Magic Moment
Angela Adams
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2012 by Angela Adams
Previously published by F+W Media
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonEncore are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
eISBN: 9781503974098
This title was previously published by F+W Media; this version has been reproduced from F+W Media archive files.
Chapter One
“Laura. Laura Roberts.” The deep, detached voice came from behind her.
Laura swiveled on the round, brown vinyl-covered stool, meeting the hard eyes and two dour faces. Her last name was Roberts, but she didn’t reply, didn’t even nod. Neither man looked familiar. Who were they?
“Special Agent Ross Saunders, FBI,” the grimmer of the two said, waving a badge and I.D. before her eyes.
She stared at the men. FBI?
Sanders tucked the folder inside his jacket pocket. “This is Special Agent Ed Phillips,” he said with a quick nod to the man standing to his left. “We’d like to ask you some questions. Come with us please.”
Laura had seen the two men enter the diner. Identical navy suits, both appeared to be in their forties, graying crew cuts, and equally sour expressions. Although not the customary Rita’s Diner patrons, or Food Mall clientele for that matter, Laura had turned her attention back to her iced tea without giving them a second thought. Now they stood in front of her, flashing badges and identification cards too quickly to read, let alone give her time to note if the picture matched the face.
“FBI? There must be some mistake.” She offered with a polite smile. “I’m Laura Roberts, but I doubt you’re looking for me.”
Saunders’ brow crinkled. “Laura Ann Roberts?”
Ann had been her mother’s name. Laura’s cordial manner disappeared and anxiety crawled through her. “Yes.”
Saunders pushed the glass out of her reach.
“What — ”
He grasped her fingers. “You’re the one. Come with us.”
Laura yanked from his grip. The other agent cupped her elbow, sliding her off the stool.
“Miss Roberts, don’t make a scene,” Saunders whispered. “Come with us. It will only take a few minutes.”
Laura glanced around the nearly filled-to-capacity diner. The customers, although employed by different proprietors, worked in the Food Mall. Those who hadn’t been gawking, suddenly stopped their conversations and meals to take notice. This was a popular lunch hour, and she was now the afternoon’s gossip.
“Laura, everything okay?”
She recognized the male voice and managed to stifle her plaintive groan. Could this calamity get any worse?
Chase Donovan had joined the fracas. Dressed in jeans and a black leather jacket, he was tall and athletic, in his mid-thirties, with a wavy mixture of light, nearly blond, and medium brown hair.
He was also her boss’s son.
A bewildered expression covered Chase’s handsome, chiseled features. He stood so close that as Laura jerked from Phillips’s hold, her elbow nearly whacked Chase in the stomach.
Saunders identified himself to Chase. “We need Miss Roberts at headquarters to answer a few questions.”
“I’d like to see some I.D,” Chase said firmly.
Saunders arched a dark, hairy eyebrow. “And you are?”
“Chase Donovan.” He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. Laura stiffened at his touch, unaccustomed to Chase putting a hand on her, even if in a protective manner.
“Laura works for my father,” Chase said. “If I don’t see some identification, she’s not going anywhere with you.” To prove his point, his hand moved downward and his fingers wrapped gently around her forearm.
Chase also worked for his father, although what his role was within the business was generally debatable among the clientele. This was so embarrassing. In the three years Laura had worked as Dick Donovan’s bookkeeper, her conversations with his son had been work-related or cordial exchanges about the weather. If there was any chance of the floor opening up and swallowing her, she considered now the perfect time.
She turned to Chase. “Thank you for your concern. I’ve seen their identification.” She didn’t mention the hasty badge flip. “They have me confused with someone else. I’ll take care of the error, and get back to the office as soon as I can.”
“Let me go with you.” Chase tossed the men a wary glance. He still held her arm. “You should have an attorney.”
Laura winced, truly mortified. There was no need for an attorney or involving Chase Donovan in calling one. She had done nothing illegal. “I’m fine.”
Saunders grew impatient. “Miss Roberts.”
She eased from Chase’s hold. “Yes, I’m coming.”
She grabbed her purse from the counter and noticed the plate with her turkey on rye sandwich had arrived.
