Remember When

8.

She worried over it. Not just what to say, how to say it, but where to say it. Laine started to set up in the kitchen with coffee and the coffee cake she had in the freezer. But that was too informal, she decided, and too friendly when friendship was at stake.

Vince was a cop, she reminded herself. And Jenny a cop's wife. However tight they'd become over the past few years, the bonds of that relationship could unravel when she told them about her past. When she told them she'd lied to them right from the start.

The living room was better—and hold the coffee cake.

While she agonized if that was the proper setting, she got out her little hand vac and started on the sofa.

"Laine, what the hell are you doing?"

"Planting apple trees. What does it look like I'm doing? I'm getting the dog hair off the furniture."

"Okay."

He stuck his hands in his pockets, pulled them out, dragged them through his hair as she vacuumed, plumped pillows she'd restuffed, fussed with the angle of the chenille throw.

"You're making me nervous."

"Well, excuse me." She stepped back, inspected the results. Though she'd shoved most of the stuffing back in the cushions, arranged them damaged side down, the sofa still looked sad and pitiful. "I have the chief of police and my closest friend coming by so I can tell them basically everything they think they know about me is a big, juicy lie; I've had two break-ins in the same number of days; my father's suspected of taking part in a twenty-eight-million-dollar burglary, with murder on the side and my couch looks like it was attacked by rabid ferrets. But I'm really sorry I'm making you nervous."

"You forgot the part where you had a sexual marathon with the investigator assigned to the case."

She tapped the vacuum against her palm. "Is that supposed to be funny? Is that supposed to be some warped attempt to amuse me?"

"Pretty much. Don't hit me with that thing, Laine. I've already got a mild concussion. Probably. And relax. Changing your name and editing your background isn't a criminal offense."

"That's not the point. I lied to them every day. Do you know why so many scams work? Because after the marks realize they've been taken, they're too embarrassed to do anything about it. Someone's made a fool out of them, and that's just as tough a hit as losing money. More, a lot of the time."

He took the hand vac and set it on the table, so he could touch her. So he could cup his hands on her shoulders, slide them up until his thumbs brushed her cheeks.

"You weren't looking to make fools out of them, and they're not your friends because of your all-American-girl background."

"I could run a bait and switch by the time I was seven. Some all-American girl. I should change." She looked down at the sweats she'd pulled on when the deputy had come by the house to wake her. "Should I change?"

"No." Now he laid his hands on her shoulders, rubbing until she lifted her head and met his eyes. "You should stay just the way you are."

"What do you think you're falling for, Max? The small-town shopkeeper, the reformed grifter, the damsel in distress? Which one of those trips up a guy like you?"

"I think it's the sharp redhead who knows how to handle herself, and gives in to the occasional impulse." He lowered his head to press his lips to her forehead. He felt her breath hitch, a sob that threatened and was controlled. "There are a lot of sides to her. She loves her dog, worries about her friends, she's a little anal on the organization front, and I've heard she cooks. She's practical, efficient and tough-minded—and she's amazing in bed."

"Those are a lot of opinions on short acquaintance."

"I'm a quick study. My mama always said, 'Max, when you meet the woman, you'll go down like you've been poleaxed.'"

A smile twitched at her lips. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Hell if I know, but Marlene's never wrong. I met the woman."

He drew her in, and she let herself take the warmth and comfort of him, the sturdiness of being held against a strong man. Then she made herself pull away.

She didn't know if love meant leaning on someone else, but in her experience, that sort of indulgence often sent the leaner and the leanee down to the mat.

"I can't think about it. I can't think about it, or what I feel about it. I just need to take the next step and see where I land."

"That's okay."

She heard Henry's crazed barking, and a moment later the sound of tires crushing gravel. There was a quick dip in her belly, but she kept her shoulders straight. "They're here." She shook her head before Max could speak. "No, I have to gear up. I have to handle this."

She walked to the door, opened it and watched Jenny play with Henry.

Jenny looked over. "Must be true love," she called out, then started toward the house. "Getting me out of bed and over here before eight in the morning must be a sign of true friendship."

