Behind the Shadows (4 page)

5

Leigh left the small grill. Seth and David always made her feel better. Even worthy of their friendship …

Damn you, girl, can't you do anything right? You'd fail basket weaving
.

Her grandfather's voice was just as harsh in her head as it had been when he was alive.

I don't want to be a basket weaver
.

Don't be smart with me
.

She had stood silent, one of her rare bouts of defiance. He scared the hell out of her.

Not that he had been violent. But one look, one word could send grown men slinking away. She'd watched him do it …

Only Max stood his ground in her grandfather's presence.

She'd always respected Max for that, even as she resented him. He'd been like a big brother when she was a child, but now he was a yoke around her neck. She knew she'd made mistakes, especially with her marriage, and again—embarrassingly—with the last man she'd almost wed, but she'd sworn off men now and she wanted—needed—some acknowledgment that she could care for her own money.

The horse show association believed her competent enough to head their largest charity event of the year, and they seemed pleased with her ideas. At her suggestion, the club voted to support a horse camp for handicapped kids, a small triumph for her.

Enthusiasm bubbled up inside. She was going to show Max that she'd finally taken control of her life.

Chris Burke's awaited call came on the second morning at 11:00 a.m. “I've narrowed it down to two possibilities,” he said. “I think we should meet.”

Kira took a deep breath. She hadn't really thought he could move this quickly. Now she wasn't sure she was ready.

Don't turn coward now
.

She looked up at the newsroom clock. “Deadline's at noon. Can we meet near here for lunch at twelve thirty?”

“You name it.”

She searched her mind for a place few others in the newsroom frequented. She didn't want any questions. Not now. “There's a sub place two blocks away.”

“Okay.”

She gave him directions, then hung up and returned to her story. She stared at the computer. Her concentration was gone. So much depended on what Chris had discovered. Possibilities, she reminded herself. Possibilities only.

Thank God, the story wrote itself. A zoning matter that had a neighborhood in an uproar. It did have the hint of something deeper, though. The councilman representing the district had suddenly reversed himself in favor of a planned multiunit development. She made a note to look into it when she had the time.

That list was growing. She had little time for enterprise journalism these days.

She left the building at 12:15 p.m., her heart thumping harder with every footstep.

He was already there, anchoring a table in the crowded room. Two subs and two teas were already on the table. “I hope you don't mind me ordering for you,” he said as he stood to meet her. “It was getting crowded and I was afraid we would be asked to leave without ordering.”

“That's great. Thanks.” She sat and looked at him expectantly. “You said there were two possibilities. Are you sure it's only two?”

“I'm not sure of anything,” he said. “I said ‘possibilities.' I'm pretty sure that it's not the other eleven, though. I eliminated some because of race or physical characteristics. Others because of time of birth. I don't think a switch could have happened even two or six hours after your birth. It had to be in the first few minutes after birth. Once the doctors determined the baby was critical, she would get immediate attention. Too many people would be involved after that.”

“Who are they?”

“One's in North Carolina. She's married. Three kids.”

“Her mother?”

“Her mother lives in Sarasota with her husband. There's three other children.”

Sisters? Brothers?
Her heart thumped even faster. She'd always wanted brothers and sisters.

She desperately wanted to know, but that question could come later. “And the other?” she asked.

“She lives in metro Atlanta. Fayette County. Married once. Divorced. I have to warn you. She looks a little like the mother who raised her. There's a lot of photos of both. They're prominent and wealthy.”

“How wealthy?”

“Very,” he said, watching her. “Her late grandfather was principal owner and president of a conglomerate.”

“Damn,” she said.

He raised one eyebrow. “Why damn?”

Her reaction was instinctive. She never really thought she was a reverse snob, but maybe she was. “If she's the one, then she has resources to fight any attempt to prove she's not who she's always believed she was.”

The eyebrow went higher. “You would rather the family be poor?”

“I don't know,” she said, suddenly ashamed. She was prejudging. “Where do we go now?”

“That's up to you,” he said. “I could go to them and ask for a DNA sample.”

“Then they might call an attorney who would then contact the hospital, and the media.”

“True.”

“I can try to get a DNA sample from the woman here,” she said. “Then we could confirm that she's Mom's biological daughter and go from there.”

He studied her intently. “How would you go about that?”

“Tell me more about her,” she said, ignoring his question.

He handed her two sheets of paper. She scanned them.

The name “Westerfield” leapt up at her. She knew it well. Ed Westerfield had been a power in the metropolitan Atlanta business community, and a Westerfield was currently the favored candidate for Congress in his district.

She continued reading. Leigh Howard was Ed's only grandchild, her mother his only child. Leigh was a socialite who dabbled in several charities and was recently named chairman of a charity horse show.

Bells started ringing in her reporter's head. She was never unethical, at least she hoped to hell she wasn't, but a little deviousness was sometimes helpful, like reading a letter upside down in the mayor's office or pretending to know more than she did to get information. Reporter tricks.

“What are you thinking?” he asked. “Or maybe I shouldn't ask.”

“Nothing to worry you,” Kira said. She was in a hurry now. A plan was already forming in her mind.

His expression was dubious.

“Just find out everything you can about these two women,” she said. “Particularly Leigh Howard. Is that her married name?”

“No. It's her maiden name. Her mother, Karen Westerfield, married Glenn Howard.”

“Find out everything you can about her. Her grades, her likes, her activities. Her habits. Anything.”

“I looked her up on Google,” he said. “There's lots of stuff.” He hesitated, then added, “She's had a lot of tragedy. Both her mother and father were killed in an accident when she was six. She was critically injured.”

