What's in a Name? (15 page)

Blake leaned forward and rested his
hands on the table. “Stockbridge seems to be going a lot more than
the extra mile here. Am I allowed to know why?”

She glanced up from the things
scattered on the polished wooden expanse. Did she see jealousy in
Blake’s face? And why did it please her? “He thinks he owes me. His
kid was having problems when we first met. I kind of helped
out.”

She handed Blake a corporate Visa card.
“Here. Charges go to EnviroCon. Sign it William Cranford.” She
caught herself before she looked him in the eye. “Don’t abuse it.”
She tucked the second one in the pocket of her slacks.

“
Are you ready to talk
to me yet?” Blake sat down across the table again, his eyes
narrowed. There was an edginess to his tone, one she hadn’t heard
before.

“
About
what?”

“
Don’t play games.
Start anywhere. Maybe with who we are, how I’m supposed to act,
where all this cloak and dagger stuff is coming from. I figure
pretty soon you’ll be telling me EnviroCon is a front for one of
the government alphabet agencies.”

“
No. It’s exactly what
it claims to be. Stockbridge is CEO and he has a few connections,
but he’s not doing anything shady. Bill Cranford works for him,
pretty much the same way I do. I’ve never met him, but according to
Stockbridge, at the moment he and Emily are on vacation, sailing
all over the Caribbean. The main thing is they’ve never been on a
project in Oregon before. EnviroCon has three possible new ones
coming up and it’s normal for them to bring in potential
consultants for site visits, discussing the scope of work, meetings
with brass, should anyone wonder what Bill and Emily are doing
here. But the biggie is we now have credit cards. And ID—more or
less.”

She showed him an EnviroCon ID card
with his name on it. “I’ve got one, too, even though Emily doesn’t
work for EnviroCon. Let’s hope nobody checks that deep. We’ll need
to add photos—laminating would be good, too. Why don’t you find a
phone book and see if there’s someplace nearby that does passport
photos.” She pulled open the big manila envelope and dumped stacks
of bills on the table. “Four thousand cash advance. I believe I owe
you about three hundred, plus whatever you think you’ll need.”

When Blake’s hand reached for the
money, she raised her gaze. He took several hundred dollars, stuck
it in his wallet and went to the couch. “Your eyes are green. Too
much,” he muttered. “I’m in a fucking James Bond movie. Too fucking
much.”

“
Enough is all I’m
asking.” She opened the file folders and stared at EnviroCon’s Camp
Getaway records. There had to be an answer in there.

* * * * *

Blake turned away from the television
and watched Kelli at the computer, amazed at how she could focus on
the screen for so long. Watching her gave him eyestrain. She’d been
at it for hours. Even from his vantage point across the room, he
saw the fatigue and frustration. She clicked, took notes, referred
to her files. Every once in a while the printer would whirr and
she’d pull pages out, make more notes and stack them in piles. He
stepped behind her chair and rubbed her neck. Her scent wafted up
to him and he longed to bury his face into her hair. He pushed the
thought away, accepting it as progress when she didn’t jump at his
touch.

“
Time for a break,” he
whispered in her ear. “You’re burning out.”

She lowered her head, giving him
clearer access to her shoulders. “You’re probably right. I’m
missing something.”

When she ran her fingers through her
hair, he saw the rings on her left hand and another one on her
thumb. He touched it and she spun around, as though he’d given her
an electric shock. She yanked it off her hand and thrust it at
him.

“
I forgot. I’m not
sure it’ll fit, but if it does … well, we’re supposed to be
married.”

He accepted the simple gold band. When
it fit over his knuckle, he saw her eyes tear up. “Stockbridge
didn’t send this, did he? It was … your husband’s.”

She wiped her eyes, but couldn’t wipe
away the blush. “I need to work. I’m good for a while longer.”

“
I’m not, and the
passport photo place closes in an hour. Let’s get that done, and we
can have a drink at the bar in the hotel. Dinner, too, unless
you’re afraid to be out in public too long. I’m going stir-crazy in
here.”

“
I guess
so.”

