Bringing Baby Home Page 3

  Alex shook her head. “He obviously doesn’t know you—the Florence Nightingale and Mother Teresa of the physical therapy world.”

  She ignored the sisterly dig. Something about the guy had stayed with her long after the encounter. Maybe it was his compelling green eyes, she thought. Like icy fire or fiery ice. She couldn’t decide which. “It’s not like I did it on purpose,” she said, shaking her head to stay focused. “I was reaching for my stack of papers. You know what the suspension is like in my car. Even mini-SUVs are a little top heavy, and I’d hit the curb while trying to avoid his truck. I really do feel awful, though.”

  “So buy him another one,” Kate suggested.

  “I would, but I don’t know his name. Or phone number. Or address.”

  “Did you look in the phone book under Mystery Gardener?” Alex asked, laughing at her own joke.

  “No,” Liz admitted, “but I did call Zeke and asked him to track down the guy’s license plate number.”

  Alex sobered. “You what?”

  Kate sat forward. “That sounds a bit extreme. Why didn’t you contact that pain-in-the-rear next-door neighbor of yours? She hired the guy. She must have his number.”

  Liz turned away so they wouldn’t see her blush. She poured the last of the tea in her mug and said, “You know how much I dread talking to Crissy. She’d have made a big deal out of it, like I was going to undermine her authority or something.”

  When she looked over her shoulder, she saw her sisters communicating in silence. She knew what they were saying and hated the fact that they were right. Liz wasn’t a coward, but for some reason she’d let Crissy—with her doggone Martha Stewart perfection—intimidate the heck out of her.

  “What did Zeke say?” Alex asked.

  “He gave me a hard time about not being on call for the Radonovic family, but he’s hooked on my three-mint tea, so he said he’d do it.”

  Zeke Martini was their mother’s undeclared beau. All of the sisters found this a bit surprising considering he’d headed the investigation that arrested Charles Harmon and brought the dogs of hell yapping at the heels of every Romani in town. No one—aunts, uncles and cousins, included—could seem to understand what Yetta, the acknowledged matriarch of the Romani clan, saw in the silver-haired gaujo—non-Romani—cop.

  “Well, I’m sorry you had a run-in with the guy, but if you’re that curious about him, I still say you should talk to that Crissy woman,” Kate said. “I know how much you hate contentious situations, sis. But my wedding is in two weeks, and I need your complete focus.”

  Liz smiled. Kate was a self-disciplined go-getter who could multitask with the best of them. This blatant plea for help meant her sister was truly in over her head, which Liz probably shouldn’t have found surprising given Grace’s involvement.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “Everything. Finish picking out the new furniture for the house. Find a hair stylist who can whip this mop into some kind of shape. Teach my daughter our old Sisters of the Silver Dollar routines. Make sure my future mother-in-law is taking her medicine. And anything else that crops up. Between the two of you, I’m sure you’ll handle it. I’m going to my room and have a nervous breakdown. Bye.”

  She didn’t leave, of course. And it wouldn’t have done her much good, since her room was right down the hall. Kate and Maya had been living with Yetta since Kate’s divorce. The arrangement had worked out well for everyone during the long, difficult time after Ernst’s death. But, soon, Kate and her daughter would be living in a brand-new house not far from Liz.

  “I’m happy to help. Keeping busy makes waiting to hear from the loan officer that much easier,” Liz said. Plus, cutting and curling her share of the skeins of ribbon Grace had shipped might take her mind off her mysterious cactus man.

  But Kate was right. The person to ask for the name and whereabouts of the man in the tan jumpsuit lived right next door to Liz. So what if Crissy appeared to be living the American Dream—perfect house, two perfect kids and a perfect marriage? Liz refused to be intimidated.

  “COME HERE, YOU DUMB BEAST. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The cat, which David was tempted to call Ugly, switched his crooked tail and stepped behind the bags of soil additives stacked in the corner.

