“Agent, I would if the fucking man hadn't dropped it in the toilet while emptying his sagging fat stomach and filling the toilet bowl with his crap. Don't ask me questions as if I don't know how to do my job.”
Bors winced when Simms started pounding on the keyboard. He kept his mouth shut. Everyone knew not to challenge Simms intellect. Like him, the man cared too much about his job. So much in fact that he forgot he had a wife waiting at home. That was before she divorced him. With his wife gone, Simms became ornery, quick to lash out. Office staff, including the janitor, understood. Simms regretted losing his wife.
Since work caused his marriage to fall apart, he vowed to show that he hadn't lost his wife for nothing. Bors decided not to suggest searching for Seattle Symphony's website to check for the pictures. Jean might see it as
telling him what to do.
Besides, they wouldn't know which one was the runaway Taylor.
Simms fist pounded his table. “And I don't know why the fuck we have to use a computer. Memos, reports, forms. All saved in a computer folder. Whoever said that jobs are a lot easier now that we use computers is a fucking lunatic. And Mac not wanting to talk to PC makes my life fucking harder. I'll forward the copy to you or have Astrid do it. No, maybe I'll print it,
if
the printer works.”
“Whatever medium you use is fine with me, sir.” When he got home, he would do his own searching. Or maybe ask Percival for help. Right now, like Simms, he wasn't in the mood to
surf
the net.
“The media doesn't know about Taylor yet. As soon as this gets out, they will be all over this story like flies on warm cow dung. I doubt Jean will be ordering hot young virgins for a while. But through Taylor—I'm following my gut here—we'll get something to pin the son of a bitch. Consider this new scoop a break. Now, go to the hospital and take care of your wound. Take a long fucking shower and sleep. You're a danger to yourself, to me, and to this agency if you continue walking around like a damn zombie. I don't want another stupid shooting in my office.”
Bors knew whom Simms was thinking about. A rookie. Eager and excited about his work, he had tried to impress Simms. The kid worked his ass off until he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. He fell asleep standing, must have dreamt about having a shootout, and started firing inside. No one was hurt, but what happened became the joke in the office so they the transferred the rookie to keep his dignity intact, or what was left of it.
“I'll call Branyan and let him know I'll be on island for a few days.”
“Forget it. I'll talk to him. You look half-asleep. You'll probably bungle the information.”
Shit. How hard could it be to say
you're gonna be gone
? Bors made a fist and winced at the shooting pain in his arm. The cut was big enough to require stitches. Swedish Hospital was in Capitol Hill and Broadway. Only a couple blocks from Third Ave. He thought for a minute. Nah, why go there when he could got to his brother's clinic and have him stitch his cut.
“I'll go see my brother.”
“Good. Spend time with your family while waiting for my goddamn email. Do your research over on the island. How's that house of yours?”
“Finished. Kitchen appliances were delivered three weeks ago.”
“Good. When are you going to plant someone in there to use the appliances while waiting for you?”
Bors snorted. “And act like Branyan, always texting his wife? Or my brother Tristan, begging Julie to come to his clinic so he can see her. They are both drunkenly in love. No fucking way I'm going to follow their footsteps. At least not anytime soon.”
“Well, good. I don't want another agent filing for a paternity leave anyway. Say hi to Judge Knight and hug your mother for me. I'll see you Sunday.”
“Okay.” Sunday? Simms worked on Sundays, too. What was so important on the island that he'd leave his work? Damn, he had a feeling he was forgetting something. But he'd cut his own fingers before he asked what he meant by Sunday. His boss would only insist that he take a vacation because his brain needed to be charged and rebooted. If he said Sunday then fine, he'd see him then.
Chapter Two
Kind of weird being alone for the first time. Alone. Lordy, Taylor never thought she'd be alone until she expelled her last breath. No one watching, or following her every move felt kind of nice. Taylor didn't miss it all, but she couldn't shake the feeling that any minute someone would grab her from behind. And she kept expecting to see her father's runner appear at the door or in a corner of the room.
So this was how it felt to be free.
