Lost but not Forgotten

Light from Pete’s torch reflected off a raised teddy bear on one side of the vessel.

Mitch felt his heart lurch. “It says Our Beloved Katie,” he whispered, his voice unsteady. “Below that is a single date, 11-18-00.” He set the silver vase almost reverently back on the quilt. Rising awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “A baby girl. She must have died at birth.” Mitch fought against his heart turning inside out over a kid he’d never even known.

“Odd thing to leave sitting in the middle of a country road,” Mack said. Turning away, he began to stow their gear.

The female cop retrieved an evidence bag from the front of the truck. After donning plastic gloves, she started to close the suitcase and slide it into the bag.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Mitch demanded.

“Bagging the evidence,” she returned shortly. “It’s creepy. A crime that goes beyond malicious mischief.”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head vigorously. “What crime has been committed? Whoever packed that case cared about these things. I’m not going to let you toss them into the evidence room like so much garbage.”

Mack shot out a hand and gripped Mitch’s arm. “You said the car took off like a bat out of hell, no lights. Granted, that’s not a criminal act in itself. But you’ve got to admit it’s suspicious.”

“Did you ever think the owner meant for someone to find this stuff? What if baby Katie’s mother is being dragged around in that car against her will?”

“You mean, like kidnapped?” Lori asked.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll grant you it sounds off the wall.” Mitch brushed a thumb back and forth over his lower lip. “All I know is these are…they aren’t… Hell, it’s clear Katie is somebody’s baby.”

“Well, duh!” was Pete’s helpful response.

Ignoring him, Mitch didn’t budge. “Leave the case, please. I’ve got time to look into this. I’ll do my level best to find out who left it here and why.”

His friends from the force glanced from one to the other until at last all had shrugged. Lori shoved a clipboard with an evidence release form into Mitch’s hands. “Sign for it here. If the chief has a problem with this after we file our report, he’ll let you know.”

Pete tried again to dissuade Mitch. “If it was me, Valetti, I’d forget the whole deal. What kind of person carries stuff like this around in a suitcase?”

“Somebody off their rocker,” Mack supplied.

“Or someone in big trouble.” Mitch scrawled his name on the form. “I’ll place an ad in tomorrow’s paper. I had my phone turned off, but I’ve got my cellular. That’s probably the most I’ll have to do to solve this mystery.”

The others just shook their heads. After telling Mitch not to be a stranger around the station, they said goodbye and backed out to the perimeter highway.

Mitch stowed the suitcase in his trunk. When he arrived home, he saw he’d been right about the section of fence being knocked down. Clearly someone had seen his car coming down the road, panicked and hightailed it off his property.

As he unlocked the front door, juggling his odd collection of objects, he worried that maybe Pete was right. Maybe he should hand the suitcase over as evidence and forget the whole thing.

But when he set the small valise on his coffee table and examined its heart-stopping contents, the haunting connection he’d felt earlier only grew stronger. Placing the urn on his mantel, he gazed at it for a long time. In the end, he renewed his vow to find its owner.

Before retiring, Mitch sat and chewed on the end of a pencil while he composed an ad to run in the local paper. Tomorrow was Thursday. He’d run it through Sunday, he decided, and when he shed his clothing and climbed into bed, his life again seemed to have purpose.

GILLIAN DROVE onto the asphalt highway with a bump and thump. She turned south without hesitation. An hour later, faced with showing false ID to cross the border, or hunting up a passable motel in the dusty border town on U.S. soil, she chose to stop short of Mexico. She had to hold on to some scruples.

Seeking the least accessible motel, she rented an end unit, the one farthest from the cobbled motel entry. It was a relief to find the room clean. Hidden parking in the rear was a big plus. The rent, cheaper by the week, fit her budget, too. It occurred to Gillian as she went out to get her bags that she’d already begun to think like a fugitive.

In a week she ought to be able to alter her appearance enough to fool the men chasing her. She’d have to dump this car. With luck, she might be able to sell it to a private party and buy another in a different town. That’s what crooks in movies did.

Tonight she was too exhausted to plan beyond that. The money Daryl had left in the glove box along with her phony ID wouldn’t last forever. Eventually she’d have to find a job. She’d face that ordeal later—if she made it through the week she’d paid for in advance.

