Without a Trace Read online

  Curiosity killed the cat

  Sarah Montague snatched the note off the door and gazed at the yellow piece of paper clutched in her hand. Her mother must have said that to her a thousand times, usually when Sarah had been poking her nose where it didn't belong. It meant "mind your own business or you'll be sorry." Her instincts told her this case spelled TROUBLE in capital letters. Should she tell Michael she'd changed her mind? She envisioned his haunted eyes. She couldn't.

  She hesitated, remembering his description of his dream. A shiver ran over her as she recalled his words. It's so real. So detailed. I can actually hear the blood dripping on the floor, smell it, feel the cold tiles against my skin.

  Her throat tightened, and a chill slithered up her spine. A little boy hiding under a bed. Blood on the floor. The recollection of another name. Had Michael witnessed a violent crime? And, worse yet, had his adoptive father, Robert De Lorio, committed it?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Catherine Anderson has always loved to write, and stories laced with mystery and intrigue are her favorite challenge. Her elder son, Andy, attends the University of Oregon at Eugene, which made her visits to research the portions of Without a Trace set in Eugene a particular pleasure. Currently she, her husband and her younger son live in Everett, Washington.

  Books by Catherine Anderson

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  92-REASONABLE DOUBT

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  To the three men in my life:

  my husband, Sid, and our sons,

  Andy and John,

  for their unfailing love and support.

  And also to my precious sister,

  Darlene Christean,

  and to her husband, Gerald.

  Special thanks to Betty and Tammi

  White for their help in researching

  the setting of this book.

  Harlequin Intrigue edition published May 1989

  ISBN 0-373-22114-2

  Copyright © 1989 Adeline Catherine Anderson. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9, or Harlequin Books, P.O. Box 958, North Sydney, Australia 2060.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly Inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  ® are Trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.

  Printed in U.S.A.

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Sarah Montague—Her routine investigation had taken a deadly turn.

  Michael De Lorio—His nightmares hid a

  mystery that could destroy them.

  Robert De Lorio—Was he silent about his past

  from stubbornness, or from something more

  sinister?

  Marcus St. John—He said that with proof he'd be happy to accept Michael as his brother's son, but actions speak louder than words.

  Angelo Santini—He'd never expected to see his brother again, and it would have been safer for everyone if he'd been right.

  Brian La Grande—He had plans for Angelo Santini, and he'd been waiting a long time to find him.

  Giorgio Santini—His connection to the De Lorios was hard to trace, and best left undisturbed.

  Father O'Connell—What secrets did this amiable old priest hold safe for Robert?

  Prologue

  Blood dripped off the fringed edge of the chenille spread, splattering in soft plops on the floor tiles. The small boy cowering beneath the bed stared at it, watching as the dark red pools ran into the cracks between the yellow squares. The smell of the blood was sticky in his nostrils, a heavy sweet scent that made him feel sick. Splat...splat... splat. He counted the wet plops, one, two, three, then started over because three was as high as he knew his numbers. Tears stung his eyelids. He took a big breath and held it until his eyeballs burned dry and felt too large for their sockets. Slowly, afraid to make the tiniest noise, he expelled the air from his lungs.

  The silence in the room seemed loud now that the pop­ping sounds had stopped. Where was Helen? Why didn't she say something? He stared through the fringe of the bed­spread, trying to see if the men were still in the room. Had Helen left him all alone? His gaze riveted on his teddy bear where it lay on the floor just beyond his reach. One of its ears was turning red. A sudden ache of longing swept through him for the soft, nubby warmth of the bear's fur against his face. The floor pressed hard against his bare arm, cold and gritty. The fuzz balls tickled when he breathed. His bottom lip quivered, and a stinging sensation crept up the back of his throat. He swallowed and blinked. They'd find him if he cried. He inched his fingers across the tiles to­ward the stuffed toy.

  Soft footsteps approached the bed. The boy jerked his hand back and again held his breath. Helen? Was she com­ing back for him? Through the chenille fringe, he saw a man's shiny black shoes step through the blood and leave red smears on the tile. His heart pounded. His cheek mus­cle twitched. Papa wore brown shoes with brown-black laces.

  "Gino?" a deep voice called softly. "Gino? Are you in here, son?"

  No, no. Go away, go away.

  The shiny shoes stopped. The boy saw a gray pin-striped pant kg bending, the knee touching the floor, soaking up the spatters of crimson. And then a hand fanned under the bed, the fingers reaching like claws. The child shrank into himself, trying to be small so that the hand wouldn't find him.

  "Gino? Don't be afraid. I'm your papa's friend. Gino? Gino, are you under there?''

  The fingers were almost touching him. The child couldn't hold his breath any longer, and it gushed from his lungs on the crest of a scream. "No. Go away. Go away."

  Michael De Lorio sat bolt upright in bed, his throat taut as a hoarse scream erupted from his chest. For a moment, he was trapped in a limbo between nightmare and reality, unsure who he was or where he was. The tenor of his own voice and the cries of the child in his dream seemed blended into one.