"I'm sorry it's so early."

"Just tell me you have food."

"I . . . I have a coffee cake, but—"

"Sounds great. What are you having?" She gave her big, barking laugh, then shut it down when she saw Max. "I don't know what I think about you being here. If you're some big-city detective, why didn't you say so?"

"Jenny." Laine laid a hand on her friend's arm. "It's complicated. Why don't you and Vince go in the living room and sit down?"

"Why don't we just sit in the kitchen? It's closer to the food." And rubbing circles on her belly, Jenny started back.

"Okay then." Laine took a deep breath, closed the door behind Vince. "Okay."

She followed them back. "This might be a little confusing," she began, talking as she set out the pot of herbal tea she'd made for Jenny. "I want to apologize first off. Just say I'm sorry, right off the bat."

She poured coffee, cut slices of cake. "I haven't been honest with you, with anyone."

"Sweetie." Jenny stepped over to where Laine stood meticulously arranging the cake on a garnet glass dessert plate. "Are you in trouble?"

"I guess I am."

"Then we'll fix it. Right, Vince?"

Vince was watching Laine. "Why don't you sit down, Jen. Let her say what she needs to."

"We'll fix it," Jenny said again, but she sat, bored through Max with a steely stare. "Is this your fault?"

"It's not," Laine said quickly. "It's really not. My name's not Laine Tavish. It is . . . I changed it, legally, and I've used it since I was eighteen, but it's not the name I was born with. That's Elaine O'Hara. My father's name is Jack O'Hara, and if Vince was to do a background check on him, he'd find my father has a long and varied sheet. It's mostly theft, and cons. Scams."

Jenny's eyes went round and wide. "He doesn't run a barbecue place in New Mexico?"

"Rob Tavish, my stepfather, does. My father got popped—" Laine cut herself off, sighed. How quickly it comes back. "Jack was arrested and sent to prison for a real-estate scam when I was eleven. It wasn't the first time he'd been caught, but this time my mother had had enough. She was, I realized later, worried for me. I just worshiped my father, and I was doing considerably well, considering my age, at following in his footsteps."

"You ran con games?"

There was as much fascination as shock in Jenny's tone, and it made Laine smile a little. "Mostly I was just the beard, but yes, I did. Picking pockets was turning into my specialty. I had good hands, and people don't look at a little girl when they realize their wallet's been lifted."

"Holy cow," was all Jenny could say.

"I liked it. It was exciting, and it was easy. My father . . . well, he made it such a game. It never occurred to me that when I took some man's wallet, he might not be able to pay the rent that month. Or when we bilked some couple out of a few thousand in a bogus real-estate deal, that might've been their life savings, or a college fund. It was fun, and they were marks."

"And you were ten," Max added. "Give the kid a break."

"You could say that's what happened. I got a break. The direction I was heading in convinced my mother to change her life, and mine. She divorced my father and moved away, changed her name, got a straight job waiting tables. We moved around a lot the first few years. Not to shake my father loose—she wouldn't have done that to him. She let him know where we were, as long as he kept his word and didn't try to pull me back into the game. He kept his word. I don't know which of the three of us was more surprised by that, but he kept his word. We moved around to keep the cops from rousting us every time . . ."

She trailed off, managed a sickly smile in Vince's direction. "Sorry, but when you've got a rep for scams and theft, even by association, the locals tend to look you over. She wanted a fresh start, that's all. And a clean slate for me. It wasn't easy for her. She loved Jack, too. And I didn't help. I liked the game and didn't appreciate having it called, or being separated from my father."

She topped off cups of coffee, though she'd yet to touch her own. "But she worked so hard, and I started to see something in her, the pride and the satisfaction she got from earning her way. The straight way. And after a while, we weren't moving every time we turned around anymore. We weren't packing up in the middle of the night and slipping out of apartments or hotel rooms. And she kept her promises. Big Jack was long on the promises but came up short on keeping them. When my mother said she was going to do something, she did it."