Gillian refused to dwell on the fact she was probably a wanted person in New Orleans and Flagstaff. Before she ditched this car, she’d go over it inch by inch, searching every nook and cranny again. Daryl had e-mailed Patrick Malone, saying that when Gillian arrived she’d have in her possession a key. To open what, Daryl hadn’t said. He hinted that he’d hidden a notebook with enough lethal information to expose a huge money-laundering operation. He also indicated to Malone that he suspected they were on to him. Daryl had promised to contact Patrick later via a different source. He’d never had the opportunity.

She and Malone had failed to turn up a key. Now Daryl was dead, and probably Patrick, too. She would be next if she didn’t unearth what Daryl had put in safekeeping. Gillian knew him too well to think he’d forgotten to put the key in her belongings. But where? Could it be so small it’d fallen out in the police parking lot and they’d missed it?

Her brain numb, Gillian pawed through the car’s trunk looking for the smaller of her two cases. Had it slipped behind the tire? “It’s not here!” she cried. “Where is it?” In spite of the late hour, and her questionable surroundings, Gillian removed everything from the trunk. The small case wasn’t there.

Her stomach heaved. Tears coursed down her cheeks. That case contained all she had left in the world that was dear to her.

Last Monday, she’d been nothing but confused when Daryl awakened her, babbling. She’d watched as, in a frenzy, he packed the small case and a larger one. The night was still blurred in her mind. For too long, she’d been an emotional wreck—a decline that had begun when she’d first broached the idea of starting a family. Daryl resisted. Said he wanted to wait. Until his CPA firm was more secure. Until they had more money in the bank. Until she could sell her flower shop and stay home full-time. Silly reasons, she’d thought.

So she had defied Daryl, stopped her birth control pills and gotten pregnant almost overnight. That definitely strained an already strained relationship. In hindsight, she wished she could go back and change everything.

Especially the part where something went horribly wrong in the last month of her pregnancy, resulting in the stillbirth of her long-awaited daughter. The rift widened between her and Daryl because after the autopsy, while she was heavily sedated in the hospital, he’d unilaterally arranged for baby Katie’s cremation. Oh, he attempted to explain. Families who’d lived in New Orleans for generations had access to above-ground burial vaults. Others, like them, had limited choices. He’d done what he believed was best, he’d told her.

For weeks, Gillian had wept. Weeks turned into months during which she couldn’t eat, sleep or work. Daryl did the opposite. He rarely came home from the office. And so after six months of that, they’d split, bound only by their joint partnership in Daryl’s firm. Maybe if she’d been a more active partner…if she hadn’t sunk into emotional oblivion, perhaps she wouldn’t be here four months after their separation, with both Daryl and Katie gone. Gone!

Suddenly she knew exactly what had happened—where she’d lost the suitcase. The place where she’d changed the tire. She entertained the idea of going back. What if the thugs were, even now, waiting in the trees? As desperately as she longed to retrieve the case, self-preservation dictated she wait.

Exhausted, Gillian dragged herself inside, stripped off her dirty clothes and fell into bed. Her agenda had just taken a new turn. She wouldn’t rest until the thugs who’d killed Daryl were brought to justice. And they’d better know she would go to any lengths to rescue Katie’s ashes.

CHAPTER TWO

GILLIAN STOOD in the cramped office off the kitchen of Flo’s Café. She’d come to speak with the café’s owner, Florence Carter, about a waitress position listed in a current edition of the Desert City News. It was the first newspaper Gillian had bought since departing New Orleans, although she’d followed the TV news and was relieved there’d been no mention of Daryl’s or Officer Malone’s murders. Her objective in buying this paper had been for the employment ads. Desert City was the closest town of any size to the back road where she’d lost her suitcase.

This morning, when she dressed to go on interviews, Gillian had barely recognized herself in the mirror. Little by little over an extra week spent in her border hideout, she’d pulled together a disguise of sorts. The most dramatic change in her appearance came about after she’d ruthlessly cropped and colored her shoulder-length blond hair, leaving a bob of coppery red curls.

As well, she’d transacted a satisfactory car exchange, buying another used car. However, because the new car had taken most of her cash reserves, she was now almost broke.

Flo Carter, a cheery, round woman, studied Gillian with curious hazel eyes. “Why did you answer my ad? There were at least two other waitress jobs posted yesterday for yuppie-style restaurants where you’d earn higher tips.”

