Catch a Shadow (31 page)

“Let's get on with it,” he said. He hated taking favors. He never would have gotten Cole and Mac involved if Kirk's life wasn't at stake. He hadn't really expected them to run to his aid as they had. After losing his best friend on a mission, he'd tried to keep others at a distance. Yet Cole had been supportive as soon as he'd learned what happened. He'd protested and tried to reopen the case, even knowing it could destroy his own career.

“You're going to have a devil of a time removing her from the action,” Cole said. “She has the light of battle in her eyes.”

“Very tired eyes, and she's never been in battle. She has a gun permit. She knows how to shoot. But I'm not sure she could fire it at a live human being.”

“I think she could,” Cole said, “but I understand you want her out of the line of fire. I felt the same way about my wife, though she could outpilot any guy in her squadron.”

“You'll get her away then?”

“I'll try. Now get the hell to bed, or you'll be useless.”

Jake left reluctantly. He doubted whether he would get any sleep knowing that Kirke was inches away. Forbidden fruit. She was that, and more. But if he had any integrity left—any at all—he would stay the hell away from her. And that meant hurting her like he'd never hurt anyone before.

Bob had showed at the hotel with a copy of the article and photo he had taken from the Internet. He also brought breakfast. She'd liked him yesterday when he'd welcomed Jake and her to his restaurant. She loved him now as he revealed the contents of several large boxes: bacon, biscuits and gravy, and omelets. He also carried a pot of steaming coffee.

“You have a friend for life,” Jake told him. “She lives on coffee.”

“Food, too,” she protested, inhaling the smell of the bacon.

Bob beamed at her. Then he went to Mac's room, followed by one of his employes loaded down with more food.

They ate quickly. She finished first, then watched Jake. He was slower, obviously savoring every bite. As if, she thought, it might be his last good meal. It might well be, if they didn't find Dallas.

They arrived at the library after stopping at a twenty-four-hour discount store where they both purchased new clothes. She bought a pair of navy blue slacks and a fitted blouse, and he found a light brown shirt. They changed in a service station restroom, then they drove to Denton and found the library of the most likely university.

They were directed to the university history section and quickly located the yearbooks. A century of them.

Where to start?

How old was Dallas?

She guessed from what Jake had told her and the photo they'd received from Robin that she'd been in her late thirties at the time Jake had met her. That would put her in her mid-forties now.

“Let's start at 1983 and go forward. Work to 1989. If we don't find anything, we'll go backward from '83.”

Everything depended on Dallas being her given name and not a nickname.

Jake's friends would hack into the college alumni files at the same time. If they had no luck, then they would go to plan B. Federal benefits records. It would be more than a little difficult and dangerous, but it might be the only way.

Two hours went by, then four. Her eyes grew blurry, but one thing kept her alert: the murder of the nice woman at the Williamsburg bakery. The killer might have exacted the same information she had. If the bad guys had someone still in the CIA, they might obtain Dallas's whereabouts far quicker than they.

Jake finished the last in his series of yearbooks with a bang that startled other readers. She had taken a chair on the other side of the table. Proximity to him always seemed to cloud her judgment and her concentration.

“Dammit,” he swore in a low tone. “Nothing.”

“It was always a long shot,” she said, picking up the last of her pile. After this, they would go backward five years, then go to the other college. This one, though, had been the most likely, the one most local kids attended.

Nothing in the next one. A slow panic was beginning to set in. What if she and Jake had set up Dallas for death? They
had
to get to her.

She prayed that his cell phone would ring, that Jake's friends had found something, but it was silent. She started on the group of yearbooks that went from 1984 down to 1980.

Kirke tried not to flip through the '83 volume. Her mind was already moving ahead to the next step when she saw it. Junior year. Dallas Gallagher. Small photo. Long hair streaming over her shoulders and a bright smile.

She went back to the '84 yearbook's senior class to see if she missed something. No Dallas Gallagher. She must have dropped out or finished at another college.