He took her hand and touched her rings.
Then his. “I know this is tough.” She looked so vulnerable, so
lost, he’d pulled her against his chest before he realized what
he’d done.

She stayed there for a long moment and
he felt their heartbeats pulsing in rhythm. When she broke away, he
gave her hands one last squeeze.

He had to clear his throat before he
could speak. “We’d better get going.”

“
Tell me what you
found,” Blake said over drinks at the hotel bar. He let himself
enjoy Kelli as Emily. She dressed—well, none of those overalls,
baggy sweats and flannel shirts. Thinking of the utilitarian cotton
undergarments he’d seen in her dresser at Camp Getaway, he wondered
if her new image extended below the surface. He chided himself for
being so crude, but he’d caught her looking at him every once in a
while and there was something in her eyes. Or should he chalk it up
to the rush of surviving a life-or-death situation?

“
Not nearly enough.”
She crumpled a cocktail napkin. “Camp Getaway’s been planned for
years. Thornton’s a philanthropist—he’s backed half a dozen
projects geared toward inner city kids. But he’s got connections to
all sorts of companies, corporations, foundations, you name it—it’s
going to take a lot longer to see if there’s any way to connect him
to Robert. So far, he’s exactly what he seems to be.”

She was having white wine, but spent
more time spinning her glass than drinking. Kelli seemed totally in
control of everything except taking care of her own personal needs.
A blind man could see the headache behind her eyes.

“
You want to order
something to eat?” When she shrugged, he motioned to the bartender
for a menu. What would Bill Cranford like? Or, more appropriately,
what would Emily Cranford eat? “An order of crab rangoon,
please.”

He swiveled his stool to face her.
“Okay, Sweetheart. I forgot to ask you before. How long have we
been married? Do we have kids?”

Her eyes twinkled and The Shake came
back. “Eleven years. Two girls. Amanda and Angela.”

He raised his eyebrows. “For real?”
When she didn’t answer, he followed her gaze to the television
above the bar. Although the sound was muted, the caption said,
Murder in the National Forest
and there was a formal
photograph of Park Ranger Doug Peterson in uniform, smiling.
Kelli’s face lost its color.

Shit. He’d figured Peterson was dead
from the way Scumbag had talked, but he hadn’t mentioned it to
Kelli. He gripped her elbow to steady her, but she squirmed away
and bolted.

Kelli’s hands shook as she fumbled with
the key card for their suite. When the green light flashed, she
shoved the heavy door open and raced for the TV remote. Stopping at
Headline News, she paced, waiting for the story to cycle back. Doug
Peterson was dead. She remembered Scumbag wearing the soiled
uniform. The uniform she’d crammed into Blake’s lockbox. Blood, not
mud. She remembered the baseball cap in the Park Service truck.
Decker must have killed Doug Peterson.

The door opened. Blake didn’t speak,
simply took her hand and led her to the couch. He dropped a small
Styrofoam box on the coffee table. Smells of grease and seafood
brought a wave of nausea and she pushed the box away. “Can’t.”

He got up and took it to the small
refrigerator. When he came back, he handed her a tumbler. “Some
brandy might help.”

Her hands shook, but she managed to get
the glass to her lips and take a swallow. It burned all the way
down and her eyes watered, but she felt a little calmer. Together,
they waited out a blur of news stories until Doug Peterson’s face
stared at her again. She strained to listen, to make the words
penetrate the buzzing in her head.

Doug’s body—his naked body—had been
discovered this afternoon by a group of hikers who had been
clearing debris left by Saturday’s storm. The medical examiner
estimated he’d been dead since then. The exact cause of death had
yet to be determined. Animals had interfered with the integrity of
the body. Kelli swallowed.

“
Easy,” Blake
whispered.

Scumbag’s picture flashed on the
screen, with a booking photo identifying him as Sanford “Sandman”
McGregor. The newscaster’s dispassionate voice said McGregor was
suspected of Doug Peterson’s murder and an assault on a local
merchant.

She gasped when Hank’s wizened face
appeared, with a
General Store Owner Henry Digby
caption
below it, tape footage dated the day Scumbag had attacked her. Hank
was standing in front of his store with a bandage on his
forehead.

