Agent to the Rescue (Special Agents At The Alter Book 3) (5 page)

Apparently, as well as growing up on the streets, Dalton had grown up determined to remain single. She hadn’t been surprised when she’d overheard him telling Blaine Campbell that he wasn’t marrying anyone. Ever. She faintly remembered him saying something in the ambulance when the paramedic had mistaken her for his bride. She’d been in and out of consciousness, so she hadn’t picked up on his words but on his tone. He had been appalled that someone had mistaken him for a groom.

At the moment she could relate as she glanced down at her hand again. She wanted to take off the ring. She couldn’t believe she was engaged. It didn’t feel right.

“If you two don’t get going, you won’t have any honeymoon experience, either,” Dalton warned them.

Claire glanced at her. “But I could help...”

“I have help,” Dalton said. He wrapped his arm around the young bride and steered her toward the doorway. “I know you two can’t stand spending time together, but you’re going to have to suck it up for the next fifty or sixty years.”

The newlyweds chuckled—confident in their love and their relationship.

She glanced down at her ring again. Why would she be wearing this when she obviously hadn’t felt that way about whoever had put the ring on her finger? But then, a love like the Strykers’ was rare and special.

“It was nice meeting you,” Claire called back to her.

She had met Claire. She wasn’t sure if they’d met her—because she wasn’t sure who she was, except not Jane or Mercedes. But maybe she would need to start thinking of herself as one of those names since she was unlikely to ever remember her own. She waved at them. “Enjoy your honeymoon.”

The Strykers both hugged Dalton before leaving. He stared after them a moment, as if tempted to call them back, before he turned back to her.

“Who is your help?” she asked. While it would have been selfish to keep them from their honeymoon, she would have trusted the Strykers to help her.

“Trooper Littlefield is going to stand guard in your room,” he told her, “while I go to Chicago to follow up a lead.”

“Littlefield?” she asked.

Was that the trooper whose car had been stolen? Because of that and because something about him or his uniform was vaguely, unsettlingly familiar to her, she wouldn’t feel particularly safe with him. But then, she didn’t feel particularly safe with anyone but Dalton.

“He’s a good officer,” Dalton assured her. “He’s the one who called me when he noticed the vintage Mercedes. He knew something wasn’t right about it.”

Her in the trunk—that was what hadn’t been right about it. What if he hadn’t seen the car? What if Dalton hadn’t stopped it?

She would be dead. She was certain of it. She shuddered with the realization that someone out there wanted her dead. What kind of person was she that someone could hate her enough to try to kill her more than once...?

“Are you okay?” Dalton asked, his voice even deeper with concern. “Claire didn’t upset you, did she?”

She shook her head. Claire hadn’t upset her, but meeting the other woman had. “I just wish...”

“What?” he asked.

“I wish I knew what kind of person I am,” she said. “If I’m like her...” Or if she was someone who’d earned another person’s hatred? “I just wish I knew who I am...”

“You may not know your name,” Dalton said, “but you know who are you are—you’re strong and smart and brave.”

But she felt like none of those things. She was terrified—terrified of the person determined to kill her, terrified to be away from Dalton Reyes and terrified to find out who she really was.

* * *

A
LL
HE
’
D
HAD
to do was bide his time. Eventually the dark-haired agent had left—along with the other federal agents. They weren’t bodyguards; they were investigators.

He wasn’t worried about what they would find. He’d been careful so that nothing could be traced back to him. Not even her...

But still she had to die.

And it would be easier for him to kill her now that the agent was gone. He’d left behind the bald-headed trooper for her protection.

All he’d had to do was wait him out. With the amount of coffee the man drank, it was inevitable that he would leave her to use the restroom. He was waiting for him there—hiding inside a stall.

He waited until the trooper was preoccupied at the urinal before he stepped out. The trooper didn’t have a chance to pull his gun—to catch more than a shadowy movement in the mirrored wall—before he struck him. Hard. Harder than he’d even struck her.

As the trooper dropped to the tile floor, he dropped the bloodied pipe next to him. He was wearing gloves, so it couldn’t be traced back to him. He was careful to leave no evidence behind. Anywhere.

