Hot Pursuit (3 page)

 

The envelope was still waiting on the edge of her desk. Taylor didn't have to look to see the neatly typed label and the expensive gray paper.

She put the lasagna she had taken on the counter and went in search of silverware. Next came spring water with a wedge of lemon. An Irish linen napkin. Her knee ached as she raised the blind, giving a brilliant view of hilly San Francisco streets and a distant glint of water.

She turned.

The envelope was still there on her desk, mocking her, making something turn over in her chest. She didn't have to see the papers inside to know what they said.

You are encouraged to keep the department or this agency informed of your current address in order to permit a response to any inquiry concerning medical or social history made by or on behalf of the child who was the subject to the court action terminating parental rights.

(a) Section 9203 of the Family Code authorizes a person who has been adopted and who attains the age of 21 years to make a request to the State Department of Social Services, or the licensed adoption agency that joined in the adoption petition, for the name and address of the adoptee's birth parents. Indicate by checking one of the boxes below whether or not you wish your name and address to be disclosed in such a case:

Below were three simple lines.

•  
Yes

•  
No

•  
Uncertain at this time; will notify agency at later date

The last line was checked.

Taylor closed her eyes. Someone had conceived her—whether in lust, boredom, or dread, she didn't know. Nine months later she had been pulled shriveled, red-faced, and terrified from a stranger's body and she probably would never know the reasons why. Taylor felt an explosion of fury at the woman who had turned her head, ignored her cries, and handed her over to a stranger. She hated whoever her mother was, wherever she was, whatever her reasons. She hated—and yet her heart was a ragged, seeping wound, torn in two by regret and a vast longing.

With shaking hands she reached for the legal document, which had been shoved unnoticed and misfiled inside a collection of forms returned after the death of her family's longtime lawyer. One call and she could initiate the search that would strip away thirty-five years of lies. One call that would open yet more wounds.

Her fingers shook. She strained, trying to touch the envelope, her heart pounding.

On her desk, the phone rang. Taylor froze, her hand still outstretched. She took a breath in and out, slowly, as if her life, her whole future, hung in the balance. Then her eyes flickered to the small digital screen and she read the number.

Pick up the phone. Say one word. Say yes and they'll start searching, trying to open the records and find your mother.

Your other mother.

But Taylor couldn't move. Tears came as the phone went on ringing, each peal a new assault bringing a fresh stab of indecision.

If she didn't say yes, she'd never know the truth of who she was. She was entitled to a background history at least, with a reasonable assessment of genetic risks and medical concerns. If she didn't fight for answers, the holes in her past would grow larger every year, until the anger and uncertainty overwhelmed her.

But she couldn't move, tears hot and slick on her face, knees shaking, heartsick.

The phone finally stopped ringing and the silence settled around her. She thought about a baby crying in the night and she thought about the mother she'd never known, and then she slid slowly back against the counter, her wet face pressed against her hands while harsh, racking sobs consumed her.

It was Candace's call that roused her nearly an hour later. After a cautious glance at the number, Taylor answered with a voice that wasn't quite steady.

“Taylor, what's wrong?”

“It's—it's my leg, Candace. The stitches. You know.”

“Tell me about it.” Candace gave a shaky laugh. “I've thrown up twice today, and I
never
throw up.” She took a sharp breath. “But you're okay, right?”

Taylor forced her thoughts away from the envelope on her desk. “I'm fine. We walked away and that's what counts.” She hesitated. “Are you certain you gave me all the climbing gear we used?”

“Absolutely. Not that I'd ever touch those things again. The rope really took a beating. But why—” Candace hesitated. “God. You really
do
believe that Harris arranged this, don't you?”

“Let's just say I want some answers.”

“But it
had
to be an accident, Taylor. I checked every inch of that rope myself, along with the bolts and carabiners. Everything was in tip-top shape this morning.”

“I'm sure it was.” Taylor was determined to have the gear examined by an outside expert. If Harris had tampered with anything, Taylor was going after him big-time. But until then, she was telling Candace nothing about her plan. “So what have you heard from Lover Boy?”

“He called a few minutes ago. He asked how things were going and if we'd had a good climb.”

“What did you say?”

“Everything's peachy. That's what I should have said, isn't it? Not tell him the truth?”