  “Look. I bought you tuna. Not cat tuna. Real, recently-swimming-in-the-sea-meant-for-human-consumption tuna.” He tapped his fork against the outside of the can. The tinny sound did nothing to lure the animal closer.

  “Fine. Be that way. I have to leave in a few minutes and I was sincerely hoping we might settle the question about whether or not we need to get you fixed.”

  The cat was a strange color combination. Mostly gray with hair that was just a bit too long to make a clear call on the neutering situation. But he had two swatches of white. One under his belly and another from his foot to the top of his left hind quarters. He looked as if he’d slipped into an open can of white paint.

  “Okay. We’ll save that talk for later. But I really would like to get that cut above your eye looked at. Could get infected. Gonna leave a scar, that’s for sure.”

  The cat suddenly sprang to the workbench where David potted his cacti that were sold at retail. “Scar. Maybe that’s what I should call you. We both have them, you know. Yours are just a lot more visible than mine.”

  David dumped the fish into a bowl he’d taken from his cupboard. Nothing fancy. A set he bought at Goodwill right after he moved into his place. “I’m using the good china, so no inviting friends over while I’m at work, okay?”

  He bent down and put the bowl on the floor. As soon as he was three steps away, the cat leaped down and attacked the meal. He acted starved, but David had left dry cat food out every day since the animal first appeared on his doorstep—exhausted, beaten-down and bleeding—David didn’t have the heart to turn him away, even though he made it a point not to get too friendly with any living soul—man or beast.

  It just didn’t pay. Not when he might have to pick up and leave at a moment’s notice. Nope. He didn’t do relationships. Which was why he was stalling. He needed to get back to Canto Lane. Unfortunately, that carried the risk of running into the woman he’d yelled at the day before.

  Granted their exchange hardly constituted a relationship, but she’d been on his mind ever since he’d driven away, and that bothered him. Generally, he was a master at living in the present—during the daylight hours, at least. Except on Ariel’s birthday. Maybe that was why the woman with lush black-brown hair and eyes so dark they made espresso look watered down had stayed in his mind. He’d met her in a moment of weakness.

  “Well, I’m not bringing in any money to buy tuna by standing here,” he muttered, pocketing his keys. He rinsed out the can and put it in the garbage can under the sink, then walked to the door. A quick glance told him everything was in order. No telltale hint that might give away his true identity if someone came looking. The box with the only photo he had of his kids was carefully buried under a foot of potting soil. He was safe. For now.

  Not that he had any reason to think Ray knew where to find him—or even whether he was still alive. For months, David had led a double life—working for Ray by day, helping the government build an airtight case against the man by night. The attorneys had assured David that the new life they’d chosen for him would be safe. But as a scientist, David left little to chance. He’d gone willingly into the federal Witness Protection Program, commonly called WITSEC. He’d watched the deputy U.S. marshals in charge of his relocation. He’d learned from them and done some investigation on his own. And a few months after his first rebirth, he’d disappeared again—without telling anyone.

  WITSEC was entirely voluntary so David was sure the feds wouldn’t bother looking for him. His flight might not have been the smartest thing he’d ever done in his life, but he knew Ray Cross. Ray hadn’t reached the pinnacle of success by accepting anything at face value. Ray would dig into records—hell, he’d dig up a grave—if h
e thought there was any chance David, or Paul McAffee, as David had been known in his former life, was still alive. Because in Ray’s book, death wasn’t good enough for the person who betrayed him.

  Ray—like the Grim Reaper—was coming. It was only a matter of when and where.

  Chapter Three

  “His name is David. Not Dave. He was quite firm about that.”

  “David what?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Liz couldn’t tell if her very blond neighbor was being purposefully evasive or if she honestly didn’t know. She and Liz hadn’t connected on any level from day one. Crissy had ambled next door just moments after Liz’s two large, swarthy cousins backed a rented trailer into the driveway and started carrying boxes inside. Hand-me-downs. A few antiques. A treasure or two brought back from her travels. A far cry from Crissy’s place, which—just glimpsed through the window—looked like a page in some home-interior catalog.