He reached for the buttons on the trooper’s uniform. Dressed like the trooper, he would have no trouble getting into her room and finishing the job he’d started. He looked quite official in uniform—every bit the lawman he’d always hated. He grinned at his reflection in the mirrored wall.

The woman was going to be dead soon.

Very soon...

Chapter Six

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Dalton asked. He glanced over at the passenger’s seat to check on her. He expected to find her eyes closed as she rested or passed out from exhaustion. She had been through so much—had lost so much blood.

But the doctor had assured him that it would be all right to take her out of the hospital. And she had insisted that she was strong enough to be released.

Maybe she was right. She wasn’t sleeping or passed out. She leaned forward, straining against her seat belt, as she stared through the windshield. She had studied every street and building between the rural area of lower western Michigan and the urban skyline of Chicago as if trying to recognize it or hoping something might jog her memory.

The bridge rattled beneath the tires of the SUV as Dalton drove over the Chicago Skyway into the city. “Anything familiar?”

She groaned.

“I thought this would be too much for you,” he said. “You should have stayed at the hospital with Trooper Littlefield protecting you.” The local lawman had been offended when Dalton had asked him to protect an empty room. He thought that Dalton didn’t trust him anymore.

That hadn’t been the case at all, though.

He was pretty certain that the killer was watching her and waiting for another opportunity to get to her. So Dalton had wanted him to think that she was still at the hospital—still protected.

Instead of alone with just him for protection. But Blaine was on standby. Dalton could call him in or several other agents for backup...if he needed it. But nobody had followed him. He had taken a circuitous route and had kept a vigilant watch on the SUV’s rearview mirror. So he was certain they had no tail. But her attacker was the least of his concerns at the moment.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Her skin had grown pale again, making her red hair look even brighter and more vibrant. She had exchanged her hospital gown for clothes that Dalton had bought and sneaked into her room. She wore tan pants and a pale yellow blouse. There were other clothes in a small bag in the backseat, too. It had bothered her that she hadn’t been able to buy them herself. But along with her identity, her money and credit cards had been lost, too.

With obvious reluctance, she admitted, “My head is starting to hurt again.”

“Should I take you to a hospital?” he asked with alarm, even as he mentally clocked the distance to the closest one.

“No, the headache is my fault,” she said. “I think I’m trying too hard to remember—to find something familiar.”

His tension eased somewhat. Maybe she wasn’t medically in danger. But how about emotionally?

“Have you found anything familiar?” he asked.

“It’s
Chicago
,” she said. “Doesn’t everyone know what Chicago looks like—just like they know what New York looks like? It doesn’t necessarily mean that they’ve ever lived there or even been there. Maybe they just saw it on TV so many times or in movies or described in books that it feels familiar.”

“So it does feel familiar to you,” he deduced.

She uttered a small groan of frustration. “I just don’t know...”

“Close your eyes for a few minutes,” he suggested. “Relax.” He didn’t want her hurting herself.

She must have been exhausted, because she took his advice, but her rest didn’t last long. When he pulled into the downtown parking garage, she opened her eyes. “We’re here?”

“This is the apartment building where the owner of the Mercedes lives,” he said.

“Do you think he could have been the one—” her throat moved as she swallowed convulsively, probably choking on nerves or fear “—that put me in the trunk?”

Dalton reached for her, sliding his arm around her shoulders to offer her comfort. She trembled against him and he tightened his embrace. “Of course not,” he said. “I wouldn’t have brought you along if I thought he could be the one who had hurt you.”

She had thought that all this time and had been willing to confront her attacker? He’d known she was strong, but her fearlessness overwhelmed him.

“Then why did you bring me along?” she asked, peering up at him in the dim light of the parking garage. He’d already turned off the SUV.

“Maybe he will recognize you,” he said. “Someone stole his car to abduct you. It could have been a theft of convenience—like his car and you were in the same vicinity.”

She looked beyond him to peer around the parking garage. “You think I could have been grabbed here?”

Instead of cowering, she opened the passenger’s door and stepped out to confront her fear or her elusive memories. Dalton jumped out the driver’s door and hurried around to her side of the car. They hadn’t been followed. But if the killer had figured out that they might come back here...