Taylor rubbed her forehead, where a slow throb was building to a major headache. “Don't tell him anything. Next time he calls, just hang up.” Taylor still couldn't figure out why Harris would try to get rid of Candace. Was he tired of her, angry with her, or was he afraid that she knew too much about some kind of trouble he was involved in? “I still think we should call the police.”

Candace made a low sound of protest. “Not until I know what's wrong. All of this could be a mistake.”

“Have you seen the silver Lexus again?”

“I haven't gone out since I got home, but I'll get the license number if it shows up. Meanwhile, I just wanted to say how sorry I am. Your first outdoor climb should have been fun and exciting. Instead it was . . .”

A certified nightmare,
Taylor thought grimly.

But she kept her voice level. “Forget it, Candace. We'll deal with Harris if he was involved. I should be thanking you. With all these aches and bruises, I have no energy left for anything but writing, which is what I should be doing anyway.”

“That makes me feel better. And good luck with the new book. It's a sequel, right? With a heroine who is a novice climber?”

Taylor felt her headache grow. “That was the plan, but for some reason I can't get any of my characters to do what they're supposed to do. The good ones keep turning bad, and the bad ones keep redeeming themselves.”

Actually, Taylor's creative flow was at a standstill for the first time in her life. She knew it had nothing to do with the climbing accident and everything to do with the big gray envelope lying on her desk. “Speaking of which, I'd better get back to it.”

“Of course. I'll call you with that plate number. Meanwhile, maybe you should relax, go get a haircut and a pedicure. You know, let yourself be pampered.”

“That's the best idea I've heard all day. But first I have to finish another chapter. So many murders, so little time.”

Candace chuckled. “That's funny, considering you're the least bloodthirsty person I know.”

If Rains kept up his nasty tricks, Taylor decided she might develop a taste for bloodshed. But until then, she had work to do. She hung up, gritted her teeth, and padded to her office, determined to wrestle six characters into abject submission.

Chapter Three

Taylor's hands were covered in green glop.

She stared at her nails, submerged beneath cold gel. Seventy-five dollars an hour, and you got green glop. They could charge you an extra fifty dollars for aromatherapy vitalizing essence, and it smelled nice, but it was still dish soap as far as she could see.

After two days at home, her bruises had healed to the point of being a minor irritation. The stitches were progressing more slowly, and every tug brought back memories of her wild tumble before the lower bolt had caught, gripping her rope and breaking her fall. But she'd shoved down the terror and plunged into her work, emerging with twenty new pages. As a reward, she'd headed off for an hour of R and R at the expert hands of her old friend, Sunny de Vito.

Candace was right. Pampering was definitely in order.

Right now Sunny was staring at her, and Taylor realized she hadn't heard a word her friend had said. “Sorry, I wasn't listening.” Taylor blinked at her stylist, whom she'd known from her reckless high school days near Carmel.

Sunny waved her styling scissors. “Forget about your climbing accident. We've got more important things to discuss. I said, Do you want layers?”

“Sure.” Taylor frowned. “But no dye.”

“Whatever.” Sunny went to work, and hair flew. “You've always been a daydreamer, ever since I met you back in ninth grade.”

“Daydreaming is good. Actually, it's half of what a writer does. And don't remind me of high school, please.”

Sunny grinned. “I'll try not to, although that skirt you made out of duct tape comes immediately to mind. But I'll shut up while you try one of those Belgian truffles.”

Taylor eased her teeth into a decadent treat that left her toes curling and thought about Harris Rains. A simple search on the Internet had revealed that the lab Rains worked for did $12 million a year in recombinant DNA research. No information was available about their specific clients or projects.

The fact that she'd glimpsed a silver Lexus SUV at a cross street outside her apartment had to be a coincidence. Meanwhile, she had considered the situation from every angle, and sometime near dawn she had come to a conclusion.

Harris Rains deserved to have a stalker. Nothing overt to make him paranoid, of course. Just enough to find out what he was up to. Taylor had also called a friend and made an appointment to turn over Candace's climbing gear for his expert assessment. If she hadn't been facing a book deadline, she would have done more research herself, but such was life.

She considered her half-eaten truffle and smiled nastily. She was looking forward to some part-time surveillance on Harris Rains. After writing books on the subject, it would be a snap.

“Stalk who?” Sunny stared at her from behind a pair of styling scissors.

Taylor realized she'd been muttering. “No one.”