  “How is that possible? You pay him, don’t you?”

  “In cash. It’s a big pain with the association’s two-signature system, let me tell you. I just know someone is going to accuse me of embezzlement because I have to make the check out for cash.”

  What a drama queen, Liz thought. They weren’t talking six figures here. “How do you contact him?”

  “I leave my number with an answering service that’s listed on a flyer he had up at the market. He usually gets back to me in a day or two.”

  “That seems like an odd way of doing business.”

  Crissy shrugged. “This is Vegas.”

  As if that explained everything. And maybe it did. People came to Vegas to leave their old lives behind, whether for a weekend or for good.

  “Can I have that number?”

  Crissy crossed her arms just under her perky bosom. Blond, size zero, always perfectly dressed, the woman was so the opposite of Liz it was no wonder they didn’t get along. “What for?”

  Like it’s any of your business.

  Liz shrugged. “He left a hand trowel here yesterday.”

  “Give it to me. I’ll see that he gets it.”

  Damn. No wonder I never lie. I’m really bad at it. “I also want to talk to him about doing something different with my front planter.” Not.

  Crissy leaned forward to glance at Liz’s house. “It could use a fresh look. Just a minute.”

  “It could use a fresh look,” Liz muttered under her breath. Was Crissy’s world really that small that she only cared about the outward appearance of the houses in her neighborhood? Liz recalled the expression on her neighbor’s face at a community meeting when Liz suggested the money the association was spending on speed bumps and beautification might be better served on a skate park for kids like Crissy’s stepson. Crissy had actually blanched at the idea and intently argued that sort of thing was Parks and Rec’s responsibility.

  Later, after the meeting was over, a lady from down the street had pulled Liz aside to whisper that Crissy’s stepson was a thorn in his stepmother’s side. “Eli chooses to live with his mother in Phoenix for a reason—Crissy. Make that two reasons. Apparently his ultracute little sister can do no wrong.”

  That hint had been the first—and only—crack Liz had seen in her neighbor’s picture-perfect facade.

  “Here’s the number,” Crissy said, returning a moment later. “But you’re probably better off grabbing him when he’s in the neighborhood. That’s how I pay him. Just watch and wait.”

  Like I have nothing better to do than stalk a man. Liz thanked her and left. She had a small window of time to work in her herb room before the heat of the day turned her garage into a sweatbox. After she made the tea she had in mind for David-not-Dave—her way of apologizing for yesterday’s fiasco—she would phone Zeke and call off the hunt for information about the man her sisters were calling the mystery gardener.

  Maybe David wasn’t so mysterious. He was just another Las Vegan doing his best to fly below Uncle Sam’s radar.

  Two hours later, Liz sealed the last of the tea bags containing her newest blend. The steam from the iron, which she used to run along the edges of the preformed bag, added to the ovenlike atmosphere in the garage. She used her sleeve to erase the mustache of sweat below her nose.

  She was very happy with this mix, which was specifically designed for a man who spent a great deal of his day outdoors in the sun. She could only guess at David’s age. Early forties, maybe? He’d had the look of a person who knew more about life than he cared to reveal.

  “Takes one to know one,” she muttered.

  She pushed back from her workbench and looked around. She’d converted one corner of her garage into a small herbal pharmacy. She’d used a roll of thick opaque plastic, which she’d stapled to two-by-fours held upright by diagonal cross members. She stored her herbs in the house to protect them from the heat, but this area provided space and fresh air while mixing them.

  The oscillating fan at her feet helped stir the hot air. Her morning visit to her mother’s had cut into her cool time. She shifted her shoulders to catch the caterpillar of sweat inching down her neck. Usually, she didn’t mind the desert climate. She’d traveled on four continents and had grown pretty flexible when it came to hot, cold, rain and snow.

  “Leez,” a voice called from the door leading into the house.

  One of her roommates. Lydia, she guessed. “Yes?”

  “The man. Dig in dirt. Now.”