Gillian didn’t want to say those places all had bars where creeps from New Orleans might go to drink and eat. She’d checked them first. It would be self-defeating to admit Flo’s Café was last on her list. Or that the one other place she’d applied had demanded references she couldn’t produce.

“According to your ad, you provide uniforms and you pay weekly. Did I mention I was divorced? The truth is—” she hesitated marginally while deliberating how much to reveal “—I left home and this is where my money ran out.” Best to stick as close to her real story as possible, Gillian decided.

“I’m sorry, honey. Enough said.” Flo patted Gillian’s arm. “Frankly, you look like you could use a few good meals, too. The job’s yours. Minimum wage plus tips, a uniform and two meals a day if you work two shifts. Tracy, my brother’s niece, left me high and dry. Kid up and moved to San Diego with her boyfriend. I nearly killed myself over the weekend. I’m flat getting too old to wait tables from opening to closing. When can you start?”

“Anytime. Today, if you’d like.” A weight lifted from Gillian’s shoulders. “I have a small apartment three blocks east of here.” She waved a hand in the general direction of the furnished place she’d moved into yesterday. It wasn’t much.

“Saguaro Arms, right? A brick building behind the police station?”

“That describes it.” Gillian didn’t know if she’d made a wise choice or not. On one hand, she figured the men who were after her wouldn’t want to be noticed by the local police. On the other, she didn’t know how vigorously the police in Flagstaff and New Orleans were trying to find her. Surely she was wanted for questioning, at least.

“I hope you’re comfortable around cops,” Flo said. “They make up half our clientele. A great bunch, but demanding customers. They want coffee on the table the minute they sit down. They need their orders quick in case they get a call.”

Flo opened a cupboard and took out a pink uniform still in its plastic laundry bag. “You’re skinnier than Tracy, but this has an adjustable belt. The bathroom’s down the hall. How fast can you change? First crew from the precinct breaks at ten.” She glanced down at Gillian’s feet. “I’m glad to see you’re wearing sensible shoes. Next time we catch our breath is nigh on 2:00 p.m.”

“I’m stronger than you might think,” Gillian said, reaching for the door knob. She hoped that was true. Normally she’d be in great shape from handling crates of flowers at the shop she’d once owned. That had been a while ago.

“You’ll get a complete workout before the end of the day. I’ll spell you for breaks and meals. Otherwise, I sling hash onto plates while my husband, Bert, cooks. You okay with working a shift before we fill out employment papers?”

“Sure. Okay.” Gillian looked over her shoulder. “Is there someplace I can leave my street clothes and purse?”

Flo scooped things out of a drawer in the bottom of her cluttered desk. “Tracy left all this junk. She was big on running in to apply makeup every ten minutes.”

Gillian uttered a genuine laugh. “I won’t do that, Mrs. Carter. What you see right here is what you get.”

“Call me Flo.” She examined Gillian again. “Cops flirt a lot. They’ll like what they see in you. You sure you’ve waited tables before? I’d have pegged you for one of them fashion models.”

“No way. I prefer anonymity.” This time Gillian’s laughter held a nervous edge. She’d waited tables during high school and college. And she’d never been comfortable with the way a lot of male customers felt they had every right to flirt with women servers. She used to have a knack for discouraging that sort, and hoped she still did.

When she’d donned her uniform, Flo introduced her to Bert. Unlike most cooks Gillian had ever met, Bert was rail-thin. He was also bald as a cucumber.

“Bert learned to cook in the Air Force,” Flo said after introductions were complete. “As we moved around, I began waiting tables for the NCO clubs on base. Buying this café once Bert retired seemed a logical way to pool our talents and get our kids through college.”

“How many children do you have?” Gillian asked.

“Two of our own. Off and on we’ve raised a slug of foster kids. One of the cops who comes in here convinced us to open our home to teens who need a healthier environment than what they have.”

“How can you bear to let them go again? Doesn’t it tear your heart out?”

Flo shrugged. “We provide a clean bed, good meals and a shoulder to cry on. Or in some cases an open ear. Sometimes that’s all they require to get them through a rough patch. You obviously don’t have kids, or you’d have requested to work shifts around school or daycare hours.”

Swallowing hard, Gillian gave a shake of her head. She couldn’t bring herself to talk about Katie. Twice yesterday she’d driven past the lane where she’d left the suitcase. Once, a vehicle directly in front of her entered it first. Not the blue car she was trying to avoid, but a big pickup. During a second pass-by, she noticed a man herding cattle in a nearby field. Tonight, after work, Gillian intended to go back under the cover of darkness.