He didn’t want her far from his side in the dimly lit parking garage. He didn’t want to lose her.

* * *

C
HILLED
FROM
THE DAMPNESS
of the parking garage, she shivered. But maybe it wasn’t just the dampness that had chilled her blood.

Maybe there were memories there—in the shadows of the steel-and-concrete structure. And maybe she had buried those memories so deeply that she couldn’t access them anymore. They were just out of her reach...like Agent Reyes.

He had put his arm around her earlier for comfort and support. But now he stood on the other side of the elevator. Maybe he was frustrated that she couldn’t remember—that she couldn’t help him solve her case. Before they had stepped onto the elevator, he had called someone—maybe an FBI crime scene tech. He had asked them to come and inspect the garage for blood.

Her blood...

“You have my DNA,” she realized. From the trunk of that stolen car. “Can’t you find out who I am that way?” Jared Bell had mentioned as much the day before.

“We have your DNA,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t match any on file. Neither do your fingerprints.”

She stared down at her hands. She didn’t remember being fingerprinted. But then, there was so much she didn’t remember. Like that damn ring on her finger...

Claire Stryker was confident it had been there for a while. Why, then, wasn’t she married already?

How long had this engagement been?

And where was her fiancé? Why hadn’t he reported her missing? Because he couldn’t—because he had been with her when she’d been attacked but had been more critically wounded than she had been?

“Was there any other DNA in that trunk I was in?” she asked.

His mouth curved into a faint grin. “From the way your mind works and the questions you ask, I would almost believe you’re in law enforcement, too.”

Hope burgeoned. She would rather be on the right side of the law than on the side with people who hurt other people.

“But if you were in law enforcement, your fingerprints would have been on file,” he continued and dashed that brief hope.

A bell dinged as the elevator stopped and the doors began to slide open. Panic rushed over her. He had assured her that he wouldn’t have brought her along if this could have been the person who’d hurt her. But this person was the link to that car—the car that probably would have been her casket had Agent Reyes not rescued her in time.

He touched her again, his hand squeezing hers as it had so many times before. But this time chills raced over her as her skin tingled in reaction to his touch. His skin was rougher than hers and warm. The man was like that—a little rough around the edges, probably from growing up in a gang as Claire had told her he had, but he was warmhearted.

He cared.

About his cases.

He felt sorry for her. While he felt only pity, she was beginning to feel something more—something completely unfamiliar to her.

“It’ll be okay,” he assured her. “We’ll just see if he recognizes you, if he’s seen you around this building before.”

As they walked down the hall, she studied the building—the dark wood walls and terrazzo floors. The building was old and dark, but it wasn’t run-down. It wasn’t even dated. It was fairly ageless.

But the man who opened the door at Agent Reyes’s knock wasn’t ageless. His body was stooped with arthritis, so that his head barely came to Dalton’s chest. His face was heavily lined, his eyes clouded with cataracts.

“Mr. Schultz?” Dalton asked.

The older man nodded. “Who are you? I hope not salesmen. I have no money or time for your pitch.” He shuffled back a step as if getting ready to slam shut his door.

Dalton held out his badge. “I’m FBI—Special Agent Reyes,” he introduced himself.

“An FBI agent?” the old man asked. He pulled Dalton’s badge closer to his face and studied it through narrowed eyes. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He chuckled. “Tell me what I’ve done.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, Mr. Schultz,” Dalton assured the elderly man.

Mr. Schultz chuckled again. “Depending on what kind of day my wife is having, she might tell you differently.” He stepped back and gestured for them to step inside his apartment.

She glanced around, hoping to see something familiar. But nothing struck a chord. Like the hallway, his apartment was classic—polished hardwood floors and smooth plaster walls. It looked familiar in that she could have seen it on TV or in a movie or even a magazine.

Magazines and photo albums were piled atop a coffee table. Mr. Schultz gestured them to the floral sofa behind the table. “Take a seat. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

Initially unwelcoming, the elderly man now seemed grateful for company.

“We don’t want you to go to any trouble,” she told him.

