computer screen to look up at him. The smile tinged in curiosity came a beat afterward.
Ben could see the resemblance instantly. Not so much the hair, although both the woman he’d met in the bookstore and Carla Wassel were brunettes who wore their hair short, but in the eyes. A man didn’t readily forget eyes like that. They had the exact same shade of blue. Like bits of cobalt.
“Yes?”
“I’m Ben Underwood.” He indicated the chair within her cubicle. “Mind if I sit down?” Still curious, she gestured for him to take a seat. “I’m trying to locate a friend of yours. Gloria Prescott.”
“Gloria?” Her eyes widened. “Why? Has something happened to her?”
Ben stopped before reaching for Gloria’s photograph. He saw no reason for her to get as upset as she did. “What makes you ask that?”
Carla flushed, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, ever since my sister died, I’m afraid I overreact to things. The first thing I think of is…” Her voice trailed off as she let the end of her thought go. “Never mind.” She waved away the rest of her sentence. “Why are you trying to find Gloria?”
For simplicity, and because there was a chance he might have to return for more information, Ben gave Carla the same story he’d given her supervisor.
“Her fiancé’s trying to find her. They were supposed to go away together to Hawaii last week and Gloria never showed up. Personally,” he said, leaning in a little closer, “I think it might be cold feet, but we have to investigate these things.”
Caution entered her voice. “Are you a policeman?”
For a second he debated going that route. But the closer he remained to the truth, the easier it was to remember details. “A private one.”
Carla took the information in stride. “I don’t think I can help you. I haven’t been in touch with Gloria since shortly after she left the office.” She raised her shoulder in a semihelpless movement. “I meant to, but you know how that goes. I suppose I wasn’t much fun to be around at the time. But I’m better now.”
“Nice to hear.” He tried to sound sympathetic. Another dead end, he thought. But there was still the coincidence of the names. No stone unturned. “How do you spell your last name?”
Carla’s dark eyebrows drew together over a Roman nose. “W-a-s-s-e-l, why?”
He jotted it down in the small notepad he carried. Tucking it back into his pocket, his fingers came in contact with the cookies Aunt Sugar had slipped in. He had to remember to take them out.
“Just for the record,” he assured her. “Do you have any relatives in San Francisco?”
The answer required no extensive deliberation. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”
It was probably a meaningless coincidence, but he’d learned never to ignore or omit anything that seemed the slightest bit unusual. He’d gone to the bookstore where Gloria had once worked only to run into a woman with her best friend’s last name. There could be a connection. At the very least, the woman in San Francisco might know Gloria.
“I ran into someone with the exact same last name as yours just yesterday. You have to admit, it’s not exactly in the same realm as Smith or Jones.”
Curious, Carla asked gamely, “Maybe we are related. What was his name?”
“Her,” he corrected the woman. “Gina Wassel.”
Carla turned pale and grabbed the edge of her desk. Ben saw her eyes roll toward the back of her head, and for a second he thought he was going to have to catch her to keep her from sliding off her chair, onto the floor.
He grabbed her arms. “Take a deep breath,” he ordered. “Again.” He waited until she exhaled slowly. “Are you all right?”
When she looked at him, there was an accusation in her eyes. “Is this some kind of a cruel joke?”
He had no idea what she was talking about, but he’d obviously stumbled onto something. “Not that I’m aware of,” he said slowly.
“Gina’s my sister. Was my sister,” she corrected herself. The pain was obvious. “She’s been gone for ten months. Wait.” Agitated, blinking back tears that were threatening to overwhelm her, Carla dug into the purse she kept under her desk. “Here, here’s her picture.” She shoved her wallet at him and showed him a photograph of herself and her sister standing in front of an old house. A beat later he realized that it was the Victorian-looking house he’d gone to yesterday. “That’s Gina.” She indicated the slender young woman on the right.
“Who took this picture?”
“Gloria. We went to visit her aunt on her seventieth birthday.”
The resemblance between the woman in the photograph and the one he’d met yesterday was unmistakable. They could have been the same person. Folding the wallet closed, he handed it back to Carla.
“Ms. Wassel,” he began as gently as he could, “I have to ask—”
Carla cut him off. She couldn’t bear to hear the words. “I was driving the car when the camper side-swiped us. Gina was killed instantly.” Her breathing was ragged as she spoke. “It was Gloria who helped me through that, who let me sleep on her sofa and kept me sane.” Without looking, she dropped the wallet back into her purse. “If she hadn’t been around, I probably would have killed myself.” Her eyes held his for a moment. “If Gloria’s in some sort of danger, you’ve got to find her.”
Ben had a feeling he already had.
There were huge, gaping holes in the puzzle he found himself working. “You have access to all sorts of information here, don’t you?”
Carla’s expression told him she wasn’t sure where he was going with this, or what she should answer. “Depending on your level of clearance, yes.”
“Such as social security numbers.”
She laughed nervously, still uncertain. “Well, of course. We’re a social security office.”
“Does that mean social security numbers that are no longer in use?” This would have been the perfect place for Gloria to forge a new identity.
“Yes.” The single word emerged slowly.
He had a feeling he was on the right track. “Ms. Wassel, I know this might sound rather strange to you, but would you be able to give me your sister’s social security number?”
“Yes, but I already told you, Gina’s dead.” Carla began to access a program for him, then stopped and looked at him. “You think Gloria’s using Gina’s social security number.”
“Yes.”
It didn’t make any sense. “But why?”
To hide from Stephen McNair until he agreed to her terms. But he couldn’t tell the woman that. She wouldn’t give him the social security number he needed, and right now, he didn’t know if Savannah had access to inactive files.
“I
