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“I know you’ll do all you can,” Jim said, “but I can’t risk that it might not be enough. I’m coming back. Nothing here will stop me.”
The call ended with one last plea from Victoria for him to take care.
He needn’t worry, she would not let him down.
Not again.
As much as she understood that her son loved her and that his words were not a reflection of her failure, she knew what his statement meant.
Victoria had done all within her power to keep Jim safe as a child.
And it hadn’t been enough.
Chapter Two
At 4:20 p.m. Victoria’s final appointment for the day arrived. Stuart Norcross settled into a chair flanking her desk.
“I know we just spoke on Friday,” he began, “but I’m anxious to see how your investigation is going.”
Victoria picked up the file Mildred had placed on her desk. “Completely understandable, Stuart.” She smiled. “Your wife and son are safe thanks to this man and you’d like to be able to properly show your gratitude.”
“Precisely.” Stuart settled back into his chair, the tension in his regal frame receding marginally.
Stuart Norcross was one of Chicago’s leading entrepreneurs. Despite the struggling economy, Stuart had taken his custom personal chef service nationwide. Having devoted most of his life to building his business, he had only in the past few years taken time for a true personal life. He’d met and married a wonderful woman and they’d had their first child just two years ago.
Victoria checked her notes. “His name is Troy Benson. Jane Sutton, one of our investigators specifically trained for finding the missing, has located Mr. Benson and is preparing for contact. I expect to have feedback no later than tomorrow afternoon.”
“Outstanding.” Stuart smiled, his relief palpable. “I knew I could depend on your agency, Victoria.”
“Thank you, Stuart. We pride ourselves on thorough, efficient work.”
Stuart inclined his head and studied her a moment. “Do you have any idea as to why Mr. Benson left the scene so suddenly?”
One week ago Stuart’s wife, Reese, had visited an old friend in Meriden. Driving back to Chicago late that evening in the pouring rain, their son asleep in his car seat, Reese had braked hard to avoid a dog and lost control of the vehicle. The car had plunged off the road and into a dangerously deep ravine. Thankfully a thicket of small trees had stopped the vehicle before it crashed headlong into the rocks below. Badly injured, Reese had realized that the protection of the trees wouldn’t last but there was nothing she could do. The sound of splintering wood and straining metal had warned that if she and the baby didn’t get out of the car in a hurry, they would surely plunge to the bottom any second.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a man appeared. He rescued the baby from his car seat and barely got Reese out of the driver’s seat before the car broke through the trees and pitched to the bottom of the ravine. After checking their injuries and calling for help, the man disappeared during the chaos of the police and rescue personnel’s arrival on the scene.
“Not just yet,” Victoria explained. “We believe the man is using an alias.” At Stuart’s surprised look, she added, “There could be any number of reasons that have nothing to do with criminal activity. A former celebrity.” She flared her hands. “A recluse for purely personal reasons. That’s why we’re going to take a cautious approach from this point forward. Though I understand that you’re very grateful for what Mr. Benson did, it would be in your best interest to know who this man is and what his motives for seclusion are before moving forward with a meeting between the two of you.”
Stuart nodded. “I suppose you’re right. I certainly don’t want to endanger my family by becoming involved with a man with a troubled past.”
“Unfortunately,” Victoria offered, “it goes with the territory, Stuart.” She knew this all too well. “Wealth and power can sometimes prove a magnet for those seeking easy money. Self-protection is essential. If we uncover disturbing details perhaps it would be wisest to show your gratitude anonymously through my investigator.”
“So his name is definitely not Troy Benson? How did you find him?”
“My investigator, Jane, used the description your wife gave of the man who rescued her to start the search. Since the man was thought to be on foot that night, our first assumption would be that he lived nearby. Along that deserted stretch of road, there are only a few scattered communities. The occasional farm, but not much else. We focused on anything within walking distance.”
“Reese vividly recalls catching a glimpse of someone as her car spun out of control,” Stuart confirmed. “She believes he was, indeed, on foot.”
