cultivated over the years. He couldn’t quite figure her out, and that bothered him. As a rule he was good at reading people. Give him half an hour, one-on-one, and he could tell you what motivated a particular suspect, whether or not he was hiding anything, how close to breaking he was and just where to apply the pressure to make him bust wide open and spill his guts.
Ms. Bayard appeared to be an open book. Unfortunately it was written in a foreign language. She was tired and edgy, which was only natural. She wasn’t a whiner. She’d struck him right off as the kind of woman who looked on the bright side of things, even when the going got rough. In that respect, she reminded him of Miss Emma. Or rather, of the way Miss Emma used to be.
“You got any family?” he asked.
“No.”
“Friends?”
“Well, of course I have friends. Everyone has friends.”
So where were they? Why hadn’t they showed up at the hospital with flowers and pink balloons?
At least she had neighbors. Correction—she had a neighbor. An old boozer who’d turn in his own mother for jaywalking if there was a reward.
He still wasn’t sure who the baby’s father was. Had a pretty good idea, but he wasn’t certain. If it was Davis, as he suspected, then what had their relationship been? Did she know he was dead? Did she know he’d had a wife in Rowlett, a suburb about twenty miles east of Dallas?
“Well, anyway, if you don’t want a sandwich, maybe you’d like a cup of coffee. One for the road? It won’t take a minute to make a pot, or I have iced tea already made. I don’t reckon it’s gone cloudy since yesterday.” She paused, and a wondering look came over her face. “Just yesterday. When I made that tea, I didn’t have any family at all, and now look at me—I’m a mother!”
Joe tucked his questions back into a mental file and managed to scrape up what passed for a smile these days. It was easier than he’d expected. She looked so damned earnest with her tired eyes, her frowsy hair and her baggy dress. “You’re mighty eager to get rid of me.”
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, of course, but I know you’re anxious to get on with—well, whatever. Anyway, I’m truly beholden to you. I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”
He cut her off. Dammit, now she was making him feel guilty.
Holding the baby in one arm, she went and shook a few flakes into the aquarium. “Hi there, Darryl. Look what I brought home,” she said softly.
“I could’ve done that,” Joe muttered.
“Darryl’s no trouble. He’s real good company...for a fish.”
“Yeah, well...don’t overdo things.” He took the baby from her, jiggled the lightly wrapped bundle in his arms and said, “You mentioned coffee? Point me in the direction of the nursery and I’ll put her down and join you in a cup. I could use that sandwich, too, come to think of it. You like mayo or mustard on yours? I’ll make ’em.”
Jeez, would you listen, he thought. Cook, butler and baby-sitter, all rolled into one. He blamed the woman. She had no business treating him as if he were a lifelong friend. He wasn’t. He was a man with a mission, one that wasn’t going to endear him to her once he got down to brass tacks.
She reached up and set the can of fish food on a shelf, throwing her prominent bosom into even more prominence. Joe tried not to stare, but it wasn’t easy. He felt a crazy combination of lust and protectiveness streak through him, gone almost before he was aware of it. It wasn’t a feeling he welcomed.
Hell, it wasn’t even anything he recognized.
The baby hiccuped, reminding him of his mission, and he turned away, grateful for the distraction. “Listen, Fatcheeks, I need to talk to your mama, so be a good girl and give us a break, will you?”
The nursery was a nice shade of yellow, not too pale, not too brash. The white crib was obviously secondhand, but in good condition. There was a table, a chest of drawers and a lopsided wicker rocking chair, all painted white. She’d done a nice job of building her nest, he’d hand her that, especially if she’d had it all to do alone.
She was right behind him. “What do you think?”
He said it was nice, because she obviously expected it. One thing he’d noticed about her—she soaked up compliments the way a bone-dry field soaked up rain. As if she hadn’t heard too many.
“Is she wet? Do I need to change her? I’m not sure when I need to feed her again, but the nurse wrote down some instructions, and—”
“Sophie. Slow down.” She was twisting her hands. “She’ll let you know, all right? When she needs changing or wants to nurse, she’ll let you know. Babies have a way of communicating these things.” At least he hoped they did. “Now, come on into the kitchen and settle down while I make us some lunch.”
She looked kind of embarrassed when he mentioned nursing. As if he’d never seen a woman’s breasts before. Not hers, but hell, he was pushing forty and she was no spring chicken, herself. Judging her now, he figured her for about thirty-five, but he could be off a few years. She had a mature body—a body some man had done more than just look at. There was something about her face, though, about the way she looked at him, with those big, guileless gray eyes, that made him want to forget the damned jade.
But he’d promised Miss Emma. Sooner or later he was going to have to bring up the Ch’ien Lung, and the longer he put it off, the tougher it was going to be.
Damn Donna! He’d gone easy on her that day she’d called him because she’d been crying so hard he could barely make out what she was saying. And because he’d always been a sucker for his sisters’ tears. They were his baby sisters, after all. They’d gone through a lot together, even though they weren’t all that close anymore.
The arrangements had all been made. The museum had offered to send somebody after the stuff, but Donna had wanted to keep it over the weekend before she took it in to be photographed for the catalog. They had an old set of photographs, but they were pretty dog-eared and the quality wasn’t too great.
As it turned out, Donna had actually wanted to show the stuff off to a man she’d been seeing, who’d expressed an interest. An antique broker by the name of Rafael Davis.
According to her story, he’d waited for her to fall asleep—which was the first Joe knew that his sister had a new live-in lover—and then he’d cleaned her out and skipped town.
She hadn’t discovered the theft until morning. Then, instead of calling the cops to report it, she’d called Joe. Brother Joe, ex-cop, who had bailed her out of trouble more than a few times. The jerk had done a job on her. Missing were two expensive cameras, a diamond-and-emerald ring, Miss Emma’s jade collection and Rafael Davis, alias Richard Donaldson, alias David Raferty.
Twenty years ago, maybe even ten, the creep might’ve gotten away with it, but communications were too good these days. Even the smallest departments were coming on-line. That was how Joe had found out about the woman in Amarillo, who’d signed over her life’s savings to a securities broker named Rick Donaldson, thinking he was going to invest it for their future. Instead he’d walked off with her money and a small Andrew Wyeth watercolor.
In