“No trouble at all,” he assured her. “I’m the chief cook and bottle washer around here.” With that, he waved them down onto the couch before he disappeared through an arched doorway into what must have been the kitchen.

“Does he know?” she asked.

Dalton shook his head. “I don’t know. He never reported the car missing.”

“Who are you?” a woman asked. She stood in the doorway of what must have been a bedroom off the living room. Her hair was white and neatly combed, her face not quite as heavily lined as her husband’s...if she were Mrs. Schultz.

They both stood as she stepped out of the room to join them.

“I’m FBI Special Agent Dalton Reyes,” he introduced himself but hesitated when he turned to her.

She hesitated, too. What should she call herself? Jane Doe? Mercedes, as Agent Reyes had suggested with a morbid sense of humor, since that was the kind of car she’d been found in? Mr. Schultz’s car.

“You’re Sybil,” the woman answered for her.

And hope had her heart swelling. “You know who I am?”

The woman laughed. “Of course I do.” She reached her arms around her and pulled her into a surprisingly strong embrace despite her fragile build. “You’re my daughter...”

Mr. Schultz stepped back into the room, a tray clutched in his gnarled hands. Reyes quickly took the tray from him, but just held it when he realized there was no place to put it on the table.

“I’m sorry,” the elderly man said as he tugged the older woman away. “My wife often gets confused.”

“So I’m not...Sybil?” she asked.

The old man stared at her with the same pity with which he regarded his wife. “You don’t know who you are?”

She shook her head. “I have a concussion that’s caused memory loss.”

Mr. Schultz offered her a pitying sigh. “And you’re so young.” He helped his wife into a chair near the couch. “Rose was seventy when she first started having problems remembering...”

She didn’t even know how old she was. Possibly late twenties? Maybe thirty? Not much younger than Dalton Reyes, she would bet.

“Does she have Alzheimer’s?” Dalton asked quietly as if worried that he might upset Mrs. Schultz. Maybe his edges weren’t that rough since he could be sensitive, too.

Mr. Schultz nodded.

“My grandma had it,” Dalton said.

“Everyone has someone in their life who’s been affected by it,” Mr. Schultz said with no self-pity, just resignation. He turned back to her. “But you’re too young to be losing your memory. Do the doctors think it will come back?”

She shrugged. “They don’t know.”

“They don’t know nearly enough about the mind.” He took the tray from Dalton and found an end table to put it on and then he handed them each a cup of coffee. “And I don’t know yet why you’re here.”

“Did you recently loan your car to someone?” Dalton asked before taking a gulp of the strong black coffee.

She sipped it with a grimace before reaching for the sugar Mr. Schultz handed her.

The older man settled into a chair next to his wife. She’d fallen silent now and withdrawn into her own little world inside what was left of her mind. He patted her hand reassuringly, lovingly, and Mrs. Schultz glanced up at him with confusion and absolutely no recognition.

She didn’t even know her husband.

Was her mind the same? Had she passed her apartment and not even recognized it? Had she passed her fiancé and not even recognized him?

“I don’t have anyone to loan my car to,” Mr. Schultz answered Dalton’s question.

“What about Sybil?” she asked. “And her husband or her kids?”

“Sybil died of leukemia in her teens,” Mr. Schultz said, “before she even had a serious boyfriend. So no husband. No kids. And she was our only child.” Again there was no self-pity in his voice. But there was pain now—pain that seemed fresh even though Sybil must have died many years ago.

“I’m sorry,” she said—in unison with Dalton as he expressed his sympathy, as well.

Maybe Mrs. Schultz was better off than her husband. Since she didn’t remember her daughter dying, she didn’t suffer like Mr. Schultz. The poor man had lost his child, and now he was losing his wife.

“You wouldn’t have loaned your car to a neighbor?” Dalton asked. “A friend?”

“No. I have the keys in the kitchen,” answered Mr. Schultz, “both sets. I can prove to you that I have the car.”

Dalton shook his car. “I have the car—at an FBI garage. It was stolen.”

Mr. Schultz shook his head. “No, that’s not possible.”

“When did you use it last?”

The old man gestured toward his eyes. “Not since my doctor told me I couldn’t drive anymore until I get my cataracts removed. So, months...”