rolled back lounged in the doorway, smiling at her with lazy charm. Tall, blond and very handsome. If Simon Ford was the Wizard King, then this dude was Prince Charming. No wonder she’d felt miscast on her way up the stairs.

Quinn Brown spoke up from behind him. “Your brother’s here, Mr. Ford.”

Laura turned back to the desk and pinned Ford with an accusing look. “You have a brother?”

He had a brother.

Simon sat and absorbed the shock, trying to keep it from his face. After three days of being alone except for his household manager, it should have been reassuring to discover he had some family. But he felt no instant connection. No recognition. Nothing at all.

The younger man stepped forward, extending his hand. “Dylan Ford.”

“Laura Baker.”

Not “Detective,” Simon noted. Her name was Laura.

“Nice to meet you.” Dylan smiled, revealing perfect teeth against his perfect tan. “I didn’t know Simon had a thing for women in uniform.”

Perfect jackass, Simon thought.

“Detective Baker is here to investigate the break-in,” he said coolly.

The smile faded. “‘Break-in’? Here? When?”

He sounded more startled than concerned.

“Wednesday night, we believe,” Simon said.

“Before you got in?”

So his brother kept some track of his whereabouts.

“No,” said Simon, watching him closely. “After.”

“Wow.” Dylan ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “Did you see anything?”

He didn’t ask if Simon had been hurt. Maybe it was a natural omission. The bump on his head wasn’t obvious. Presumably the only person who even knew he’d been attacked was the one who’d struck him.

“Not really,” he said.

“What did they take? TV? Stereo?”

“Nothing like that.” He glanced at Laura Baker, wondering how much he should say, but she was still staring at his tall, blond, handsome brother. “The safe was open.”

Dylan swore. “They didn’t get the rubies, did they?”

Laura Baker’s attention snapped back like a rubber band. Simon could practically feel her vibrating.

“I believe they did,” he said slowly. “The safe was empty.”

“Damn it, Simon, I told you I had the people from Vulcan Gemstones lined up to look at them this week.”

He had no idea what the younger man was talking about. “Sorry. I forgot.”

“Of course you did,” Dylan said bitterly. “You didn’t care about my plans anyway. All you care about is the damn technological applications.”

“If you mean my laser research…” Simon said cautiously.

“Of course I mean your laser research. Those rubies could be so much more than a byproduct. But you never understood their significance outside of the lab.”

“Probably not,” Simon agreed.

“I certainly don’t,” Laura said. “Are you saying you kept rubies in your lab?”

“Solid-state lasers use synthetic ruby rods to emit energy in a specific wavelength,” explained Simon. It felt good to know something. “Basically chromium doped aluminum oxide of a higher purity and quality than natural gemstones. Some of my research has focused on new methods for creating those rods.”

She blinked. “You mean, you make fakes?”

“Cultured gemstones,” Dylan corrected. “Simon developed a flux growth process that creates crystals without bubbles or thermal strain lines. And the depth of color is amazing. With the proper cutting and machining, his rubies are virtually undetectable from natural stones.”

“And they’re missing,” Laura said.

“Apparently,” Simon said.

All that research, lost. With his memory gone, how long would it take him to retrace his steps, to duplicate his work?

“How much?” she asked Simon.

“Excuse me?”

“How much were they worth?”

“The investment in time alone—”

Dylan laughed shortly. “You’re asking the wrong man, sweetheart. He had over a hundred stones stashed in that safe at slightly over a carat each. Vivid saturation. Almost no inclusions. I’d say we’re looking at a market value of almost half a million dollars.”

“But they’re paste, right?” Laura asked. “I mean, they’re good quality, but they’re still fakes.”

Dylan shook his head. “Chemically, those rubies are identical to the real deal. There’s not one jeweler in ten who could tell them apart. Which is why getting the patents and developing a marketing strategy is so important.”

“It’s irrelevant,” Simon said. “We’re not in the business of selling jewelry.”

“You’re not in the business of selling jewelry,” his brother shot back.

“And it’s my business.”

A nasty little silence fell.

Simon wondered if most of his conversations with his brother ended this way. If so, it would certainly explain why Dylan hadn’t called.

His pleasant face set. “You did agree to let Vulcan at least examine the stones,” he said tightly.

Did he? He could have. He didn’t remember.

“So, what’s the problem?” Simon asked.

“The problem is they’re missing,” Dylan said, his voice rising. “And I’ve got to wonder— Ah, hell.” He broke off, again thrusting his hand through his hair.

“Do you think your brother is complicit in the stones’ disappearance?” Laura asked.

She was supposed to be on his side, damn it. He wanted her on his side. Her question caught him like a whack across the shins.

But it didn’t trip his brother at all.

“No, I don’t. Of course I don’t,” Dylan said. “But it’s hard to see how else this could have happened. This place has better security than the airport.” He wheeled to face Simon. “What about Quinn? Did he see anything?”

He sounded interested. Eager. Innocent?

Or anxious to divert the blame to someone else?

Cold settled in the pit of Simon’s stomach. He didn’t know enough about his brother or their relationship to even guess.

“He wasn’t with me that night,” Simon said.

“You mean they let you out without a keeper?”

“One of the guards came with me from Chicago.”

“So where was he?”

Simon breathed in deeply. He had to say something. Something intelligent, something that wouldn’t betray his loss of memory.

“Pete Swirsky is being sought for questioning at this time,” Laura said, unexpectedly coming to his rescue.

“Does that mean you think he did it?” Dylan asked.

The detective’s slim body stiffened. “It means he’s being sought for questioning.”

