Callahan And McLane: Targeted Part 27

Is it possible that gene came from this man?

Watching him carefully, she relaxed her spine an inch. "Where are your kids now?"

"Both still live in San Diego. I have four grandkids."

"Do they know about us?" she whispered.

"They do. They're the ones who encouraged me to start looking. They're curious about the two of you." He paused. "My wife died a few years ago and I never told her about the affair. But a year ago I was having issues with depression and started to drink. I couldn't get your mother's last words to me out of my mind, and I finally confessed to my children. After some initial anger, they forgave me and said they were glad their mother never knew. Then they tried to help me find the two of you."

"How's the depression?" she asked. Is this where Jayne's mental illness came from?

"Better. Some therapy and some meds and having a goal in life brought me around." He frowned. "I take it your sister has long struggled with mental health issues?"

"Most of her life. I hang on by my fingertips most of the time. I swear the goal of not becoming my twin is what keeps me from falling over the edge." She clamped her mouth shut, uncomfortable with the private fact she'd just shared. Pity filled his eyes and she looked away.

"I'm sorry about your mother," he said softly. "Cancer took my wife, too."

"It's a brutal disease."

"Absolutely."

"Do you have any paperwork that proves you're related to us?" Ava asked, knowing it was a pointless question; she'd doubt anything he produced.

His shoulders sank. "I have nothing. Not even pictures. I got rid of the few I had of us together."

Because you were married.

"My mother never showed us any photos of you," Ava stated. Part of her wanted to make this man hurt. "She said you pa.s.sed through her life too fast." He winced, and she had a spark of satisfaction.

"It was brief," he agreed.

"The place for the father's name on our birth certificates is blank."

"I saw that. I have copies."

"We were poor all our lives," Ava said, twisting the knife she'd plunged in his chest. "My mother worked her b.u.t.t off waiting tables and was promoted to restaurant manager to provide for us. Some days she didn't eat so that we could."

He closed his eyes. "I would have helped had I known."

"Would you?" she said sharply.

"I would. We always had plenty."

She exhaled, hating the thought of this man living the high life in San Diego. Probably in a big home with a pool. She could envision a young boy and girl playing in the water with him and his wife. One big happy family.

I never wanted for love. Mom always gave plenty of that.

"I had to get an after-school job as soon as I was old enough. We needed the money."

He met her gaze. "I'm truly sorry."

She swallowed and looked away. "You might be wrong. This could all be a mistake."

"It could be, but I don't think it is. I have something to show you." He pulled out his cell phone and touched the screen. "This is a picture of Kacey." He held out the phone.

Ava eyed the phone. From her angle she could see a picture of a woman with dark hair. She was terrified to look closer and squeezed her hands in a death hold under the table. He moved the phone closer to her.

"Take it," he directed.

She wrenched her hands apart and took the phone. Kacey had her eyes. Hers and Jayne's. Her face was more oval, and her nose and mouth were different, but the eyes were the same dark blue with dense lashes. Ava blinked and enlarged the image, searching for differences.

There was no denying the eyes. Or, according to David, the voice.

"Do you understand why you caught my attention on the news? And why I had to find out more?"

She nodded. "What does your son look like?" she asked softly. He reached over and swiped the screen. A blond man with two toddlers appeared. He was the spitting image of David. Ava understood how her mother must have been swayed if David had been as good-looking as his son when he was younger.

"Now tell me where Jayne went." She was exhausted and still craved a large gla.s.s of wine. She handed back the phone.

David looked at Glen and gave a small nod. "She and Brady Shurr flew to Costa Rica," said Glen.

"Costa Rica? Seriously?" Anger surged through her and she wanted to hit something. She was working a huge serial killer case and trying not to worry about her missing twin only to discover she'd taken a vacation with her new married boyfriend? "I'm going to kill her," she muttered. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes until she saw white spots. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Not surprised?" asked David.

"Nope. Jayne has always done whatever strikes her fancy without thinking twice about how it affects anyone else."

"Surely her taking a trip doesn't affect you," said Glen.

"In all your investigating, did you find out the cost of that treatment center she'd been in? Who do you think was paying for that? I wanted her to get well!" Her voice rose an octave. "You bet it affects me. Every stupid thing she does affects me because I have to pick up the pieces. I've distanced myself as far away from her as possible, but then she pulls a stunt like this?" She stood, more than done with the conversation and the haunting image of the woman who resembled her.

The past should stay in the past.

"I have a bunch of dead police officers on my hands. I'm not going to waste my time thinking about my twin as she lays on a sunny beach in Central America." She held back the expletives she wanted to call her sister. "You'll understand if I don't care to see either of you again? Sorry about that, Dad." Red anger blurred her vision as she pushed out of her chair and headed toward her car.

Screw Jayne.

Screw David claiming to be my father.

In her car she paused long enough to send a very brief email to Jayne.

What the f.u.c.k did you do?

She put her phone away, started her car, and threw it in reverse. Sweat had cropped up under her arms, and she cursed as she realized she had on a silk blouse. She counted to ten and focused on the road.

She had a killer to find.

29.

"Oh, honey. I'm so sorry, but I' m not feeling well today."