Flo gave Gillian’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. “Now, don’t go fretting over your divorce. You’re still young enough to make plenty of babies. You have to concentrate on finding a good man to father them.”

“A man of any kind is the last thing I want. Shouldn’t I concentrate on hitting the floor running? Do I have everything? Pencil.” Gillian pulled two out of her uniform pocket. “Order pad? A smile.” She hauled in a deep breath. “Well, here goes.” Waving, she disappeared through the swinging doors.

Within two hours, Gillian discovered how out of shape she was. Luckily the technique for keeping orders straight came back to her before the large lunch crowd arrived. Good thing she’d had that experience, even if it was ten years ago, she mused, plopping down ketchup and mustard at a table of boisterous men.

Three at the table wore police uniforms; a fourth had on street clothing but was undoubtedly a cop. He indicated that they were waiting for someone who’d just entered. Gillian had already noticed that man the minute he walked in. Sauntered was more like it, in spite of a pronounced limp. Gosh, she hoped he wasn’t offended by her lengthy stare. It wasn’t his limp that drew her attention but his attire. He wore dusty cowboy boots, worn blue jeans, a body-hugging denim shirt and a Stetson set rakishly on his head.

Gillian had never seen a real cowboy in her life, and he was an eyeful. He seemed to be friendly with all the cops in the room. It took him a long time to reach his table because he stopped to talk with occupants at practically every booth along the way. So many people piped up to yell, “Hey there, Mitch, how you doing?” Gillian couldn’t help but learn his first name. Especially as she waited impatiently to add his order to those of his pals.

The name suited him. Mitch was a strong moniker. He certainly appeared commanding in spite of his limp. What had caused it? she wondered. Probably a fall from a horse.

Gillian felt herself blush as he turned, caught her still staring and tipped his hat. Hastily averting her gaze, she sorted menus to pass around at an adjacent table full of men wearing business suits. “I’ll be right back,” she told the group awaiting the cowboy, and dashed off to draw glasses of water for the businessmen.

The cowboy needed a haircut, Gillian decided after he finally removed his hat and reached for a chair. A haircut was pretty much all he lacked, though. He had dark-lashed coffee-colored eyes and a ready grin that creased lean, tanned cheeks. In her estimation, he possessed more sex appeal than all the other men at his table put together. Except, perhaps for the other man not wearing a uniform. Mitch greeted him effusively, calling him Ethan, as he spun a chair around across from the plainclothes cop and straddled it. So did that mean the cowboy was a cop, too?

At first Gillian thought they were brothers who hadn’t seen each other for a while. She nixed that idea based on snatches of conversation overheard on various trips past their table. Ethan, she saw, sported a shiny gold wedding band. Brand-new, she’d bet, mostly because he mumbled thanks but didn’t so much as lift his eyes whenever she brought something to the table. By contrast, his cowboy pal tracked her every move—to the point that Gillian found herself fumbling dishes. It occurred to her with a sudden start that maybe he’d seen her picture on a handbill. The fear galloping through her nearly made her drop a full tray.

“Ma’am,” said a gravelly voice at her elbow. “You’re obviously new to Flo’s. But I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want you to be totin’ more than you can carry.”

How he—Mitch—managed to check out her every curve while he steadied her tray, Gillian didn’t know. She just knew there wasn’t a wrinkle in her uniform he missed with those lancing brown eyes.

“This is my first day here,” she said quietly. “While I appreciate your concern, if you don’t let go and sit down, you’ll make it look like I’m incapable of managing the job I was hired for.”

Cops seated around the room watched the byplay openly. Few tried to mask their amused expressions. Finally, one round-faced rookie, whose wire-rimmed glasses constantly slipped down his nose, chortled. “Wouldn’t you know it, Flo gets a pretty new waitress to replace Tracy, and it just happens to be the first day Valetti shows up in town. I swear, he has radar when it comes to sniffing out gorgeous, single babes.”

Gillian jerked away quickly and finished unloading the tray. She smacked one of the noon-time specials down in front of the loudmouthed kid. “Married or single, I’m not on the menu here.”

Turning to reclaim her tray, she realized Mitch’s interested gaze had slipped to her ring finger.