“What do you mean, sought?”

“According to E.C.I.P., he was scheduled to go on vacation this week,” Laura said. “He hasn’t reported for work since Wednesday.”

“So, he just happens to go missing at the same time as the rubies?” Dylan shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s been four days. Why haven’t the police picked him up yet?”

Because they hadn’t known about the rubies until now.

They hadn’t known because Simon didn’t remember.

And Simon didn’t trust his own brother enough to tell him so.

He searched Dylan’s fair, handsome face as if it held the clue to their estrangement. Why didn’t he trust him? What else didn’t he remember? Was the fault in Dylan or in Simon himself?

He waited for Laura to say something, to defend herself and her department against his brother’s criticism.

But all she said was, “The police are pursuing every available lead at this time.”

“So how come you haven’t found him yet? It’s not like there are a lot of places to hide in a town this size.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Swirsky lives in Chicago.”

“So put the Chicago police on it.”

“It’s not their jurisdiction.”

“Yeah, but at least they’d get the job done.”

Anger whipped through Simon.

“Back off. I made the call. It was my call to make.”

The certainty in his own voice surprised him.

But his brother appeared to take it in stride. “Yeah, that’s what you always say.” He gave Laura a long look up and down. “I guess I can’t blame you for wanting to keep her around. Let me know if you find anything.”

He strolled out.

Laura watched him go, her chin up and her hands in her pockets. Simon could see the outline of her knuckles through the shiny blue fabric.

“Son of a bitch,” Simon said.

She jerked one shoulder in a shrug. “Don’t worry about it. I’m the only female officer on a small-town police force. I’ve pretty much heard it all before.”

He admired her self-possession. But Dylan’s chauvinistic attitude irked him. “Not from my brother.”

“You’re not responsible for what he says.”

“Aren’t I?”

He didn’t know. He felt he should be.

She faced him squarely. “Listen, I’ve got a kid brother, too. And God help us both if I tried to take responsibility for him.”

Her gaze was clear and direct as a punch. He felt its impact in his gut, harder than recognition, deeper than desire. His breath went.

How long they stood there, staring at each other, he didn’t know.

But then her thin face colored. She looked away, breaking their connection. “I’ve got to go.”

His heart was pounding, his chest felt tight, and he hadn’t touched her, hadn’t kissed her, hadn’t… What the hell had just happened here? He didn’t need his memory back to recognize lust. But this understanding was both more foreign and more seductive.

“Go where?” he asked. “What are you planning to do?”

“I’m on harbor patrol today.”

“I meant about Swirsky.”

“Nothing. I’m off the case.”

“No.” His protest was automatic. Instinctive. “I want you to handle the investigation.”

“It’s not up to you.” Her mouth quirked ruefully. “Or me, either. Chief Denko has assigned the case to Detective Palmer.”

That long look had diverted the blood from his brain to below his belt. He couldn’t think worth a damn. Which explained what he said next.

“I’ll pay you.”

She stiffened. “For what?”

All right, he’d said it badly. But it wasn’t such a bad idea.

Laura Baker was intelligent. Stubborn. Discreet. She hadn’t blurted out his loss of memory to his brother. She’d come to him directly to tell him about the new detective assigned to the case. And she had nothing personal at stake in the outcome of this investigation.

“I want someone close to me I can trust.” Pushing back from his computer, he stood. “I want to hire you.”

She shook her head. “I can’t work for you.”

He came around his desk. “Why not?”

Her soft lips set. “Well, for one thing, I already have a job.”

Her resistance made him want her more. He didn’t take time to reflect on what that revealed about his character.

“You can do it in your off hours,” he argued. “Moonlighting, or whatever they call it.”

“No, I can’t. I have a conflict of interest.”

“That doesn’t bother me.”

“Well, it bothers me,” she snapped. Her gaze flicked to his face. He didn’t know what she saw there, but her own expression suddenly softened. “Look, I’m sorry, but…no.”

No.

Simon sat on the corner of his desk. Well, that was clear. Confronted by a million unanswered questions, he’d pushed her for a response, and he’d gotten one.

Too bad it wasn’t the one he wanted.

He continued to stare at her, trying to figure out what he could possibly say or do to change her mind, to persuade her to help him, to stay with him, to be with him.

He closed his eyes, dizzy with the force of his need.

She cleared her throat. “How’s your head?”

“What? Oh.” He reached up to touch the swelling above his ear. “It hurts.”

“Have you had it looked at yet?” she asked.

As if, he thought wryly, now that she had slapped him down, she was trying to soften the blow.

“No.”

She took a step closer. His body went on alert. “Maybe you should,” she said.

His mind snapped into action, testing, weighing options.

He angled his head. “Be my guest.”

She took another step forward.

Cautious, he thought. But not a coward.

Her hip, in navy blue polyester, brushed his thigh. She raised her hand; hesitated. And then, very gently, threaded her fingers through his hair.

She smelled like sun and water, like shampoo and…gasoline? For a second he thought his mind might be playing tricks on him again, and then he remembered her boat.

“It looks bad,” she said.

“It’s clean.”

“Tough guy.” His scalp tingled as her touch feathered through his hair. “You should have had stitches.”

“Too late now.”

“Yeah.” She started to draw away.

He grabbed her wrist.

“Hey,” she protested. “You’ve already got one bump on the head. Don’t make me hurt you again.” But her pulse thrummed under his thumb.

Simon’s grip tightened. Maybe he’d pushed for the wrong response before. Maybe he’d asked the wrong question.

At least he could settle one damn thing.

Leaning forward, he covered her mouth with his.