A newscaster’s arm held a microphone to
Hank’s face. “He came in wanting to find that new kids’ camp
they’re building near the park. When I asked why, he got mad. It
takes more than a whack with a stick to get past my hard head,
though.”

Hank’s voice faded and a man identified
as a deputy sheriff came on screen. “There appeared to be signs of
a struggle at Camp Getaway, a joint effort of philanthropist
Phillip Thornton and Spokane-based EnviroCon. Two employees working
on the project are missing. We are continuing to explore all
avenues in our investigation.”

A phone number to call with any
information was superimposed on McGregor’s picture and the news
moved on to the next story.

“
They’re not likely to
release much to the public at this point,” Blake said.

Cold sweat trickled down her back. “He
… he must have killed Doug right before he came for me.”

The idea he was cold-blooded enough to
murder someone and carry on a friendly conversation kicked her in
the gut. Her head swam and her stomach roiled. Was she responsible
for Doug Peterson’s death? She’d accepted the burden of Robert—he’d
died by her own hand. But Doug had been a dedicated ranger,
committed to nothing more than protecting what he considered his
land. Anger overpowered her nausea. She pushed away from Blake and
went to her computer.

Blake followed and stood behind her.
“What are you doing?”

“
I’ve got a name for
Scumbag. I’m going to find out everything there is to know about
him and see why he was looking for me—you—us.”

“
Can you do that?
Isn’t that information all classified, or secure, or
whatever?”

She turned and gave him a long, hard
stare. “You’re Blake Allan Windsor. Your thirty-sixth birthday was
April seventh. You own a sixty-one Corvette. You graduated from
Central High twenty-fifth in a class of two hundred. Excellent
credit rating, don’t carry balances on your cards. Payments on your
Chicago apartment are deducted from your checking account on the
fourth of every month and for that kind of money, it’s probably a
very nice place.”

“
Condo, to be
technical, but go on.”

She shrugged. “You’ve never been
married. One brother. Your father died eight years ago. You went to
your junior prom with someone named Bambi.” She grimaced. “Bambi.
Sheesh, Windsor—and I’ll bet you scored, too. Your choice in
condoms is—”

“
Enough.” He ran his
fingers through his hair. “I don’t suppose you Googled all
that?”

“
Only the high school
yearbook stuff. You were cute. Had to hack for the
rest.”

“
Don’t tell me you
could find out what brand of—”

She had to laugh. “No, I saw them in
your bathroom kit.”

“
Of course you
did.”

Was it annoyance she saw in his face?
She pressed forward. “Seriously, Windsor. I looked at the so-called
dossier Hollingsworth gave you. If he paid anyone to dig that out,
he was robbed. All it said about me as Casey was that I worked with
computers. Ever hear of CompSecure?”

“
No. Some computer
security company? You worked for them?”

She shook her head in amusement. Blake
smiled back.

“
Windsor, I
was
CompSecure. I designed security systems for a lot of the big
players out there. I’d tell you who, but I’d have to kill you.” She
felt her face get hot, then cold.

Little black specks swam in her
peripheral vision like gnats. “Oh, God, I didn’t mean that—how
could I say something like that after what just happened?”

Blake took her ice-cold hands in his
warm ones. “Hey, it’s okay. Those clichés pop out and I know you
didn’t mean to belittle Peterson’s death.” He rubbed her hands
between his. “I’m thinking it’s going to be room service for
dinner.”

“
Not
hungry.”

“
That’s not the issue.
You’ll eat. The only question is, do you order or leave it to
me?”

* * * * *

Blake set the tray of dishes in the
hall outside the door and returned to the couch. Kelli had eaten a
bowl of soup and half a portion of salmon while some computer
program ran. Swallowing his frustration at not being able to help,
he deferred to her request that he stay out of sight and alternated
his attention between her and the television set. Most of the time
she stared at the monitor, sometimes chiding, chastising, or
praising the readouts as screens blinked in and out while he tried
to watch television. She’d looked at him and smiled once or twice,
but he felt about as useful as one of the throw pillows. He yawned.
Kelli’d gotten her second—or was it her third?—wind and was
muttering to the computer again.