Her friend took a step back, not fooled for a second. She shoved a hand on her ample hips, a vision in black Lycra and magenta chiffon. The nose ring added the final touch of North Beach hip. “You aren't going to fight me about the highlights, are you? You
need
highlights.”

Like she needed a nose ring. “No highlights, Sunny. Just a cut.”

Her friend snorted. “Highlights would help, you know.”

“Help with what?”

“You're looking whipped, my dear. Too much running around and not enough Pilates.”

Taylor turned to glare at her image in the mirror. Sure enough, there were disgusting dark circles under her eyes. Taylor scowled. Book deadlines were hell, as every author knew. It was wonderful to
have
written, but the actual process unfolding in the real, live present tense usually sucked.

Especially when the dreaded
b
word came into play.

B-l-o-c-k.

Taylor closed her eyes at the mere thought. Fortunately for the reading public, writing was like childbirth: You forgot all the agony when you held the finished product in your hands, exhausted but radiant with a delirious sense of completion.

She sighed. Only 427 more pages to go. Meanwhile, she had to do something about her dark circles. “Okay, maybe a facial, but no highlights.” Every time she came here, Sunny talked her into going a shade lighter. Now her hair was right on the edge of strawberry blond, and there was no way Taylor was going any further.

“Something in a nice ash tone would work.”

“Absolutely not. Highlights, but
no color
.”

“What are you so afraid of?”

“I'm afraid of nothing.”

“Fine, then we'll go for the strawberry.” Sunny gestured to a man behind a cabinet full of bottles. “I need New Passion #54, Jerome.”

Taylor stood up. “That's it. I'm gone.”

“My, but
someone's
snippy today. Not enough Vitamin B
₁₂
, I imagine. What you need is some lovely wheat grass.” Sunny nodded to another ascetic-looking young man working a juicer at the front counter. “One Green Goddess over here, Sanford. Double chlorella.”

Taylor felt a gag reflex starting. “Scratch the Green Goddess.”

Sunny waited gravely.

“Fine, fine. Forget the green slime, and I'll take the highlights.”

Sunny smiled benignly. “They always do.” She crooked a finger, leading Taylor to a station with combs, curlers, and twenty sizes of foil. “So what's happening with your next book? I can't wait to see how you follow up on
The Farewell Code
.”

Taylor hid a grimace. “Oh, the writing's going great.”
All twenty-four pages and two paragraphs of it.
“Slow, but great.”

Sunny frowned. “Isn't your book due in May?”

“Hey, everything's under control,” Taylor lied smoothly.

“This from the queen of last minute? You know that kind of stress is hell on your system. Let me see your fingernails.”

Taylor grimaced.

“Just what I suspected. They're bitten down to stubs. Why don't you start writing sooner? How much research does one book take?”

Taylor's eyes narrowed. “Do I tell
you
how to cut layers or handle a curling iron?”

“Try it and die.”

“I rest my case.”

“I was just offering a little advice.” Sunny tossed a cover over Taylor's shoulders and pushed her down for a shampoo. “So what's your angle this time? Embezzlers, immigration scams? A white slavery ring? You know, my uncle was just telling me yesterday that he couldn't wait for your next book. He has his whole reading club waiting for it, too.”

Taylor swallowed. “Your uncle Vinnie has a reading club?”

“Just a few guys from the old days. You know, back in Little Italy.”

A transplanted New Yorker, Sunny's uncle Vinnie was now famous in certain parts of San Francisco, namely police headquarters. He had a rap sheet the size of a city block, and thirty years ago he would have been a dead ringer for Tony Soprano. Even now when he walked into a room, women felt a frisson of excitement—and grown men felt their insides churn. He was as “made” as you could get and not be floating in the Hudson River.

“Gee, that's . . . nice. Tell him I said thanks.”

Sunny stabbed at the air. “You have any trouble with anyone, Uncle Vinnie says to let him know. He's serious. He has ways to handle problems.” She made two fingers into a gun.

Taylor squirmed on the imitation velvet chair. “I'll pass on the hit, Sunny.”

“Hey, you never know. If Vinnie can't help you, my cousin Giovanni will. He lives in Vegas, but he's got business interests all over, if you know what I mean.” Sunny finished the shampoo and tossed a towel around Taylor's head.

Taylor squinted around the towel. “Actually, I could use some information on a man who works in a lab in Pacific Heights. He may be in some kind of trouble.”

“And?”

Taylor chose her words carefully. “And he may be threatening a friend of mine.”
He may also be threatening me.