“Order up,” yelled Flo, pausing to slide several plates under the warming light. “Jeez, fellas, meet Gillian Stevens, okay? She’s new in town as well as on the job. Show a few manners. You’re Desert City’s finest. I’ll be in a very bad mood if you macho lamebrains scare her off.”

The young cop immediately bent to his food. Mitch rolled his eyes, but he immediately released her tray and backed off—although not so far that Gillian didn’t have to brush against him as she squeezed between the tables.

Mitch felt the waitress’s annoyance. Smiling to himself, he sat across from Ethan again.

Ethan Knight leaned back in his chair. His narrowed gaze rose to the exact level of Gillian’s swishing hips. “Down, boy,” he muttered.

“Wha-a-at?” Mitch drawled, pretending interest in blowing on his hot coffee. “So what if I have a weakness for sassy redheads?”

The uniformed cop seated opposite Mitch broke into the conversation. “Redheads. Blondes. Brunettes and every shade in between. Isn’t that why Amy threw you over for the D.A.? I heard she didn’t like the odds.”

Mitch bunched his napkin, his expression shutting down.

Leaning close, Ethan murmured, “Regan said you took my sister’s elopement hard. I’m sorry. Guess I missed how you really felt. So, if you’re ready to be fixed up with somebody nice, I’ll tell Regan. No reason to take chances on a perfect stranger.”

“Listen, Buttinski, I can still rustle up my own dates. And I believe I’ll have my second cup of java at the counter.” Mitch stood up. Carrying his cup, he limped to the counter, where he reached for the pot and helped himself to a refill.

Ethan made it a point from then on to study the new waitress. Until his contingent of friends came over and one of them nudged him out of his stupor. Trailing after his pals, Ethan paused behind Mitch’s stool. “Regan’s planning to make sour cream enchiladas Friday night. Why not come on over? We’ll invite a fourth, and after we eat and get the kids to bed, we’ll play a few hands of poker.”

“You’re being a little obvious, Ethan. Thanks, but no. You and your bride saw too much of my ugly face over the past three months.” Mitch realized both he and Ethan had zeroed in on Gillian Stevens as she lifted three hot plates off the warming counter. “Two bits says, with that long lean body, she’s a jogger,” Mitch said thoughtfully. “You know, the doc recommended I stretch the muscles in my injured leg.”

Ethan scowled. “So make an appointment with Gil Peterson, the precinct’s physical therapist.”

Mitch flashed Ethan a wicked grin. “Gil puts me in mind of a sumo wrestler. Besides, my man, if I remember right, you hauled your ass out of bed at the crack of dawn to chase Regan around a few tracks. And you don’t even like exercise.”

Mitch had him there. Ethan said something indistinct and undoubtedly rude. Before stomping off, he announced that there were plenty of single women in town who were dying to go out with Mitch. Wearing a thunderous expression, Ethan joined the men waiting for him outside the café.

Gillian watched the drama with half an eye. She wished the plainclothes cop, Ethan, had succeeded in talking his pal at the counter into leaving. Her heart did a funny jig once it became evident that Mitch Valetti wasn’t going to budge. She told herself it was first-day job jitters. She wasn’t attractive enough to draw more than a passing glance from a man like Mitch Valetti. She was too tall. Too thin. Her chin was too pointy and her mouth too wide. Her eyes weren’t even an exciting color. Blue was blue was blue. So what gave her the idea he’d stuck around because of her?

Gillian managed to stay convinced that he hadn’t until the lunch traffic waned enough to slow her hectic pace. He was still there. And he snagged her arm as she darted past.

“Hey, Flo,” Mitch called, hunching to peer into the kitchen via the pass-through. “Isn’t there a state rule requiring employees to take regular breaks? Appears to me that Gillian, here, is overdue.”

Flo stuck her head out around the kitchen door. “Gilly-girl. Climb up there on the stool next to Mitch and take a load off. I said earlier you’ve got to eat. What’ll it be? Bert’s special is chicken-fried steak. But, shoot, you’d know that. You’ve served a gazillion plates of the stuff so far.”

Gillian would have rather sat anywhere than beside Mitch Valetti. Unfortunately, a mob of high schoolers bounded in at that moment, filling the remaining empty seats at the counter. “Uh, Flo. I’ll just take these kids’ orders first. I can eat later. A dinner salad will do me, if you want to set one aside. The house dressing looked good.”