No one spoke when she went to the refrigerator and took out a pitcher of water with lemon slices. She poured a glass, drank to wet her dry throat.

"Anyway, things changed. She met Rob Tavish, and things changed again, for the better. He's a wonderful man, crazy about her, and he was good to me. Sweet and kind and fun. I took his name. I made myself Laine Tavish because Laine Tavish was normal and responsible. She could have a place of her own, and a business of her own, and a life of her own. Maybe it wouldn't have all those wild ups she'd ridden on during the first part of her life, but it wouldn't have all those scary downs, either. That seemed just fine. So anytime you asked me about my background, or growing up, I fabricated whatever seemed to fit Laine Tavish. I'm sorry. That's all. I'm sorry."

There was a long moment of silence. "Okay, wow." Jenny goggled at Laine. "I'm going to have a lot of follow-up comments and questions after my head stops spinning, but the first thing I have to ask is how all this—and there's a lot of this—applies to you being in trouble."

"There's probably a quote somewhere about not being able to escape the past, or cover it over. William Young." She saw Vince nod slowly and knew he was putting some of it together.

"The man who was killed when he ran out into the street," Jenny prompted.

"Yes. He used to run with my father. They were close as brothers, and hell, he lived with us half the time. I called him Uncle Willy. I didn't recognize him when he came in. I swear that, Vince. It's been years since I've seen him, and it just didn't click. It wasn't until after the accident and he . . . God, he was dying."

She drank more water, but this time her hand trembled lightly. "He looked so sad when I didn't recognize him, when I basically brushed him off. Then he was lying there, bleeding. Dying. He sang part of this stupid song he and my father used to do as a duet. 'Bye Bye Blackbird.' Something they'd start singing when we were loading up to skip out of a hotel. I realized who he was, and it was too late. I didn't tell you, and that's probably some sort of offense, but I didn't tell you I knew him."

"Why did he come to see you?"

"He didn't get much of a chance to tell me. I didn't give him much of a chance," she corrected.

"It's a waste of time to beat yourself up over that." Max said it briskly, and had her swallowing tears.

"Maybe. Looking back, I know he was nervous, edgy, tired. He gave me his card—just as I told you—with a phone number written on it. I really thought he was in the market to sell something. After, I realized he wanted to talk to me about something."

She stared into her empty glass, set it aside. "I think my father must've sent him. One of Willy's best skills was blending. He was a small, nondescript sort of man. Jack's big and redheaded and stands out, so I think Jack sent him to tell me something or give me something. But he didn't have a chance to do either. He only said . . . he said, 'He knows where you are now,' and for me to hide the pouch. I think he said 'pouch,' it's the only thing that makes sense. Except it sounded like 'pooch,' but that's just silly."

"What?" Max snapped the word like a whip. "You're just getting around to telling me?"

In contrast, Laine's voice was mild as milk. "That's right, and I really don't believe you're in any position to criticize timing. Insurance, my ass."

"It is insurance, goddamnit. Where's the pouch? What did you do with it?"

Heat flamed into her cheeks, not from embarrassment but temper. "He didn't give me a pouch, or anything else. I don't have your stupid diamonds. He was delirious, he was dying " Despite all her determination, her eyes filled and her voice broke. "He was dying right in front of me, and it was too late."

"Leave her alone." A mama bear protecting her cub, Jenny rounded on Max before she shifted to wrap her arms around Laine. "You just leave her alone."

While Vince patted Laine's shoulder in a show of support, his gaze was keen on Max's face. "What diamonds?"

"The twenty-eight point four million in diamonds stolen from the International Jewelry Exchange in New York six weeks ago. The diamonds my client, Reliance, insured and would very much like to recover. The diamonds my investigation has led me to believe were stolen by Jack O'Hara, William Young and a third party I believe is one Alex Crew."

"Holy shit," Jenny whispered.

"I don't know anything about them," Laine said wearily. "I don't have them, I've never seen them, I don't know where they are. I'll take a polygraph."

"But somebody thinks you have them, or access to them."

