Fatal Secrets. Barbara Phinney
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her purse and brushed off her jeans. “I know what I felt. I was pushed, but managed to roll away from the truck in the nick of time.”
Zane moved her away from the crowd. It wasn’t such a good idea to attract this much attention. Kristin had been evasive for a reason, and while he hated secrecy, he knew she shouldn’t be standing in the middle of the street if she needed some privacy or protection. And as a private investigator, he preferred to keep a low profile, as well. Playing hero for all to see wasn’t what his profession was about. He was trained to blend into the crowd, notice things without being noticed.
To that end, he steered her around the truck and toward his car, to get away from local curiosity.
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To the truck stop out by the highway. We’ll talk there.”
She followed him to his car, hesitantly, stopping short of climbing in. “I don’t get into strangers’ cars.”
“Good advice for anyone.” Then, pulling out his car keys, he handed them to her. “You can drive if it makes you feel safer. Do you know the truck stop I’m talking about?”
“Of course. I was bor— I mean I grew up here.”
He caught her correction, but decided to ignore it for now.
“But driving your car isn’t going to make it safer for me,” she reasoned.
“Let me show you my ID. But frankly, you should have asked for it as soon as I sat down in the café.”
“You’re the first private investigator I’ve ever hired. And you come highly recommended.” After checking out his ID, she took the keys and clicked the unlock button before tossing her purse into the back. With a short hesitation, she climbed in behind the wheel. Automatically, she moved the seat up to accommodate her shorter stature.
She started the car. “Does this mean you’ll take my case?”
“Maybe. Who recommended me?”
“Jake Downs. His sister and I are in the same chemistry class. He’s the locksmith who helped me open my father’s safe a few months ago. We made a mess of the wall at home because Jake had to take the safe to his shop and drill through the side of it just to open it. You know, look at the lock from the inside? When I asked if he knew any private investigators, he recommended you.” She shrugged. “And he also recommended a good drywaller to fix the wall in my father’s office.”
Zane knew Jake Downs. A good locksmith, accredited and bonded, with a cocky charm that seemed in total contradiction with the man’s strong personal faith. He was a Christian, and had even invited him to church once.
Zane had declined. For work reasons, he’d said. Truth was, the cost of believing was just a bit too high for him.
Still, he nodded. “I know Jake, but I didn’t know he had a sister.”
“Maggie. She’s the funniest person ever, so we don’t get much chem work done.” She paused a few seconds as she pulled into traffic. “She works at the lab at the university.”
She glanced at him as she signaled to merge onto the highway. It took her a moment to ask, “Have you decided to take my case?”
He paused. “Have you decided to trust me?”
By now, they’d reached the truck stop, it being only a short drive down the highway. After parking, she turned to him. “Zane, I need to find my biological mother. I don’t know much about her, but I know she’s in danger.”
Hmm. Was this her idea of trust? A few mysterious words? “In danger of what?”
“Of being murdered.”
The words hung between them in the car, as Zane watched Kristin’s eyes grow wide with some instant realization and she sucked in a sharp breath.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Besides the obvious fact you think your biological mother is in danger.”
Her expression turned hollow as she stared out the windshield. “They’re after me,” she whispered. “Jackson was right!” She bit her lip before adding, “I should never have gone to that guy’s trial! But that couldn’t have been how…”
What on earth was she talking about? “Look at me, Kristin. What’s going on?”
She turned toward him, her eyes like a Japanese cartoon. “I went to Vincent Martino’s trial,” she breathed out. “That must have been where they saw me, but he didn’t say it was.”
He shook his head and frowned. “Whose trial?” He itched to reach for his notebook, but stopped himself, instead committing the name to memory. “Did you have to testify?”
“No. It’s a long story.”
“Where was it?”
“Chicago.” She blinked. “While I was there, I met up with Jackson McGraw again. He’s an FBI agent there. I’d met him some months ago when I started the search for my mother. During a recess at the trial—”
“Wait!” he interrupted. “Are you talking about the mobster Vincent Martino? Wasn’t he convicted, but escaped custody?” He stared intently at her. “What was so important about going to his trial? That courtroom was probably the most dangerous place to be in all of the country.”
“It was also said to be the safest place in the country.”
Zane sat back, trying to recall the details that had flooded the news last month. With the tightest security since the president was sworn in, the judge would only allow those closely associated with the trial to be in the courtroom. How did this woman get in?
More to the point, why did she think Vincent Martino was now after her? What was going on?
“Drive. Start the engine and drive,” he told her.
“Where are we going?”
“To the police station. You need to report what happened to you.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but shut it again.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“I should make a phone call first. It won’t take long.” She twisted around for her purse.
“And in the meantime your assailant’s trail goes cold. The police can help you, but you can’t be calling a girlfriend first.”
Their gazes locked. He could easily see the irritated indecision in hers. “The police can only help you if you’re timely, Kristin.”
“It wasn’t to call a girlfriend.” She looked exasperated. “It’s a long story.”
He’d hurt her feelings, he noted. Still, she needed to see the police. “The police should know about it, Kristin.”
Finally, she nodded. After starting the engine, she carefully eased from her parking spot and out onto the highway.
He wanted to ask her a thousand questions, mostly sparked by his own curiosity, but common sense told him to report the incident in front of the café.
And then walk away.
Yes, Zane. Walk far away. You don’t need this hassle.
And yet, he argued silently with himself, there was something earnest about her, a deep hurting quality that tugged at his protective instincts.
The police station came into view, an ordinary brick-and-mortar building on the other side of the town. But after parking in the visitor spot, Kristin made no effort to climb out. Zane sat there patiently, staring out at the line of snow-topped mountains that trimmed the horizon behind the station. In front of them, the flag jerked about in the increasing wind.
“You have to report what happened to you, Kristin.”
“I