“That being the case,” Victoria went on, “we assumed that the man was likely from somewhere nearby. Jane checked the surrounding communities until she found someone matching the description. He goes by the name Troy Benson and he works at a diner in Plano.”
“If your investigator hasn’t spoken to this man yet, how can she be sure it’s him—other than the description my wife gave, I mean? This Troy Benson could simply be someone who looks like the man who rescued my family. Is she sure it’s him?”
Again, Stuart’s anxiousness was showing. He wanted this man found, but he also wanted to find the hero he had created in his mind. “Reese stated that the man who rescued her cut his left forearm as he pulled her from the damaged car, correct?”
Stuart sat forward a little. “Yes. Yes, she did. Does this Troy Benson have an injury consistent with what my wife recalls?”
“He does. Jane has him under surveillance and is hoping for an opportunity to lift a latent print. We can have a friend at the bureau, as well as our Chicago PD liaison, run the print through the systems to see if he shows up in any databases.”
“You’ll keep me informed?” Stuart asked, his expression clearly crestfallen.
“Absolutely.”
Victoria’s client stood, sighed. “The waiting game it is, then.”
“It won’t be long,” Victoria assured him. “Trust me, Stuart, Jane will work as quickly as possible.”
When Stuart had taken his leave, Victoria stood for a long moment staring at the door that separated her office from the small private lobby where Mildred greeted clients and took care of Victoria’s calendar.
Waiting was the hardest thing to do.
A person’s whole life was spent waiting on one thing or another. For Christmas to arrive. To find love. For the safe birth of a child…to live without fear.
Waiting was all Victoria could do for now as well.
Chapter Three
Plano, Illinois, 4:30 p.m.
The Sunshine Diner was filled to capacity as usual. Jane selected the only vacant stool at the counter to facilitate a better view of the kitchen’s serving window.
An apron-clad Troy Benson set two plates on the serving window ledge and announced, “Order up.”
With his shirtsleeves pushed up, the bandage on his left arm was visible.
“You ready to order?”
Jane dragged her attention from the window to the waitress who’d stopped on the other side of the counter. “I’ll have the special.” Burger and fries. A girl couldn’t go wrong with the basics.
The waitress, Patsy, scratched the order on her pad, flashed a smile and headed over to post the order on the cook’s wheel in the service window.
Benson glanced at Jane as he tugged her order from the wheel. Jane held his gaze, wanting him to know she wasn’t here for the food. She’d come in and out the past couple of days. She felt certain he realized she was watching him, but he hadn’t gotten nervous just yet.
She’d been cautious with her questioning of the locals. Not wanting to spook him, she’d resisted talking to the waitresses or the busboy in the diner.
Benson drove a beat-up old truck. The license plate was registered to a Troy Benson, originally from Michigan. His driver’s license went back four years. No work or credit record for six years prior to that. Mainly because the man, the real Troy Benson, with that Social Security number had some nine years ago entered a private extended-care facility in Michigan after a tragic automobile accident. Since the facility wasn’t funded by government insurance, there was no reason for any government agency to be suspicious of the use of the Social Security number some five years later. While the real Troy Benson withered away in Michigan, this pretender had started a whole new life in Illinois.
If Jane could get this guy’s prints, it would be reasonably easy to determine if he had a criminal record or if perhaps he was in Witness Protection. There had to be a motive for his having taken an alias and living such a low-profile life. A low-profile life, according to the few people she’d questioned, that he went to great extents to keep very personal.
After work Benson drove his ancient truck to an equally aged farmhouse on Grissom Spring Road. He had no friends, no social life that anyone she’d asked was aware of. He had simply blown into town, driving that old truck, four years ago and had been working at the diner since.
He didn’t look like a short-order cook.
Tall, well-muscled, mid-thirties, blond hair, blue eyes. Damned good looking. A little glimmer of warmth swirled beneath her belly button. Any woman would have to be in a coma or dead not to notice how handsome he was. But guys who looked like that never took a second look at Jane.