  Throwing back the covers, he lunged from the bed to his feet. The carpet tufts felt soft between his toes—soft and nubby like the teddy bear's fur. He shot searching glances around him, so terrified his skin quivered. Slowly the room began to take shape, cast in shadow and pools of moon­light. He could see an oak dresser against the wail, a cushioned rocking chair in the reading corner. His bedroom. He glanced at the luminous face of his windup alarm. One o 'clock.

  His cotton pajama bottoms clung to his sweat-soaked legs. Running his palm over his
bare chest, he traced the muscular contours of his flesh, shuddering as he dragged air into his lungs. He was Michael, Michael De Lorio, thirty- five years old, six foot one, a hundred and ninety-five pounds, a grown man standing beside his own bed inside his own home on City View Drive

  in Eugene, Oregon.

  Gino? Gino? The man's voice from his dream still echoed in his head, and for at least the thousandth time, he won­dered who in hell Gino was? Why did he dream of him, over and over and over again? It was a question Michael had asked himself all his life.

  He went to the adjoining bathroom and wrenched the faucet on, splashing his face. His hands trembled as he lifted his cupped palms. The warmth of the water drowned out the voices that whispered in his mind. Voices. God, how many of his patients would stay with him if they knew their shrink heard voices?

  Grabbing a towel off the rack, he strode back to the bed­room. Blotting his face, he tossed the towel aside as he walked over to the open window. The September night breeze shifted the curtains. Bracing his hands against the sill, he bent one knee and leaned forward so the air could cool his body. The moonlight bathed the trees, turning the flick­ering leaves to silver. The neighbor's basset hound was baying three houses down, his cries long and forlorn. A cat squalled. A garbage can lid clanked. The normal sounds of night calmed Michael, and he closed his eyes.

  Why he dreamed something so crazy, he didn't know. It seemed so real, so god-awful real—as if he had actually lived through it.

  Perhaps he had.

  Michael opened his eyes, staring out the window at noth­ing. Then, with slow, mechanical precision, he walked to the nightstand, flipped on the light and opened his closet. Far back on the top shelf rested an old hatbox. He seized it with trembling hands and went to sit on the bed. It had been years since he had looked inside—so many years, in fact, that he paused a moment, deafened by the rhythmic pounding of his own heart. Then, with teeth clenched and shoulders erect, he lifted the lid. Inside, swathed in yel­lowed tissue paper, lay the cream-colored teddy bear.

  Michael didn't know what he expected to see, but he had to look, regardless. He had done this at least a dozen times over the years, only to find nothing and then he would put the bear back in its box, his doubts put to rest with it. He picked up the stuffed toy and closely examined its left ear, parting the fuzzy nap to see the cloth. Nothing. No matter how closely he looked, he couldn't detect a speck of discol­ored fabric. He tightened his grip on the bear, sinking his fingers deep into the stuffing, his eyes fastened relentlessly on the seam that outlined the ear. It was unthinkable to take the toy apart. His mother had supposedly made it for him before he was born. Since her death, even though he was no longer sure she had done the stitching, it had become one of his most prized possessions, a keepsake that conjured sweet memories of his childhood.

  As well as horrible ones

  Dreading what he must do, Michael took his penknife off his nightstand. What if he destroyed the toy and found nothing? He hesitated, holding the knife in an unsteady hand. Then he pried open the small blade. With grim deter­mination, he cut the threads in the ear seam. As the aged cloth parted, a lump of dread lodged in his throat. Oh, God, there it is. A dark stain on the inner edge of the seam. Almost anything could have left the brown discoloration. Af­ter so many years, it was impossible to say for sure. Cola, maybe? Root beer. Coffee.

  Or blood....

  His shoulders slumped and he squeezed his eyes closed. He could probably get the stain analyzed, but how would he explain it if it did turn out to be blood? Was that what his father had been hiding from him all these years? Had his nightmare actually happened?

  Michael had to find out. If his father wouldn't talk, he'd hire another investigator. And this time, no matter how many dead ends he ran into, nothing would stop him. He had to know the truth before the nightmare drove him in­sane.

  Chapter One

  Sunshine glinted off the gold lettering on the window. Michael paused on the sidewalk for a moment before enter­ing the office. Roots. Good choice of name, short and catchy. He could only hope Sarah Montague lived up to her reputation as a genealogist and proved to be as clever.

  The interior of the office was refreshingly cool on such a warm afternoon. He closed the door behind him, stretch­ing his neck against the stiff band of his shirt collar. He stood on a half-moon of shale-colored tile that led to pale gray carpet. To his right and left, brass-framed end tables flanked identical black sofas. His gaze riveted on the de­tested black color a moment, then circled and came to rest on the young woman in the reception area. She sat hunched forward at her desk, peering in puzzlement at a computer screen. Michael's high hopes sank. This girl didn't match the self-assured voice he had heard on the phone this morning. He stepped onto the rug. "Excuse me, I'm Michael De Lorio."