Grateful for the support, Laine rested her head on Jenny's shoulder and nodded at Vince. "Apparently. You can search the house, Vince. You and Max. You can search the shop. I'll authorize you full access to my phone records, bank records, anything you want. I'm only asking you to keep it quiet so I can just live my life."

"Do you know where your father is?"

"I don't have a clue."

"What do you know about this Alex Crew?"

"I've never heard of him. I'm still having a hard time believing Jack O'Hara was part of anything with this scope. He was loose change compared to this."

"If you had to get ahold of your father, what would you do?"

"It's never come up." Because they stung and burned, she rubbed her eyes. "I honestly don't know. He's contacted me a few times over the years. Right after I graduated from college, I got a FedEx letter. Inside was a first-class ticket to Barbados, and vouchers for a week's stay at a suite in a luxury hotel. I knew it was from him, and almost didn't go. But hey, Barbados. He met me there. We had a great time. It's impossible not to have a great time with Jack. He was proud of me—the whole college-graduate thing. He never held any hard feelings toward my mother or me for stepping out of his life. He popped up a couple more times. The last was before I moved here, when I was living in Philadelphia."

"The New York business isn't mine," Vince said. "But your break-ins are—and William Young is."

"He'd never hurt Willy, if that's what you're thinking. Not over ten times as much money. And he'd never come into my home and tear it up this way. He wouldn't do that to me. To anyone, for that matter. He loves me, in his way, he loves me. And it's just not his style."

"What do you know about this Crew?" Vince asked Max.

"Enough to say Jack and Willy fell in with bad companions. The inside man on the New York job was a gem merchant. He was shot, execution style. His body was found in his burned-out car in New Jersey."

His gaze flicked to Laine. "We can link O'Hara to Myers, the gem merchant. But neither O'Hara's nor Young's history runs to violent crimes, or any sort of armed offense. Can't say the same for Crew—though he's never been convicted of murder, he's suspected of a few. He's smooth, and smart. Smart enough to know these stones are hot, hot enough to wait until they've cooled off some before trying to liquidate them or transport them out of the country. It could be somebody got greedy or impatient."

"If this is Alex Crew, and he's trying to get to the stones or my father through me, he's doomed to disappointment."

"That doesn't mean he's going to stop trying," Max pointed out. "If so, he's been in the area, and may still be in the area. He copped my wallet, so he knows who I am and why I'm here." Absently, Max fingered the bandage on his temple. "He'll have to think about that for a while. I've got copies of photographs. He likes to play with faces, change his looks, but if he's been around town, maybe one of you will recognize him."

"I'll want copies for my men," Vince put in. "Cooperating with the New York authorities on a suspect believed to be in the vicinity. I'll keep Laine out of it as long as I can."

"Good enough."

"Thanks, Vince. Thank you." Laine lifted her hands, let them fall.

"Did you think we were going to be mad at you?" Jenny asked her. "Did you think this was going to affect our friendship?"

"Yes, I did."

"That's a little bit insulting, but I'm cutting you a break because you look really tired. What about him?" She jerked her chin up toward Max. "Are you forgiving him?"

"I guess I have to, considering the circumstances."

"All right, I'll forgive him, too. God, I just realized, I've been too preoccupied with all this to eat. Just let me make up for that." She took a slice of cake, bit in, then spoke around it. "I think you should come stay with Vince and me until this is all cleared up."

"I love you, Jenny." Because she felt the tears threaten again, she rose so she could turn her back and get them under control under the guise of getting more coffee. "And I appreciate the offer, but I need to be here, and I'll be fine. Max will be staying with me."

She turned back just in time to see the surprise wing over his face. She only smiled as she brought the pot over to top off cups. "Isn't that right, Max?"

"Yeah. Sure. I'll look out for her," he told Jenny.

"Since you're the one with the mild concussion, why don't we just leave it that you'll be staying here. I need to go up and change for work. I have to open the shop."

"What you need to do," Jenny disagreed, "is go upstairs and crawl into bed for a few hours. You can keep the shop closed one day."

"I think the cops—public and private—would both say I need to keep it business as usual."