  Lydia and Reezira, who had been living with Liz since the day Charles was arrested, had spoken practically no English when she’d met them. Television, the Internet and the Clark County library system had changed that. They now knew lots of words. But putting the hodge-podge vocabulary into complete sentences was another challenge.

  “Thanks. I’m almost done here. Keep an eye on him for me, will you?”

  “One eye? Or two?”

  Liz turned back to her mix so Lydia wouldn’t see her smile. “Your pick. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “O…kay.”

  Liz had no idea what was going to happen with her young friends. The police had finally tracked down an interpreter who got their story. It wasn’t a pretty one. Orphaned at very young ages, both girls, who weren’t related, had turned to prostitution for survival. Prisha might find a similar fate awaiting her if Liz wasn’t able to rescue her. Although in Prisha’s case, her physical handicap might make any future questionable.

  The thought strengthened her resolve to do whatever was necessary to procure her loan. She planned to turn in her application as soon as she was done making amends. She’d acted like a nincompoop yesterday when the gardener yelled at her. She should have apologized and insisted on paying for the plant right away. Laughing had no doubt added insult to injury. Being rude and insensitive wasn’t her style. Self-control and kindness were her trademarks. She planned to prove it.

  THE DRY HEAT was a stark change from what David was used to in northern Virginia. It had taken some getting used to, but the vastness of the desert more than made up for the weather. The second half of his childhood had been spent in his grandmother’s claustrophobia-inducing brown-stone in Pittsburg. She’d believed in keeping the curtains, which in later years were thick with dust whenever he visited, closed. Maybe that explained why he liked his sky—and his life—uncluttered.

  Another aspect of his adopted city that he approved of was how easy it was to remain anonymous. That could be true of all large cities, David thought as he worked a second cup of fertilizer into the soil he was preparing for the next planting on Canto Lane. He’d already replaced the flattened cactus that he’d lost his cool over yesterday.

  He glanced toward the house where the woman he’d accosted lived. Her car was gone. But there was some kind of activity going on in the backyard. Music emanated from behind the stucco fence.

  The pushy one wouldn’t like that, he thought.

  Crissy Somethingorother. He’d known a number of women like her in the pharmaceutical industry. Aggressive, focu
sed and intensely concerned about keeping all their boats in the water and at the front of the armada at all times.

  Kay, his ex-wife, had been just the opposite. Gentle and kind. Too forgiving for her own good. She’d forgiven her ex-husband over and over—until he took a swing at one of the boys.

  He rocked back on his heels and reached for the succulent he’d brought from his greenhouse that morning. A hearty survivor. Like him.

  “Hello.”

  He nearly dropped the plant. The woman from yesterday. But her car…He glanced at the driveway.

  “My sister has my car, if you’re wondering why it isn’t in the driveway. Her fiancé bought her a new SUV as a wedding present, but it was missing a couple of bells or whistles. I’m not sure which or how many. I followed her to the shop then she dropped me off. Getting ready for a wedding is no easy task, you know.”

  He didn’t say anything and she gave a little laugh. “More information than you needed, as they say. But you looked curious.”

  “When?”

  “When what?”

  “When did I look curious?”

  “Just now.”

  He gave her a look that usually made people take a step back. “What are you? A mind reader?”

  To his immense surprise, she smiled and nodded. “Um…I have my moments. My mother is a bona fide Gypsy fortune-teller and most of the people in my family think I’m next in line to fill the role of Puri Dye.”

  Pure what? Gypsies? Did she think he was an idiot as well as an antisocial caveman?

  “You think I’m making this up, don’t you? Well, it’s no big deal. I don’t usually mention my background because people have all kinds of misconceptions about the Romani, but you don’t strike me as the kind of person who would be prejudiced.”

  Why? He wondered. Because he was a day laborer. Because he drove an old truck and worked with his hands? He didn’t ask. He had no intention of allowing himself to be drawn into a conversation.

  “Well, whatever,” he muttered and returned to his work.

  “I came outside to offer you a glass of cold tea.”