Plain Jane.
Her nickname in grade school had followed her into adulthood. She hadn’t bothered attempting to dispel the unflattering moniker. She liked wearing jeans and T-shirts when she was off duty. Even on duty she stuck with serviceable slacks and conservative blouses along with practical shoes. And she hated makeup and all the hair fuss that most women took great pride in skillfully sporting.
If that, along with her generic brown hair and eyes, made her a plain Jane, then so be it.
“Here ya go.”
Patsy settled a stoneware plate in front of Jane. “Thanks.” Jane considered the burger and fries. “How about some coleslaw?” What she needed was a small enough item touched by the cook that she could take with her. And return it, of course, once she’d lifted the necessary prints. She’d noticed some side orders, coleslaw in particular, were served in bowls small enough to suit her requirement.
“Sure thing.” Patsy strolled back to the window. “Need an order of coleslaw, Troy.”
Benson flicked another of those suspicious glances from the waitress to Jane. Troy disappeared from the window for a moment and returned with a small, single-serving-size stoneware bowl of slaw. Patsy immediately placed the side order in front of Jane.
“Great.” Careful not to touch the little bowl with her fingers, she dug in. She was starved. Though she’d been in the diner earlier this afternoon, she hadn’t ordered anything but coffee until now. As she ate, she covertly kept an eye on Benson. The waitresses were hustling to refill drinks and take orders since the evening crowd was slowly drifting into the diner.
The bustle of the kitchen staff was also obvious beyond the serving window. While the waitresses were preoccupied with their evening rush, Jane pulled a couple of plastic sandwich bags from her purse and picked up the bowl, using one of the bags as a barrier between her fingers and the stoneware. With her movements hidden beneath the counter now, she slipped the empty bowl into the second bag and tucked it into her purse.
With a quick check to ensure that no one was paying attention, she grabbed the side order bowl left by the customer who’d abandoned the stool next to her and placed it by her plate. No need to call attention to the fact that she’d taken the bowl.
Patsy strolled past, slowing long enough to refill Jane’s soda.
Her phone vibrated. With another perusal around the diner, Jane reached into the pocket of her pants and pulled out her phone to check the screen. Text message from Ian Michaels. Rendezvous with MW 5:00?
Jane responded with a suggestion of five-fifteen. OK flashed on the screen. The newest member of the Colby Agency’s staff, Merrilee Walters, would come by the Plano Hotel at five-fifteen to pick up whatever Jane had been able to retrieve that might provide Benson’s prints.
Excellent timing. Evidently she’d already been in the area since the office in Chicago was more than an hour away. That a member of the agency staff was standing by, indicated that the client was getting anxious. He wanted the name of the hero who’d rescued his wife and son.
Jane polished off her burger, paid her check, left a generous tip and headed for the rendezvous with Merri. The hotel was only a few blocks from the diner, so Jane had chosen to walk. According to one of the waitresses, the entire diner staff worked until around eight cleaning up and prepping for the next day. Benson wasn’t likely going anywhere before eight.
And if he did, Jane knew where he lived. She was waiting for one thing, approval to approach. That approval would come when the Colby Agency had done all possible to rule out a criminal record.
As Jane rounded the corner at the end of the block, she hesitated. The sun hovered above the trees, still generating enough heat to draw a sweat. The occasional car rolled down the street. A few pedestrians were out and about. Still, that creepy sensation that crawls up the back of one’s neck had camped at the base of her skull.
Jane stopped, turned around.
Nothing.
Her instincts still humming, Jane sped up her pace and made it to the hotel in record time. She surveyed the block in both directions. Nothing or no one appeared out of place. No sign of Merri.
Jane waited out front until her colleague arrived. She parked at the curb and Jane slid into the passenger seat, thankful for the cold air blasting from the air-conditioning vents.