Sunny said something in Italian, tossed down her comb, and pulled out a cell phone. Today it was magenta, to match her blouse. “Let Uncle Vinnie handle this. He's got finesse, you know.”

As far as Taylor could see, Vinnie de Vito had about as much finesse as Robert de Niro in
Raging Bull
, but she decided not to mention it when Sunny was being so helpful.

Her friend punched in some numbers. After preliminary family chitchat and the usual questions about when she was going to give up the beauty business and settle down with a nice Italian man and make a big family, Sunny got down to business. “Taylor's here, Uncle Vinnie. Yes, of course I gave her your love. Yes, I told her you're waiting for the new book. The thing is, she needs some help.” Sunny winked at Taylor. “No, not that kind of help, Uncle Vinnie. Just some information. She's working on her next book, and she needs to check on a local lab.” She gave him Harris Rains' name and the lab name, listened for a moment, then covered the phone. “He says he'll mail you a cashier's check for a thousand dollars if you send him the pages for his reading club as soon as you're done with the book.”

“I wouldn't dream of—”

Sunny spoke into the phone, then looked up. “He says five thousand.”

Taylor swallowed. “He'll have the first copies, no money asked.”

“You're on, Uncle Vinnie. No charge for the pages. So, can you make a few calls about Harris Rains and his lab? We'll be here at the salon while Taylor gets some color. Blonde,” she added firmly.

Taylor glared.

Sunny ignored her. “Within the hour? Great. I knew you could do it. We'll be waiting.” Sunny cut the connection and rolled back her sleeves. “Let's get to work.”

Taylor watched foil squares flutter in the air currents, listening to Sunny's latest gossip about who was getting hair extensions and BOTOX injections. At the same time, another part of her brain was running through plot possibilities.

The writer's curse: always being two places at once.

She sat up tensely when Sunny's cell phone rang. Sunny made notes on a pad, then hung up. “Harris Rains, this is your life,” she announced. “Vinnie got everything: home address, home phone, cell, and fax numbers. You also have his driving record. My uncle said to tell you this guy could be a little flaky, judging by his credit history.”

“He got all
that
?”

Sunny shrugged. “Banking records, too. He's made some bad stock investments, it seems.”

It had taken him, what, twenty minutes to snare a stranger's complete life story? So much for the sanctity of banking laws and institutional privacy.

Taylor frowned, wondering how easy it would be for someone to get all the details of
her
life, birth records in particular.

One demon at a time.
“Is it accurate?”

“Trust me, my uncle never gets false information,” Sunny said gravely.

Taylor could believe
that
. Giving Vinnie de Vito false information could get you fitted for a cement tuxedo and a nice permanent berth beneath the Oakland Bay Bridge.

“So how's Rains' credit?”

“Six cards. All maxed out.”

“No kidding.” So much for Candace's assurances that Harris was rolling in cash and expecting a huge stock bonus any day. Stocks didn't always equate to liquid assets, as any survivor of Wall Street's latest roller-coaster antics could warrant.

Sunny unfolded the first piece of foil and stared gravely at Taylor's hair.

“Well?” Taylor waited anxiously. “Please tell me I'm not going to have hair like Pamela Anderson's.”

“Of course not. Her hair's long, and yours is short.” Sunny opened another foil section. “Interesting.”

Anxiety skittered into panic. “Interesting as in why-is-she-trying-to-look-like-Pamela-Anderson-but-with-short-hair?”

Sunny glanced at Taylor's chest. “Sorry, but you're out of luck in the breast department, too.” She unfolded another piece of foil. “Stop worrying. When I'm done, you're going to knock people dead.”

Taylor closed her eyes. Knocking people dead was exactly what she was afraid of. When she looked up, Sanford of the Green Goddess drink was standing beside Sunny, holding out a large basket lined with green paper. “A messenger just dropped this off up front. He said it was for Taylor O'Toole.”

“Flowers 'R Us? That means a secret admirer for sure.” Sunny did a snappy high five with Sanford, followed by some sharp finger moves. “I just love stuff like this.”

“I don't
have
any secret admirers. And no one knows I'm here.”

“Stop being so cynical and open the gift.” Taylor took the basket from Sunny, then tugged at the gaudy metallic bow. “I don't know about his taste.” She removed the ribbon and dug away three layers of green waxed paper, then stopped cold.