Silently she pushed the '83 yearbook over to Jake.

He saw it, closed his eyes for a moment, and she realized he felt the relief she did.

“Check the phone book for Gallaghers,” he said. “I'll go outside and call Mac.”

She quickly replaced the volumes on the right shelf, thanked the librarian on duty, and asked about a phone book. In minutes she had twelve Gallaghers. She rushed outside.

For a second, she didn't see him. Then she saw Jake leaning against a wall, talking on his cell phone. She stopped, conquering that momentary fear of abandonment. At the same time, she warned herself. He'd never said anything about sticking around if he did discover the truth. He'd never said anything about love. They'd gone to bed together, but he'd just been released from prison. Anyone would have looked good to him.

He glanced up, his eyes as emotionless as the first time she'd met him. “Mac and Cole will start Googling Gallaghers in this area. Shouldn't be too many.”

“Twelve,” she said.

He gave her that rare half smile. “I really didn't think we would find anything.”

From him, it was the supreme compliment.

She went over to the car and got in the passenger's side. “Where to?”

“To find a public phone.”

Objective: find a Gallagher who knew Dallas Gallagher Haley. She agreed with him now that a public phone was far safer than using the cell.

She was looking for one when he suddenly made a right turn into a large convenience mart with a deli. He parked and turned to her. “They might have a phone inside.”

It did. The interior had a small sitting area, along with a counter containing the required fried chicken along with hot dogs and other sandwiches. He grabbed a plate and selected a piece of chicken and a biscuit. She took a hot dog.

Then they sat down and went over her list.

“Dallas told the reporter her mother named her children after the place they were born. Here's a Dayton.”

He started to rise.

“Let me do it,” she said.

He sat again, took a handful of change from his pocket, and handed it to her. “He may not be any relation to Dallas,” he warned.

She knew. She took the change. And said a small prayer. He needed one.
She
needed it.

She went to the phone, inserted the coins. And dialed.

CHAPTER 28

There was no answer. Not even an answering machine.

Kirke slumped in disappointment. For a moment, she'd thought they were so close.

She saw it in Jake's eyes as well.

“Back to the list,” he said.

She started at the top of the list with a Thomas Gallagher. This time she got a telephone answering machine asking her to leave a message. Same reply for the second. The phone was disconnected on the third.

A woman answered the fourth.

“Mrs. Gallagher,” Kirke said. “You don't know me, but I'm a friend of Dallas Gallagher … she later became Mrs. Haley … and I'm trying to reach her. I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

“I don't know anyone named Dallas.”

“I'm so sorry to have bothered you,” Kirke said soothingly. “Thank you for your time.” She hung up and went to the next.

Another answering machine reply. She looked at her watch in frustration. How close was Adams and his pack of jackals?

An elderly voice answered the eighth attempt. “Hello.”

Kirke started her spiel.

“Dallas?” came a cautious response. “You're a friend, you say?”

Shock stopped her for a moment. She had almost given up. Shock and an incredible thrill of success. “More a friend of a friend. He has a message for her.”

“Why isn't he delivering it?” Suspicion had hardened her voice.

“He died,” she said simply. “Can you tell me how reach her?”

A hesitation, then, “Who are you?”

“My name is Kirke. Kirke Palmer.” From the suspicion in her voice, Kirke knew she had to tell the truth. Something was going on here.

She saw the frown on Jake's face and chose to ignore it.

“And who is the friend?”

Dear God, which name had the man she knew as Mark Cable, and Jake knew as Del Cox, used when he knew Dallas. “He was CIA,” she finally said. “I knew him as Mark Cable. He also used the name Del Cox.”

“You said he died?” came the slow reply.

“He was killed a week ago,” Kirke replied.

“Give me a number. I'll see if she wants to call you back.”

“Just a moment,” she said. She gestured to Jake, and he hurried over to her.