His mother rested her head in her hands at the breakfast table. He'd known she wouldn't be able to make it to his basketball game, but he'd asked anyway. Hoping . . .

"I understand. Maybe next time."

"Of course, darling. I love to watch you play. You're sooo good! But as you can see, my eyes are swollen and I look like a mess today. I shouldn't go out in public."

"You look great, Mom. You always look great."

She beamed at him.

He gave a weak smile. It made no sense to him that she needed to hear his eighth grade opinion on her looks, but it always cheered her up. He'd noticed she'd been very down since the last man hadn't fulfilled his six-month agreement. He'd stopped hoping for one of the mentors to last longer than the six months they signed up for. Over and over the men had proved that they were unreliable. Maybe it was part of their profession.

Deep down he'd prayed one of them would fill a need for his mother. But they had all left. Some after the first week or two. Clearly they didn't know how to fulfill a commitment. His mother needed someone stronger than the losers who'd been a.s.signed to him.

Last week he'd told his mother that a friend's father was interested in meeting her. She'd asked what he did for work and then refused when she found out he worked at Macy's department store. "Boring," she'd said. "Retail sales, really?"

"Maybe he can get you a discount?" he'd suggested.

She'd looked interested for a brief second and then refused again.

For some reason she was drawn to cops.

He thought cops were cool, too. When he asked, they'd always show him their weapons. One had let him hold an empty gun after showing him how to remove all the ammunition. Most of them said they'd never had to fire their weapon. One of them had said his words and his voice were his best weapons.

That was stupid.

If he was a cop he'd pull out his weapon all the time to get people to behave. Who wants to argue with people?

"I'm going to take a shower and see if it clears up my sinuses," she told him. "Clean up your dishes, okay?" She stood and strolled out of the room, leaving her own dishes on the table.

He put hers and his in the dishwasher and then wiped up the crumbs she'd left by the toaster. He studied the kitchen, an inspection to spot anything else she could get upset about. It looked perfect. It was the least he could do for her since she was so sad.

"Honey?" she called from her bathroom.

He hooked his backpack onto one shoulder as he headed down the hallway, knowing he needed to be out the door and on his way to the bus stop in a minute. He stopped outside her bathroom door. "What?"

"I can't reach the b.u.t.tons on the back of this s.h.i.+rt. Can you help me real quick?"

"Sure." He waited for her to open the door a crack so he could slide an arm through. The door opened wide and she stood with her back to him. She'd already removed her sweatpants and underwear. He stared and then yanked his gaze up to her back. With shaking hands he undid her b.u.t.tons. Her bra was black, with lace.

He grabbed the door handle, stepped backward, and slammed it shut.

Holy cow.

Sweat bloomed under his arms. He'd never seen his mother naked before. She opened the door three inches, peering at him with her wide blue eyes. "I'm sorry. Did I surprise you?"

"Uh . . . no." His voice shook.

"It's okay, honey. I'm your mother. No big deal."

He didn't know what to say.

"Go to school. I'll see you tonight after your game."

He turned and left.

They lost the game. The other school had crushed his team and twice his coach had yelled for him to get his head in the game. He'd ridden the late activity bus and he slowly plodded up the street to his house. He didn't want to go home.

In his mind he kept seeing his mother in the bathroom that morning. He felt dirty, like when he'd looked at the naked layouts in his friend's magazine. Those women were wh.o.r.es, posing for men to stare at. His mother wasn't like that. His mother had never let anyone see her naked in her whole life.

Except for him.

Another explicit image from that morning shot through his brain. He hadn't told any of the guys what he'd seen. It was cool to brag when you saw a naked girl or got a hold of a dirty magazine, but he was positive that gloating that he'd seen his mother's naked a.s.s wouldn't score him any points with his friends.

She didn't bring it up that evening. He loaded the dishwasher in silence as she watched TV in the living room, and he hoped she'd forgotten the incident. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was a bigger deal in his head than it should be. She was his mother; she knew what was right and wrong.

But it felt wrong.

Later he brushed his teeth and kissed her good night on the cheek like he'd done all his life. She'd already crawled in bed and was reading a book. He turned to leave.

"Before you go, can you scratch a spot in the center of my back?" she asked. "It's been itching for the last ten minutes and I can't reach it."

He swallowed hard. "Sure, Mom."

She presented her back to him and lifted the back hem of her pajama top. "Right in the center, sort of up high."

He reached out and scratched on top of the fabric up by her neck.

"No, silly. Lower than that. And under my s.h.i.+rt, please."

He grasped the hem of her top and lifted. She wasn't wearing a bra, but he doubted they were worn under pajamas. Black lace from her underwear showed above the waistband of her pajama bottoms. He looked away and scratched.

"Ahhh. Don't stop." She leaned back into his hand. "Press harder."

He scratched faster, trying to hide the tremor in his hand. His gut gave an odd twist and warmth flowed from it out to his limbs. She glanced at him over her shoulder and smiled. "That's perfect."

He yanked his hand away as if he'd been burned. Her s.h.i.+rt fluttered back into place.

"While you're right there, can you ma.s.sage my right shoulder? I don't know what I did to it, but it's aching like crazy tonight."