  The girl lifted her dark head and fastened a vague blue gaze on him. "Oh... hello! I'm Molly Harmon, the secre­tary."

  "I'm here to see Sarah Montague?"

  "Just a sec. She's in back. I lost a file and she's been looking and looking..." She rose from the desk, took three wobbly steps on white stiletto heels and then paused to ask, "What did you say your name was again?"

  "De Lorio, Michael De Lorio. I have an appointment."

  She walked to a rear doorway, repeating his name under her breath. "Sarah? A Mr. De Lorio is here to see you."

  Michael watched the doorway as Molly teetered back to her desk. The dark-haired woman who emerged a moment later reassured him. She was tall, slender and professional looking in a lightweight white skirt and blazer-style jacket. Her rose-colored silk blouse added just the right touch of feminine softness. As she walked toward him, he noted that her burgundy pumps had practical two-inch heels. From the way she moved, though, he imagined she would glide just as smoothly in Molly's spikes. Yes, she definitely had nice movement... nice everything.

  "Hello, Mr. De Lorio. I've been expecting you." Lifting intelligent, sherry-brown eyes to his, she gave him a firm handshake, then led him into an office to his left. Nodding toward a leather-cushioned chair in front of her desk, she said, "Please have a seat."

  As Michael lowered himself into the chair, he flexed his shoulders, trying to relax. He had been dreading this ap­pointment all morning. While she opened a side drawer and sifted through a pile of papers, he studied a picture that sat catty-corner on her desk: a close-up of her holding a gray striped cat. She wore an overlarge sweatshirt in the photo, her sable hair tousled in soft curls across her cheek. Beau­tiful. Not in the classic sense, more sultry and mysterious with those irregular features and dark eyes, but lovely just the same.

  "Here we are." She slid some forms toward him. "You can fill these out here, if you like, or bring them back at your convenience."

  He withdrew his pen from inside his smoke-blue suit jacket, angling the papers across the corner of her desk. "I'll do them here if you don't mind."

  Sarah swiveled on her chair to face her computer, in­tending to continue as usual while he filled out the neces­sary paperwork, but he seemed so nervous and pensive, she sneaked a glance at him. He wasn't at all what she had expected. Hiding a smile, she forced her attention back to her keyboard and began typing. Was it his nervousness that intrigued her? Or those dreamy brown eyes and that wavy black hair? Most of her male clients weren't tall Mediterranean types with broad shoulders.

  A frown settled on her brow. Handsome or not, the ten­sion that radiated from him was almost palpable. She struck a wrong key and reversed her cursor. The back of her neck began to ache. Something about him—she had no idea what—didn't feel right. Her skin began to prickle with uneasiness. The stiff way he held himself, the grim set of his mouth, the quick shifting of his eyes. The word desperate sprang to mind.

  About twenty minutes passed before she heard him shuf­fling the forms into a pile. She turned her chair, reaching for the papers he extended. Giving them a quick check, she said, "You mentioned on the phone that you want to find your birth parents?"<
br />
  "Yes."

  She nibbled on the end of her pen for a moment, skim­ming his history. "It looks as if you've already tried several other agencies. How long have you been searching?"

  "Four years. You see, I didn't know I was adopted until my mother died of ovarian cancer. Her physician told me that instead of having a partial hysterectomy thirty-two years before, she should have had her ovaries removed as well. I was only thirty-one then."

  "So you couldn't have been her natural child. Tell me, Mr. De Lorio, what makes you think my agency may suc­ceed where so many others have failed? Most states are closed, you know. One can't review adoption records in closed states without a court order."

  "Yes, I understand that."

  "You've left a lot of blank spots here, very little info on your adoptive parents. You've listed their birthplaces in California, then there's nothing else on them until their move to Oregon. Have you filled in everything that you can?"

  "No, not everything." His hand tightened on his pen. In the bright light, she could see a sheen of perspiration on the scythe-like bridge of his nose. "I've come up with some new information the other agencies didn't have—my birth name."

  Sarah brightened. "Very good. That would at least give me something concrete to go on. How did you come by it?"

  He glanced over his shoulder, a flush darkening his neck above the edge of his light blue shirt collar. "It's sort of personal. Do you mind?" Pushing up from the chair, he leaned sideways to shut the door. After he sat back down, he raked his fingers through his hair, shifting his gaze to the papers in her hands. "I don't know quite how to start."

  "Try the beginning."

  "That's usually my line. I never realized how hard it is to do. I'm a psychiatrist, you know." Pressing his fist to his mouth, he cleared his throat. "I, um, have this recurring dream. I've had it all my life. Before I discovered I was adopted, I thought it was just that, a troublesome dream. Now I believe it may be the manifestation of a forgotten traumatic experience that occurred in early childhood. It's not uncommon in cases of childhood trauma for a person to bury memories in his subconscious, then remember years later when he's better able to cope."