She covered the speaker part of the phone. “She knows Dallas, says she'll ask if Dallas wants to call me back. She needs a number.”

“The new cell,” he said.

She took her hand from the speaker, then gave the woman the number. “Please ask her to call me. It's urgent.”

“I thought you were just delivering a message.”

“It's an urgent message. It could be a matter of life or death.”

The woman hung up.

Kirke leaned against the wall. “I don't think I handled that very well.”

“I think you did,” he said.

“I was afraid she wouldn't contact her immediately. I pushed more than I should.”

“You had to do it.”

“Should we call the others?”

They exchanged glances. To her surprise, he said, “Your call. You have more of an instinct for this. I can be … too blunt.”

Understatement, but she let it go. “Let's wait an hour. If we don't hear anything, we can finish the calls and visit this Dayton Gallagher.”

They ate the lunch, which was now cold. He drank coffee, she a diet soda. The cell phone lay between them. They willed it to ring.

“Why would she be so cautious?” she asked.

“Maybe she's frightened of something. Or someone.”

“Del Cox?” she asked.

The cell phone rang.

He picked it up and handed it to her. His confidence filled her with a warm glow. He was not a man to trust others. She'd discovered that.

“Hello,” she said into the cell phone.

“This is Dallas. My aunt said you were looking for me. That a Del Cox had given you a message.” Her voice was slow. Halting.

“Yes,” Kirke said. “Are you at home?”

“Is it important?”

“It could be,” Kirke replied.

“No,” Dallas said. Her voice was pleasant. Throaty and warm.

“Good,” Kirke said. “Can you meet me?”

“Not until I know more.”

“I'm a paramedic from Atlanta.” She'd decided only the truth would do now. Obviously Dallas was hiding from something. Or someone.

Dallas waited for her to go on.

“A week ago I received a call. A hit-and-run. Man down. When we arrived he was near death, but he thrust an envelope into my hand and asked me to give it to a Mitch Edwards. He mentioned Dallas.”

“And he's dead?” The words were little more than a whisper.

“Yes. I'm sorry.” She paused, then said, “It's a long story, and you might be in danger. Please meet with me. In a very public place, if you wish.”

Dallas hesitated.

“You can check me out,” Kirke said. “Call the Atlanta Fire Department.” She gave Dallas the station number, then its phone number. “You might want to call information,” she said, “and make sure it's the number. Don't take my word. Don't take anyone's word.”

“A public park,” Dallas agreed and gave directions. “Seven p.m., near the refreshment stand by the softball field. If you check out, I'll meet you there. If not, then don't wait.”

“How will I recognize you?”

“You tell me how I'll recognize
you
,” Dallas replied. “And anyone with you.”

Kirke thought of the T-shirt they'd bought along the way. “I'm five feet nine inches,” she said. “I have short auburn hair. I'll be wearing a T-shirt with Tennessee on it.”

“Will anyone be with you?”

“No,” she lied. It was safer if no one knew Jake was with her.

Dallas hung up before Kirke could say anything else. She suspected Dallas knew she was lying. Would that keep her from coming? She wanted to kick herself.

Kirke turned off the cell and repeated the conversation to Jake.

“She's scared about something,” she said. “At least we know what she looks like.”

“Maybe,” he said. “The newspaper photo is eight years old, the college one nearly thirty.”

Jake asked the store clerk for directions to the park. He purchased a map, thanked the clerk, then they left.

She looked at her watch. Four hours to kill.

Four hours for Adams to find Dallas before she and Jake did. Had she issued a strong enough warning?

Ames prepared to leave the Dallas hotel for Denton. His man from the CIA had come through. Partly.

“The check goes to a bank account in Denton, Texas,” his CIA contact said.

“What name?”

“No name. Just an account number.”

“Goddamn,” he said. “That's worth nothing to me. I need her address. Go back and get it. Government has so many damned papers, the address has to be there somewhere. If I fall, you fall, too. Remember that.” He cut the call off.