Undercover Memories (13 page)

From the direction of the shots, he knew Korenev was on the stairs but he dared not risk looking for an exact location. He could if he had a mirror, however, but where did a guy like him keep a mirror in a place like this except fastened to a medicine cabinet? There wasn’t time to fool with that.

Wait a second. He was right next to the kitchen, and he must be some kind of gourmet cook because he’d spied a whole rack covered with stainless-steel pans.

He covered his movements with more shots and took one of the frying-pan lids from the rack. The top of the lid, the side without the handle, was very reflective. Holding it like a shield, he got back in position by the broken window.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered, inching the lid above his head with one hand while firing the gun with the other as a distraction. Korenev returned fire and by angling the shiny lid and happening onto a wayward shaft of light, John was able to pinpoint Korenev’s position.

Korenev was halfway up the stairs, creeping closer. The weapon he toted was not the gun he’d lifted from Brian Witherspoon—this was an assault weapon that would tear a man’s flesh off his bones.

A second later, Korenev must have spied the makeshift mirror because he fired a shot. John released the lid just in time to keep from losing a finger or two. In the next instant, he stood and fired. A roar from Korenev thundered on the stairs. A second later, the big man fell to the cement floor, and it seemed the building shook. John risked a look.

Korenev had survived the fall. He was grasping his left leg, but he was already repositioning his weapon.... The guy was like a cockroach—invincible.

Time to get out of there. John ran across the apartment as fast as anyone could. He was on the fire escape and down to the ground without even noticing he’d grabbed his satchel in passing. There was no sign of Paige. He debated going to the back and shooting out the van tires, but that would put him in direct sight of the door.

He heard an engine behind him and turned to see Paige’s car. She pulled to a stop beside him and he yanked open the door and fell into the passenger seat.

“Where’s Korenev?” she asked.

“I wounded him. Go back down that alley.”

“Is he going to follow us?”

“Not if I take out a tire or two.”

Korenev had figured out how to open the sliding doors and stood inside, stooped over, but he straightened when he heard the advancing car. The van was too far away for a debilitating hit from John’s revolver, and no way did he want to drive into that yard and get close to a madman wielding an AK-47. He took a shot at Korenev for good measure…and missed. Korenev raised his weapon.

“Let’s get out of here,” John yelled.

Paige pressed down on the accelerator and they shot toward the street.

John turned in the seat to watch the road behind them. So far, so good.

“Now we know for sure Korenev killed the man in the fire truck,” Paige said, “and that you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Yeah. I think the old man must have been at my place taking care of the fire trucks or something when Korenev showed up. Maybe the old guy left the gate open and the sliding doors, too. Maybe Korenev just rolled right in, walked up to the open window and overpowered him. Then he went upstairs and took what he wanted.”

“I wonder what he wanted,” she said.

“I do, too.”

“And if he just steals whatever he wants, including cars, why does he keep taking old wrecks?”

“Probably because they’re easier to hot-wire. And maybe it has something to do with the fact their owners might make less of a fuss when their vehicle turns up missing.”

Once again, they flew over the bridge into the city. John held on for dear life as Paige took a sudden right, and then they were traveling downhill into the dark.

He turned in the seat to find she’d entered a parking garage. She pulled up to the automated gate and took a ticket. The arm swung up and she steered them to the ramp that led up, and then kept going until they were on the roof. She parked in the southwest corner, where they could see the entrance of the garage three stories below.

“What now?” she asked as she turned to him. She dug his photos out of her pockets as though just remembering them. Most were creased, one was torn.

He took them from her and looked through them, studying each, hoping something would awaken some little memory that would leapfrog into total recollection. He paused when he got to the one of him as a child. That it was him there could be little doubt. Same shoulders, same eyes, same ears.

“Nothing is helping me get my memory back,” he said, discouraged almost to the breaking point. What was it going to take?

Paige took the manila envelope out of the satchel and reached inside for the passport. “You didn’t travel a whole lot before the Canadian trip and then the one to Kanistan last month. And you went one day and came home the next.”