"You do that. We'll be keeping a close eye on the shop and your house until we run this all down. I want those pictures," Vince said to Max.

"I'll bring them by."

Laine walked them to the door.

"I'm going to have tons of questions. We need to have a girls' night," Jenny decided, "so I can pump you. Did you ever do that shell thing? You know, the switcheroo?"

"Jenny." Vince cast his eyes at the sky.

"Well, I want to know, for God's sake. Tell me later. How about the one with the three cards?" she called out as Vince pulled her toward the car. "Later, but I want specific details."

"She's something." Max watched Vince load his wife into the car.

"Yeah, she's something else again. She's the luckiest thing that ever happened to me." She waited until the car was out of sight before she closed the door. "Well, that went better than I deserved."

"You're doing better at forgiving me than you are at forgiving yourself."

"You were doing a job. I respect the work ethic." She gave a little shrug, turned toward the stairs. "I need to pull myself together and get into town."

"Laine? I figured we were going to go a few rounds when I told you I was going to stay out here. Instead, you tell me I'm staying out here. Why is that?"

She leaned against the railing. "There are a few reasons. First, I'm not a sniveling coward, but I'm not brainless and brave. I have no intention of staying out here alone, so far from town, when someone who wishes me no good may come back. I'm not risking myself or my dog over someone else's rocks."

"Sensible."

"So, I get me a big-city PI who I assume, despite current evidence, can handle himself."

He scowled at that and shifted his feet. "I can handle myself just fine."

"Good to know. Next, since I have a stake in seeing these gems are recovered, I prefer you at hand so I know exactly what you're doing about it. I can use seven hundred thousand dollars, just like the next guy."

"Practical."

"Last, I liked the sex and don't see why I should deprive myself of more of it. Easier to get you into bed if you're staying here."

Since he didn't seem to be able to come up with a term for that one, she smiled. "I'm going up to shower."

"Okay," he managed after she'd strolled upstairs. "That explains that."

***

Thirty minutes later, she came back down looking fresh as the spring morning in a short green jacket and pants. Her hair was scooped back at the temples with silver combs and left to fall straight toward her shoulders in that bright flood.

She walked up to Max and handed him a brass key ring. "Front and back doors," she told him. "If and when you get home before me, I'd appreciate you letting Henry out, giving him some play time."

"No problem."

"If and when I cook, you do the dishes."

"Deal."

"I like a tidy house and have no intention of picking up after you."

"I was raised right. Thank Marlene."

"That should do it for now. I've got to go."

"Hold it, those are your rules. Now here are mine: Take this number." He pressed a card into her hand. "That's my cell. You call me when you leave for home. If you're not coming straight home for any reason, you let me know that, too."

"All right." She slipped the card into her pocket.

"You call that number if anything happens, anything that bothers you. I don't care how minor it seems, I want to hear about it."

"So, if I get one of those calls from a telemarketer, I let you know."

"I'm serious, Laine."

"All right, all right. Anything else? I'm running very late."

"If you hear from your father, you tell me. You tell me, Laine," he repeated when he saw her face. "Divided loyalties aren't going to do him any good."

"I won't help you put him in prison. I won't do that, Max."

"I'm not a cop. I don't put people in prison. All I want is to recover the gems, collect my fee. And keep us all healthy while I'm at it."

"You promise me you won't turn him in, no matter what, and I'll promise to tell you if I hear from him."

"Done." He held out a hand, shook hers. Then gave it a yank so she'd tumble into his arms. "Now kiss me goodbye."

"All right."

She took a good grip on his hips, rose on her toes and met his mouth with hers. She took it slow, rocking into him, changing the angle to tease, using her teeth to challenge. She felt his hands tunnel through her hair, fingers tangling. When the heat rose inside her, when she felt it pumping off him, she slid her hands around, gave his butt a squeeze.

Her own pulse was tripping, but she enjoyed the sensation of being in control and turned her head so her lips were close to his ear.

"That oughta hold me," she whispered, then drew away.

"Now I'll kiss you goodbye."