“I need to pay for my lunch.” She looked down the counter for the waitress. “Dinah, I need my check.”
“Miss Roberts,
today
,” Saunders snapped.
Laura whirled, glaring. “You can’t expect me to leave without paying for my lunch.”
“Laura, go ahead,” Chase said. “I’ll take care of the bill, and the office. Don’t worry about anything.”
Already a bit unnerved by the two intimidating agents, she turned and stared into Chase’s mesmerizing blue eyes, adding to her lopsided equilibrium.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Following the agents through the diner, she stopped and pulled her coat from the wall hook. Sandwiched between the two men, she walked to a brown sedan parked outside the Food Mall’s chain-link gated area. A white cardboard “FBI OFFICIAL BUSINESS” sign rested on the front dash. Saunders opened the vehicle’s back door and waved Laura in before sliding next to her on the ivory-colored cushioned seat. Phillips adjusted himself behind the steering wheel.
“That couldn’t have gone better,” Phillips said and shoved the key into the ignition.
“Yeah. That guy was the kid.” Saunders frowned at Laura. “We’ll take you to headquarters for a few questions, and then you can go. This is no big deal for you.”
Laura smirked at the man.
No big deal?
Maybe not to him, but try to convince her wounded pride and tainted reputation.
• • •
The Food Brokers Association Market Mall was one long Philadelphia city block. Known as simply the “Food Mall” to the locals, the conglomerate was a smorgasbord of warehouses. Proprietors supplied produce, fish, meats, poultry, dairy, cheeses, and fresh fruit to restaurants, supermarkets, street hucksters, or even the average consumer who purchased bulk merchandise wholesale.
Chase strode along the cement walkway. He took the steps to Warehouse 106, The Produce Market, and maneuvered his way through stacks of apple boxes and lettuce crates. Several of the men stopped counting boxes when they saw him and shouted greetings. But instead of stopping for his usual postmortem on last night’s basketball game, Chase simply waved and continued toward the office area.
He pushed through the double glass doors and stepped into the suite’s reception area. Two black six-foot metal double-door cabinets. A photocopier. A square table with a fax machine. Three desks with computers. A small refrigerator, and a stand with a microwave, toaster oven and coffee maker. Chase’s glance strayed to an unoccupied desk, Laura’s desk. An opened manila folder held a stack of papers. Green numbers glared from the computer monitor.
Rachel, his father’s twenty-something secretary with bleached blonde spiked hair, sat at her desk, telephone receiver pressed against an ear. Chase recognized a conversation with her sister, embellishing last night’s date.
He didn’t wait for a response to his hurried rap on the varnished wood door, and pushed into his father’s private office. Even with the accepted dress code of jeans or business casual, Dick Donovan had dressed as a professional from the day he stopped being warehouse foreman. Today, wearing a richly designed charcoal suit, he resembled more of a trial attorney than a produce salesman.
In his sixties, and tall like his son, Dick’s eyes were overcast gray rather than his son’s vivid blue. The only signs that Dick soon qualified for withdrawals from the company pension plan were the intensely receding hairline, the silver gray hair that remained, and telltale lines of good living forming around his eyes and lips.
“I went to the diner for a sandwich, and the strangest thing happened.” Despite his father’s lack of acknowledgment, Chase continued. “The FBI came in and took your bookkeeper away.”
This time Dick’s head popped up from his green and white lined computer sheet. “My bookkeeper? Laura?”
“You got another?” Chase replied with a touch of sarcasm.
Dick arched an eyebrow. “What does the FBI want with Laura?”
“They want to ask her a few questions.” Chase paused. “She said it’s mistaken identity.”
“Laura and the FBI,” Dick mused aloud, more bewildered than concerned. “It’s hard to believe she’s involved in anything illegal. I can’t imagine Laura even jaywalking.”
Chase suppressed a cringe. The sound of his father’s voice had always grated on his nerves, like the sound of fingernails scratching on a blackboard. Dick Donovan forced his vocal timbre to sound like that of an English aristocrat rather than a member of the South Philly working-class neighborhood he was born into.
Dick paused. “But we don’t know what Laura does, or who she sees, in her private life.” He shrugged. “Who knows what goes on outside this office? Or in her home?”