“I wonder why I went.”

“This looks like an address book,” she said, liberating a small, red leather-bound book. “See if any of the names jump out at you.”

She stared at him as he searched the pages, her eyes anxious, her fingers pleating the hem of her jacket. He had one of those funny feelings that she was trying to find a way to tell him something. “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “There’s something I didn’t mention. Something about you.”

“Great.” He heaved a deep breath. “Okay, I’m ready. What is it?”

“You’re not going to like it, so I’m just going to spit out the facts because that’s all I know, anyway. The reason you left the police department was because you got caught accepting a drug bribe. It didn’t say how much or anything. I guess the department kind of settled for you paying back the money and leaving quietly because of your hero status thanks to saving the congressman. I’m sorry I held it back.”

He was a cheat, too? In addition to what else? And if he’d been drummed out of the very department that was undoubtedly now looking for him, would he even have a chance to plead his case before they locked him away?

How did you defend your character when you didn’t know what kind of character you had, especially when there was a dead guy in your place of residence?

“I don’t know what to make of that information right now,” he said at last. “I’m going to try to ignore it for the time being.” He studied the names on the page: Addison, Burton, Carlisle. No bells, no whistles, no nothing. Not until he hit the
D
s. “Here’s something.”

“Someone you remember?” Paige asked anxiously.

“No. But I’ve seen the first name recently. Natalie, last name Dexter. Isn’t she the redhead in the photo?”

“Yes, yes.” Paige shuffled through the photos and handed him the right one. “This might be her or it might not be. The woman who gave the interview was named Natalie, too, and she must have known you pretty well. It’s got to be the same person. I’m going to talk to her.” Paige drew out her cell phone. “Give me her number.”

He read it off as she punched in numbers.

Paige waited a moment or two and then said, “Natalie? Natalie Dexter? Yes, hello, my name is, uh, Julia. Julia Roberts.” She laughed and added, “No, not the movie star, I’m afraid. Actually, I’m a writer doing a story on John Cinca for a newspaper. Oh, just a little one up in the mountains. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

She listened for a bit. John tried to read what was going on, but for once her expression was neutral. She shook her head as she resumed speaking. “Well, actually, I’m not in the mountains right now. I’m in Lone Tree because of a family thing. I saw your name on a report.” Another pause to listen followed by a sucked-in breath of excitement. “You will? Right now? I’m sure I can find it. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes. Thank you.”

“You warned me you were a good liar,” John said when she hung up.

“Nice of you to notice,” she said.

“Except for the Julia Roberts thing.”

“I drew a blank.” She returned his flicker of a smile, then turned serious again. “I need to find Sunshine Coffeehouse. She said it was on Main.” Paige gestured toward the street below. “That’s Main down there.”

“I’ll go,” he said.

“No, you won’t. Who knows how this woman feels about you? One glance and she might call the police. Besides, you live and work here. Your face was all over the place when you saved that congressman. Anyone might recognize you. This place can’t be too far away. Natalie gave me a cross street and I remember seeing it when we first drove into town. Vine, that’s it. Main and Vine. I’ll go meet her and come back here and we’ll figure out the next step. Stay out of sight, okay?”

He wanted to protest, he wanted to take control—this was his life even if it currently resembled an avalanche.

But she made sense. He would stay in the car and look at every scrap of paper they’d salvaged and maybe something would get through to his subconscious.

“Now it’s my turn to tell you to be careful,” he said. “Anatola Korenev knows exactly what you look like.”

“You shot him. His leg was all bloody.”

“You don’t really think a little thing like that will stop him?” John said.

* * *

P
AIGE RECOGNIZED THE
woman from the photograph the moment she walked into the crowded coffeehouse. Though seated, Natalie Dexter appeared tall and willowy with large, green, expressive eyes framed by waves of auburn hair. She wore a faux-fur-collared sweater over trim slacks and sipped something frothy from a coffee mug.

“Natalie?” Paige said in greeting.