She laughed and slapped a hand on his chest. "I don't think so. Mark your place, then you can kiss me hello. I should be home by seven."

"I'll be here."

He went out with her, followed her into town and peeled off to go to his hotel.

He stopped by the desk to ask the clerk to make up his bill for checkout.

She scanned his face. "Oh, Mr. Gannon, are you all right? Were you in an accident?"

"It was pretty much on purpose, but I'm fine, thanks. I'll be back down in a few minutes."

He got in the elevator. He'd already decided to work on his notes and reports once he'd set up at Laine's. Might as well make himself comfortable. A man who traveled as often as he did knew how to pack quickly and with the least amount of fuss. He swung the strap of his garment bag over one shoulder, the strap of his laptop case over the other, and was walking out of the room fifteen minutes after he'd walked in.

Back at the desk, he glanced over his bill, signed the credit slip.

"I hope you enjoyed your stay."

"I did." He made a note of her name tag. "One thing before I head out, Marti." Bending, he pulled a file out of his laptop case, flipped through for the photos of Jack O'Hara, William Young and Alex Crew. He laid them faceup on the desk. "Have you seen any of these men?"

"Oh." She blinked at him. "Why?"

"Because I'm looking for them." To this he added a thousand-watt smile. "How about it?"

"Oh," she repeated, but this time she looked down at the photos. "I don't think so. Sorry."

"That's okay. Anybody in the back? Maybe they could come out for a minute, take a look?"

"Sure, I guess. Mike's here. If you'll just wait a minute."

He ran the same routine with the second clerk, minus the flirtatious smile, and garnered the same results.

After stowing his bags in the trunk of his car, he made the rounds. First stop, he took the photos to Vince, waited while copies were made. Then he hit the other hotels, motels, B and B's within a ten-mile radius.

Three hours later, the most tangible thing he had to show for his efforts was a raging headache. He popped four extra-strength ibuprofen like candy, then got a take-out sandwich at a sub shop.

Back at Laine's he generously split the cold cut sub with a grateful Henry and hoped that would be their little secret. With the headache down to an ugly throb he decided to spend the rest of the day unpacking, setting up some sort of work space and reviewing his notes.

He spent about ten seconds debating where to put his clothes. The lady had said she wanted him in bed, so it was only fair his clothes be handy.

He opened her closet, poked through the clothes. Imagined her in some of them, imagined her out of all of them. He noted that she apparently shared his mother's odd devotion to shoes.

After another short debate, he concluded that he was entitled to reasonable drawer space. Because rearranging her underwear made him feel like a pervert, he made a stack of his own in a drawer with a colorful army of neatly folded sweaters and shirts.

With Henry clipping after him, he surveyed Laine's home office, then her sitting room, then the guest room. The fancy little writing desk in the guest room wouldn't have been his first choice, but it was the best space available.

He set up. He typed up his notes, a progress report, read them both over and did some editing. He checked his e-mail, his voice mail, and answered what needed answering.

Then he sat at the pretty little desk, stared up at the ceiling and let theories ramble through his mind.

He knows where you are now.

So, who was he? Her father. If Willy knew where Laine was, odds were so did Big Jack. But from what Laine had said, Jack had kept tabs on her off and on all along. So the phrase didn't work. He knows where you are now. The arrow in Max's mind pointed to Alex Crew.

There was no violence in O'Hara's history, but there was in Crew's. O'Hara didn't look good for the two taps to the back of the diamond merchant's head. And no reason, going by that history, for Willy to run scared of his old pal Jack O'Hara.

More likely, much more likely, he'd run from the third man, the man Max was convinced was Alex Crew. And following that, Crew was in the Gap.

But that didn't tell Max where Willy had put the stones.

He'd wanted to get them to Laine. Why in the hell would Willy, or her father, want to put Laine in front of a man like Crew?

He batted it around in his head, getting nowhere. Uncomfortable in the desk chair, he moved to stretch out on the bed. He closed his eyes, told himself a nap would refresh his brain.

And dropped into sleep like a stone.