“Maybe that will make her sympathetic. She would be gaining a mother,” Kira said even as the impact of his words sank in and her heart dropped. If Leigh Howard was the right person, then her own biological parents were dead. She would never know them.

“If she's the right one,” he warned. He changed the subject. “How's your mother?”

“Getting weaker every day.” Just saying the words sent fresh jabs of fear—and anger—through her. How could her mom die when a kidney could save her?

“I'll stop by and say hello.”

“You won't say anything about the blood tests?” she said, suddenly alarmed.

“No,” he said, “but maybe she
should
know.”

“What if this woman isn't her daughter? What if we never find her? It would be excruciating for her.” She stared into his eyes. “You promised.”

“So I did,” he said. “And, of course, I'll do as you ask. But think about it.”

She'd thought about nothing else for the past few days. If she were in her mother's position …

She rose. “I have to get back, but I can't thank you enough.”

“I'll call if I discover anything else,” he said. “I'm trying to find the physicians and nurses on duty that day. Unfortunately, personnel records are hell to get these days.” He paused. “Try to find out from your mother the names of her doctors when you were born.”

Kira nodded and slipped from the booth without eating. Her appetite was gone. Her mother had only a few weeks to live without a transplant.

Now she had something far more important to do than eat.

“Why in the hell do you want to do that?” her city editor asked. His brows furrowed as he studied Kira with suspicious eyes.

“A change might be nice,” she said.

“You want off the city beat?”

“No,” she said. “I worked for it too long, but I haven't done a feature in a long time, and a friend was telling me about this horse show. I just thought a little variety …”

“Now tell me the real reason,” Wade Carlton said. “You fought tooth and nail to get the city hall beat.”

“I know. And I want it. I'll do the other story in my spare time.”

“In your spare time?”

She winced. He knew she had no spare time, that every minute spent away from the paper was spent with her mother. He'd repeatedly let her leave early or take a day off without penalty, and now he looked at her with questions in his eyes. Why would she spend some of that precious time on a frivolous feature about a debutante with too much time on her hands?

“Do you know anything about horses?” he asked patiently, still hunting for an answer,

“No, not much,” she said honestly. Although she could justify withholding certain information, she wasn't going to lie. Not directly. Dammit, she wanted to tell him everything. He was her friend as well as her boss, but this could turn into front-page headlines throughout the country. She couldn't risk that yet.

“And you just picked her out of thin air in your sudden desire to write a fluff piece for the first time in five years?”

“Not very plausible, is it?” she said.

He just sat there and stared at her. “It's important to you, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Is there more to this story than what you told me?”

“There could be.”

“And you can't say more?”

“Not right now.”

“I've always trusted my people,” he said finally, making her feel as low as a pig's belly. “Take tomorrow and do the story. I don't think there will be a problem with the feature editor.”

“I'll need a photographer.”

“What time?” he asked.

“I'll have to let you know after I talk to her.”

“Let me know by four so I can send down a photo assignment. Even then it's iffy. With the legislature in session, we have a shortage of photographers available for feature stories.”

She nodded. “Understood. And thanks.”

“Not necessary. You're a good reporter. I like your instincts.”

She nodded and hurried to her desk. She had to set up an interview tomorrow. Usually organizations were more than eager for good publicity, and she planned to give it to Leigh Howard.

6

In fifteen minutes, Kira had her interview. She'd contacted the paper's sports department. The events reporter there had the telephone number of a publicity contact person for the horse show.

The word “feature” did wonders. The very enthusiastic contact person said she would call Ms. Howard immediately and set up an interview.

Ten minutes later, she had a call back. Leigh Howard would be happy to grant an interview about the show.

She could have gotten it easier herself. A phone book would have done quite nicely. But going through channels gave her a legitimacy that she needed.

She picked up the phone. Her hand shook slightly. This could be the most important call she'd ever made. What kind of person was Leigh Howard?

She punched in the number, and it was answered almost immediately. A soft, Southern-accented voice answered with a simple, “Hello.”

“Ms. Howard?”

“Yes?”

“I'm Kira Douglas with the
Atlanta Observer
. We're interested in doing a feature on the upcoming horse show. I thought we would have more readership if we told the story through your eyes.”

“Any publicity will be welcome,” Leigh Howard replied. “We'll have some of the country's best riders here, and we have two great causes.”

“Tomorrow? I realize it's short notice but the earlier we print a story, the more it should help you.”

“Tomorrow will be fine,” the woman said.
Not “the woman,” not just any woman
. Possibly her mother's daughter.

“What about nine?” Kira tried to keep the anxiety from her voice.

“Ten would be better.”

“Ten it is,” Kira agreed. “At your home?”

“Sure.”

“I'll have a photographer with me.”

A hesitancy on the phone. “Is that necessary?”

“It'll certainly draw attention to the article.”

“Okay,” Ms. Howard said, but there was a noticeable reluctance in her voice.

Kira hung up. She stared at the phone for a moment. It was too easy. Nothing was ever that easy …

Then she picked it up again and punched in the photo department's extension. Dick Cooper, the assignment editor, answered. “Cooper.”

“Hey, Coop. This is Kira. I need a photographer tomorrow morning at ten.” She rattled off an address.

“What is it?”

“A feature. Woman and horse.”

“Got an assignment order?”

“Of course,” she answered. “It should be on its way down.” She paused, then asked, “Is Dan available?”

“Why does everyone want Dan?” Coop grumbled. Silence for a moment, then, “Yeah, it looks like he's available, but if anything big comes up …”

“I know,” Kira said. “Thanks.”