Natalie gave Paige a quick once-over and smiled. “You must be Julia,” Natalie said, extending a hand. She gestured at her coffee and added, “Would you like something?”

“What you’re having looks great. I’ll go up to the counter—”

“No need, sit, please, the waiter here is really nice.” Natalie waved a hand and a young man in an apron appeared at her side as though he’d been awaiting her summons. “Will you bring us another nonfat mocha, Billy?” she asked.

The coffee arrived as Paige draped her coat over the back of her chair. She’d stopped at a drugstore along the way and bought an inexpensive digital audio recorder. She dug that out of her handbag and said, “Do you mind?”

“I guess not,” Natalie said. “Like I mentioned on the phone, I’m a little pressed for time.” She raised her left hand to glance at her watch. A large solitary diamond sparkled on her ring finger. It looked a whole lot like an engagement ring. “What would you like to ask me?”

Are you engaged to John Cinca?
was what Paige wanted to ask, but she didn’t. “How do you know Mr. Cinca?”

“We met when he was a policeman and I worked as a court stenographer,” she said easily. “We started dating.” She shrugged. “We got real close, even talked about marriage.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No.” She sat back in her chair and met Paige’s gaze. “Have you met John?”

Paige mentally crossed her fingers and lied. “No.”

“He’s a wonderful guy. I was crazy about him.”

“But…?”

“But he had all these closed doors.”

Paige took a drink of the warm, chocolate coffee to give herself a moment to think. It tasted comforting and homey, sensations that seemed almost foreign at this point.

“Could you explain what you mean by closed doors?” she asked.

“Oh, you know. Emotionally, he wasn’t very available. It’s not hard to understand why. I mean, he didn’t know anything about himself before the age of ten because of the amnesia.”

Paige clasped her hands together in her lap as she leaned forward.
“Amnesia?”

Natalie glanced down at the tape recorder and shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said that, especially to a reporter.”

“I won’t use it, I promise.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Please,” Paige insisted. “You have to explain.” Was it possible John’s whole life was a blur?

“I can’t. You’ll print what I say in your newspaper.”

“I won’t, but even if I did, his life isn’t a secret, is it?”

“He’s very private.”

“If he’s suspected of murdering at least two people, do you really think his secrets will stay buried?”

Natalie bit her lip and shook her head.

Paige regarded the other woman with curiosity. “Why did you agree to talk to me if you didn’t want to be honest about John? What’s the point?”

Natalie’s lips parted, then she shook her head again. “I’m worried about him, that’s all. I hate hearing people talk about him like he’s a monster. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?” She looked away and then back. “I guess you’re right. No matter what’s going on, his life will be an open book from now on, won’t it?”

“I think so,” Paige said.

“He just didn’t like to talk about the past because so much of it was unknown or unpleasant. John was an only child. When he was ten or so, he was in a car accident that killed his folks. He was in a coma for weeks. When he finally awoke, he didn’t remember anything. Not his parents, not the accident, nothing. His grandparents explained everything, but there were big holes, missing details they refused to discuss. The grandparents told him his father had been American, working in England when he and John’s mother, their estranged daughter, died. They showed him all his papers and everything, but they didn’t speak much English. His teenage years were difficult, to say the least.”

John was raised in Kanistan. Why didn’t that surprise Paige? “I’ve heard he has burn scars,” she said. “A result of the accident?”

“Apparently.”

“I’ve also heard he collects antique fire engines.”

“Oh, that. That’s a new passion, but most of the collection actually belongs to a guy named Frank Elton, a strange old guy, kind of a hermit. I haven’t seen John’s new place in the warehouse district, but my fiancé has and he says it’s full of fire trucks. He thinks John was allowing Mr. Elton to keep them there when he lost the lease on his old place. John always had a weak spot for both loners and firefighting equipment.”

Frank Elton must be the dead man in the fire truck. Paige rubbed her neck as she pondered what to ask next. Her fingers rolled over the fine chain that supported the owl pendant. “Do you know anything about any, um, phobias, he might have?”