“Any trouble finding the place?” Jane was careful to wait until Merri had turned in her direction before speaking. The newest member of the Colby Agency staff was deaf. She was inordinately skilled at lip-reading.
“Your directions were very clear.” Merri glanced around the street. “Has your target noticed your presence yet?”
“He’s suspicious.” Jane couldn’t help wishing she’d been born with Merri’s bright blue eyes and silky blond hair. Truth was, no one was really ever happy with their appearance. At least that was what she told herself each time she had a “plain” moment. “I think he’s keeping an eye on me.”
“I guess I should make this quick, then,” Merri suggested. “I don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention.”
She was right. Jane retrieved the bagged side order bowl and passed it to her colleague. “The waitress may have blurred Benson’s prints, but it was the best I could do for now.”
Merri placed the bag in the console of her sedan. “I’ll get this to Ian this evening. He has a friend from CPD and one from the bureau standing by.”
“Good. Maybe we’ll know something early tomorrow morning.”
“That’s Ian’s goal.”
Before getting out, Jane hesitated. “How’s Victoria?” The last couple of weeks had taken a tremendous toll on the head of the Colby Agency. Her granddaughter’s safety was at stake and the source of the threat was still untraceable. Victoria now knew his identity, but finding him was proving impossible.
Merri’s expression turned grim. “She’s holding up.” She shook her head. “The little girl, she doesn’t really understand what’s going on. Which is good.”
Until now Jane hadn’t noticed the slight distortion in Merri’s speech. Maybe because they hadn’t talked alone like this before. Merri had been deaf for about six years now. Her speech had begun to suffer in the extended period without the resonance of sound to maintain rhythm and modulation.
“Have a safe trip back to the city.”
Merri nodded. “Ian will be in touch.”
Jane watched Merri drive away. After living her entire life in the South, Merri was certainly getting her bearings in what she teasingly called Yankee territory.
Fishing for her keys in her purse, Jane walked toward the car she’d rented for this assignment. By the time she drove back to the diner, the dinner crowd would have thickened. Taking up a surveillance post nearby would be fairly simple.
She wasn’t cleared to approach Benson yet, but keeping an eye on him in case he decided to cut and run was essential. Norcross was insistent on learning as much information as possible on Benson.
She slid behind the wheel and drove the few blocks to the diner. Parking down the block and on the other side of the street, she watched the customers filter in and out. Even with the windows down, the July heat was sweltering.
From time to time she got out and walked a short distance, just to stretch her legs and get some air flowing beneath her blouse.
More than two hours passed before the waitresses started to, one by one, head out the front entrance. The brightly colored neon sign that announced the diner was open for business went dark. Benson came out the back door a couple of times pulling a trash container. Another employee hustled out to help him dump the containers. The second time, Benson paused before going back inside. He surveyed the street, his gaze settling on Jane’s car.
Oh yeah, he was well aware that he was being watched.
If he had something to hide, he might very well ditch his comfy life.
Jane watched him swagger back to the rear entrance. His suspicious glances piqued her curiosity. “What are you hiding, Mr. Benson?”
Pretty soon the lights went out inside the establishment and the kitchen staff trickled out the rear entrance. Benson waved good-night to his coworkers and headed for his old blue truck. He climbed inside and backed out of his parking slot. He hesitated at the street, probably checking out her position again before driving away.
Jane gave him a few seconds’ head start before executing a U-turn and following. He’d already made the turn that led deep into the woods when she reached the turnoff to Grissom Spring Road. His farmhouse sat a couple of miles into the woods. At one time the farm had been pastureland and cultivated acreage, but for the past fifteen or so years the woods had closed in, leaving a small yard around the old house.
There were no streetlights on the old road, making the path dark beneath the canopy of ancient trees. Jane’s weapon was in the rental car’s console. But before she got out of the car, it would be in her purse. She was no fool. Being armed, especially on an assignment like this, was the only way to go.
She passed Benson’s place and almost braked, but checked the urge at the last moment. His truck wasn’t in the driveway.