Taylor lowered her black violin case beside her chair while she waited for a nurse to call her name. She supposed she should have gone to the hospital and gotten immediate treatment for her sprained ankle, but her need to get as far away as possible from Jean had her riding the first Kingston ferryboat to Orcas Island, the largest of San Juan Islands.
Letting out a deep and long sigh, she diverted her mind off Jean and smiled at the little boy using the chair beside her as a table. He'd been opening and closing the page of a pop-up book, laughing at the dancing clowns that sprang up. How wonderful to be a child, she thought. No worries whether the world was in chaos or if the sun stopped shining. Too bad adults stopped seeing the world the way children did when they age. Like snakes, we shed that innocence as we get older, which kind of sucked.
The boy giggled as if someone tickled him. Spit driveled down his chin.
I wish I could laugh easily like that.
Taylor had happy childhood memories. She was born in Italy, lived there with her Italian mother until she was twelve. Her mother, as she recalled, was a shopaholic. Whenever she shopped, Taylor went. They frequented stores the way religious fanatics would their church. She remembered the streets, different languages, and her mom speaking in Italian. She also remembered laughing a lot. Just like her late mother.
A day after her twelfth birthday, she and her mom traveled here to the United States to see Jean. When she asked who Jean was, her mother only said, “A politician with money.”
They stayed in a hotel and waited for him. It was late at night when Jean arrived. He smiled at her, said hi, touched her head, and told her how beautiful she was. And then he told her to go to the bedroom and stay there. If she thought it odd, she didn't say anything.
The next night, he came again. His visits became a routine. Once in a while they would eat dinner together, but not in a restaurant. Always in their hotel room. She heard her mother asked Jean why they had to stay in the hotel and not live with him. Taylor remembered that most of the time her mom's questioning turned into full-blown arguments and then Jean would leave.
One day, her mom told her to get dressed. They would visit Jean, she said. They took a taxi and found the address Mom wrote on a sticky note. Standing beside her mom, she listened to her talk to a man over the intercom. The man who answered said that Jean wasn't home and would be gone for a week. But when her mom said it was Trisha Monte Carlo calling, the gate opened right away.
She remembered sitting on the couch with her mother who complained endlessly about Jean. But Taylor didn't mind the wait. She liked the house. It was bigger than the hotel, of course. But it was the view that captivated her interest. It faced the magnificent Mount Rainier and Lake Washington where boats sailed by back and forth. She loved the commanding views of sunsets and sunrises and boats dotting the calm water. After that, she never wanted to leave. These were sentiments that she had shared with her mother. That day, she wished they lived in that house. A week later, when Jean came home, he had made her dream come true.
What she didn't realize was that the house would become her and her mom's private jail. At the time, she had not understood why and she didn't care. But her mother took it hard. She had turned her attention to alcohol, and everything went downhill.
The boy lifted the book and called to his mother, sitting on the other corner of the room busy chatting with the other mothers. The young mother simply raised her manicured fingers. One of the babies in the baby carrier whimpered. Another one followed and then another. Suddenly the room resonated with the cries of babies. It was quite interesting to listen to. Kind of like frog mating calls. It began with one frog breaking the silence, then others quickly following.
The mothers fussed over their babies. One by one, they crying stopped until the room was quiet again. From the other part of the room, a toddler fell flat on his face. He screamed like a banshee. The mother rushed to his side and kissed his face.
“There, boo-boo's gone,” she whispered. The boy nodded and went back to playing.
A mother's kiss. A quick cure to aches and pains. When Jean finds me, no cure in this world will heal the pain he'll inflict upon me. This time I bet he'll toss me back to Italy like he said he would if I tried to run away again. Living in Italy isn't bad, but I'm not going to leave until I'm sure Jean changes. I must save him.
Taylor moved her foot and groaned from the pain that shot up to her calf and leg. In a hurry to get a cab so she could escape, she'd run on the cobbled street without a thought that she might break a heel. So when it broke, it caught her by surprise. Twisting her ankle, she'd landed hard on the ground. It was a good thing she was able to lean on her violin case, which somewhat broke her fall.
