Finally, after frustrating months of mistaken identities and dead ends, they’d scared up a lead. It was thin, little more than wishful thinking but even that was more than they’d had in weeks of chasing down dead-end leads.
Rafe had been running on the treadmill in the Treasury Building’s basement gym when Gresham had come charging in, waving a fax from the Portland, Oregon office. The local authorities had put out a “wanted for questioning” alert for a man using the name Jonathan Sommerset who matched Folsom’s description.
The charge was credit card fraud, swindling and forgery. The suspect’s M.O. was strikingly similar. A “chance” meeting with a lonely widow on a luxury cruise to Acapulco, a whirlwind courtship ending in a romantic wedding in a chapel on the beach before sailing home.
The honeymoon had scarcely been over before he’d managed to have his name added to the deed to his bride’s house and the title of a nearly new Lexus sedan. Naturally, he had insisted on adding her name to the deeds to his condo on Maui and the flat in San Francisco as well as his brokerage account and savings accounts, all of which existed only on official looking documents Folsom had created on his laptop computer. In turn, she’d given him total access to her bank and savings accounts, both of which were all too genuine.
Then, as was his pattern, he had convinced her to invest in a revolutionary new method of converting sawdust to decking material impervious to weather and pests. The process was real, as were the reams of supporting documentation. Only the stock certificates were phony.
Ten weeks after the wedding Sommerset arranged to take his wife and stepdaughter to England as a birthday surprise for the girl. Two days before departing, he’d pleaded a sudden business emergency, sending them on ahead. Excuse followed excuse until three weeks had passed. By the time the woman had gotten suspicious and flown home, Folsom had systematically emptied her bank accounts, sold her home and all the furnishings and maxed her credit cards before disappearing.
That had been almost three months ago, long enough for the trail to have gotten colder than a hooker’s heart. Picking the victim’s brain for some forgotten detail, some chance recollection that might put them on the scent again was their only hope.
They’d been on the red-eye that same night, landing at Portland just as the sun was rising this morning. The head of the Service’s local office had lent them a vehicle, a no-frills sedan that smelled like a Texas honky-tonk, and drawn a map to the Portland PD precinct that had caught the case.
Even though it was raining steadily, Rafe had cracked the windows, front and back. The breeze that streamed through was flavored with pine and brought back memories of the crowded migrant camp by the river where he’d spent the first seventeen years of his life.
He shifted until his shoulders were wedged against the door. Even then and with the seat pushed back all the way, he couldn’t stretch out his legs far enough to get comfortable.
Damn, he hated this, he thought sourly. Memories were a bitch, especially the mean, gut-twisting kind that snuck under a man’s guard to deliver a sucker punch to the solar plexus. He’d known it was going to be rough being in Oregon again, but he’d figured to handle it fast and dirty, no more than forty-eight hours to find out all he needed to know, then he’d be outta here again. For good, this time.
It wasn’t until he’d met with Detective Sergeant Case Randolph and heard the name of the victim that he’d known just how rough.
Twenty years ago he’d been wildly, blindly in love with Daniela Mancini.
In the case folder had been a photograph, taken of the happy couple right after their wedding. It was like a slice in his heart to see the photo of his adorable Princess looking stunningly happy in a flowing white Mexican wedding dress, her dark eyes glowing as she looked up into the face of Jacob Folsom.
He’d spent a lot of years telling himself she’d probably gotten fat and sour-tempered. Just his luck the young girl who had been a beauty at sixteen had matured into a sensuous, elegant lady with a body that could make a dead man weep.
“Nice neighborhood, this. Real homey like, you know. Almost makes a guy want to settle down and raise himself a couple of kids.”
Jarred from his dark thoughts by the sound of Seth Gresham’s perfect prep-school diction, Rafe opened his tired eyes long enough to shoot his talkative partner a sardonic look.
“Thought you were committed to playing the field.” In contrast to Seth’s cultured voice, his own was strictly blue-collar and inclined toward hoarseness when he was tired, a residual affect of the tube they’d stuck down his throat to keep him breathing. Women tended to consider the gruff texture a turn-on, something he wasn’t above using to his advantage when it suited him.
“I said ‘almost,’ compadre,” Gresham tossed back with a grin. “As long as the ladies keep smiling back, I’m keeping my options open.”
Seth nudged the seat back another notch and loosened his tie before pulling a folder from the hand-sewn briefcase at his feet. Inside were copies of Sergeant Randolph’s notes.
The man had lousy handwriting, but he knew his stuff. It was a textbook report, concisely detailed, every question Rafe might have had answered. Just in case, he read it twice. By the time he’d finished the second read, his gut was twisted into an icy knot.
It was Folsom, all right. Rafe would bet his farm on it, the one he’d bought in the Maryland countryside about ten years back when he’d felt the need to have space and fresh air around him. He felt the same way now.
“Taxi just turned the corner.”
Without moving, Rafe opened his eyes and glanced toward the end of the street. Mill Works Ridge was only two blocks long. On one side, far below the street was the mighty Columbia River. On the other was an alley leading back to Waverly Avenue, the main access road.
His gut tightened as the cab pulled to the curve in front of the house listed on the crime report as Danni’s address.
“What the hell?” Gresham muttered under his breath as he shot to a sitting position.
“Could be a visitor.”
“Definitely female,” Gresham said as the passenger struggled to get out of the cab’s back seat. Swathed in a bright red slicker, she made a vivid splash against the gray landscape.
As she emerged and straightened, Rafe felt his world tilt. It was Danni. And she was pregnant.
A driving rain stung Danni’s face and obscured her vision as she struggled to balance two bulging grocery sacks, and the large shoulder bag that served as both a briefcase and purse. Ducking her head deeper into the slicker’s hood, she edged crab-like toward the curb, only to have a sudden gust of wind bang the cab’s door against her hip.
“Thanks for all the help,” she muttered in the direction of the grossly overweight cabby with really bad body odor who had refused to leave the protection of his equally smelly cab to help carry the groceries to her front door.
“Fact of life, lady,” he said with a shrug. “I get paid to drive. Anything else costs extra.”
Extra she didn’t have. “I’d hate to have your karma,” she muttered before ducking her head against the stinging drops.
Struggling against the wind, she finally made it to the safety of the curb, then turned awkwardly to slam the cab door. As she did, one of the sodden bags tore, spilling the contents into the muddy water surging along the gutter. Cold spray hit her shins as cans thudded onto the pavement. A large can of tomato juice smashed her toes, sending pain shooting through her foot.
She jerked back, only to lose her balance. With a cry, she dropped the other bag, and reached out desperately to keep herself from falling. He came from nowhere, a large man in a dark suit moving fast. An instant later, she was wedged against a chest as hard as granite, her head tucked against a bronzed throat. Steely arms held her steady while his wide back