Taylor grimaced at the sorry state of her sling-backed, four-inch high heels. The tips were scuffed, and one heel was loose like a tooth ready to come off any minute. Too bad her double violin case didn't have enough room for her shoes. She was barely even able to fit a change of clothes in it for one night. Taking another bag would have looked suspicious so she opted not to carry one. She should have put her toiletry bag in her purse. Oh, well. Later, she'd buy personal necessities.
While on the ferryboat, she had changed into her green blouse with puffy short sleeves. It wasn't her favorite because she practically spilled out of it. Her hip-huggers felt tight, too. God, she must have gained weight since she bought these clothes last month.
Cripes, she shouldn't think about her shoes and clothes. She should focus on her alibi when the doctor asked about what happened and why she came here in the children's clinic instead of a hospital or general practitioner. Well, she could try telling the doctor that another clinic was out of the question because the cab driver she hired after she got off the ferryboat said that this was as far as her cash could go. But how she injured her self? Taylor could say she was born a klutz.
Oh, yeah. I knew my clumsiness would come in handy.
Taylor shifted in her seat.
Come on, what is taking so long?
She didn't mind the wait, but sitting in the same room with sniffing children and one dirty, garbage smelly hobo guy wearing a nice pair of water stained black leather boots and what must be an expensive jacket—if she were to judge it based on the material—with a tear on the left arm wasn't good. Last thing she wanted right now was to catch a cold or flu.
Hobo guy moved his foot. His white shirt and jeans, Taylor noticed, were filthy. One would think he had been in a fight, rolled around in muddy dirt and the only injury he received was the ugly red cut on his arm. Was the cut his reason for being here?
Maybe he, like her, didn't want whomever he had a fight with to find him in the hospital. But she didn't hear him check in. He just walked in, sat down, and then went to sleep. Maybe he called in ahead of time. But then again, why come to a pediatric clinic? Taylor wondered if the man came here from Seattle, too, and like her hoped to find a hiding place on this beautiful San Juan Island.
Taylor looked at the pair of legs stretched across the floor. She wondered what happened to him. Maybe he was in a bar fight last night, got knocked out, and woke up beside the garbage bin. However, with his frame, it would be difficult to do that unless the tosser possessed the same height and build. Funny thing though, despite the man's appearance and stench, the young receptionist practically swooned when he walked in. She said a breathy hi and then giggled. The poor thing turned bright red, making her pimples more visible. Surprisingly, the girl had managed to take her eyes off this—maybe over six feet tall—man who closely resembled a troglodyte. Long tangled hair, dirty clothes. Yeah, a caveman.
The air stirred. Taylor got a whiff of the man's pungent smell. If it weren't rude to pinch her nose, she would have done so now. So she just tried to control her breathing until her chest felt like exploding. Sheez. Didn't this guy know he could infect the babies with whatever he was carrying? If a cockroach started crawling out of the man's jacket, she'd be out of there in a hurry. The hell with her broken ankle.
Yew! I hate cockroaches.
Too bad the waiting room was full, otherwise she'd sit somewhere else. The doctor here must be raking in dough. Good for him, but tough for her because she had to wait. Who knew how long it would take before the nurse called her name. Three mothers with wailing kids came in the same time she checked in. It was so loud and chaotic that she didn't even catch the doctor's name. Not that she was interested. All she wanted was for the doctor to give her something for the pain and put a cast on her ankle. There were two doctors here, but the receptionist named Cindy said Doctor Edmund with a last name she couldn't remember would see her. Whoever treated her would be fine with her.
Jean had a private doctor at his beck and call. Taylor had never experienced waiting in a clinic's waiting room. She grew up having her own nanny and a nurse to tend to her without ever leaving her room if she were sick. Being a daughter of a rich congressman had its own advantages, but she'd exchange a bus for a limousine anytime.
Wiggling her toes, she scanned the room.
Looks like this clinic is the best in town. It's Toyland here.
Whoever designed the waiting room had comfort and entertainment in mind. Kids and parents could wait here all day without complaint.
Finding Nemo
played on the twenty-four inch flat screen television, a small playhouse stood in the corner, and toys of all shapes, sizes, and colors were everywhere. Who wouldn't want to be here? Even the moms looked happy.