assisted his less-than-perfect stride. “I accomplished my mission.”
And that was all he would be getting from the mysterious Lucas Camp. The man was a CIA legend, though his activities had been and still were cloaked in secrecy. Retirement had done little to slow him. He still worked in an advisory capacity for the government and spent every possible moment with his wife—the woman he had waited twenty years to call his own.
That Lucas Camp was present for this meeting carried a great deal of significance. Patrick was definitely intrigued.
“I wouldn’t have expected anything less,” he stated as both he and Lucas settled into the comfortable wingback chairs.
“Here’s Windy,” Victoria announced. “Now we can get started.”
Patrick glanced toward the door as Windy Millwood entered the room. He frowned momentarily, but he almost immediately schooled his expression. He was, after all, merely a profiler. He should have anticipated there would be an investigator sitting in. Disappointment niggled, but he pushed it away. When Victoria thought he was ready to get in the field and take on a case, she would say as much. She wasn’t one to mince words, nor was she indecisive.
“Sorry I’m late,” Windy said. “I was waiting for a fax.” Paper in hand, the tall brunette strode to the chair on the other side of Lucas and settled into it. The formal bearing of her military days had carried over to her civilian career.
Male investigators outnumbered females five to one at the Colby Agency, but not one, male or female, was more prepared and well trained than former Marine Captain Windy Millwood.
“Now that we’re all here,” Victoria began, “let’s bring Patrick up to speed.”
Lucas began. “Yesterday afternoon one of the regulars at the soup kitchen brought in a sort of Jane Doe.”
“Sort of?” Patrick inquired.
Lucas appeared to consider for a moment how to respond, before continuing. “She had a name, but no recall of who she was or where she came from.”
As Lucas explained the circumstances of the client’s only memories, Patrick found himself increasingly intrigued. He had to confess that waking up covered by a sheet and lying on a gurney outside a morgue door was not an everyday occurrence.
“Her driver’s license is a match. Social security number, too,” Windy confirmed as she passed the page to Lucas. “But that’s where it ends.”
Lucas handed the fax to Patrick. “What about the address on the license?”
As Windy explained that the residence recorded on the license was occupied by and belonged to someone else, Patrick considered the blond woman in the DMV photo. Sande Williams. Young. Twenty-eight, according to the birth date shown. Blue eyes. Petite in size.
“Did you visit the residence?” Patrick looked at Windy. “Perhaps Ms. Williams is a friend or relative of the occupant.”
“I thought we’d go together,” Windy suggested.
“Patrick,” Victoria interjected, drawing his attention to her, “you’ll be working this case with Windy. Considering the client’s apparent amnesia, I felt you would be an asset on this one. I’ve been waiting for the right opportunity to get you into the field. I believe this is the perfect case.”
Anticipation fired in every neuron. “I agree.” Patrick had been awaiting this opportunity as well. That the client had special needs falling within the scope of his former profession was definitely a bonus.
“It might not be a bad idea to take Ms. Williams along on your visit to the residence,” Lucas suggested. That he made the statement to him rather than Windy surprised Patrick, since she was unquestionably senior. “If the client has ever lived at that address the encounter could trigger repressed memories.”
No doubt, but there could also be hazards related to such a bold move. “With all due respect, Lucas, I’d like to interview the client before taking that step. Just as a precaution.”
“Of course,” the older man replied. “The mind is your specialty.”
“The two of you can get started,” Victoria recommended, “and the research team will continue to dig for information on Ms. Williams.”
“I’ll have a colleague of mine check under a few rocks to see what he can come up with,” Lucas added. “That Ms. Williams woke up in a hospital smacks of a cover-up. I have contacts in the local medical field. I’ll sound those out…as well.”
Patrick would wager Lucas Camp had contacts in most fields, most places.
Windy stood. “Thank you, sir, ma’am,” she said to Lucas and Victoria.
Patrick assured Victoria that he and Windy would check in periodically, before following his newly assigned partner from the office.
His first case.
He took a deep breath. He was ready to make this leap.
No more looking back.
Downtown Women’s Shelter
PATRICK AND HIS PARTNER emerged from his sedan. He considered the neighborhood. Residential. Quiet. The trilevel house that served as a home for those who had no place to go looked like any other nearby. There were no posted signs or other indications that the address was any different from the rest that lined the immaculately maintained street.
But there was a major difference. This home protected the women who stayed there. A pass code was required for admittance. No official ID would serve the purpose. Your name was either on the entrance list and you possessed the necessary information or you didn’t get in.
Period.
Abused and otherwise devastated women from all walks of life sought temporary refuge here. Their troubles would never find them here, nor would their abusers, whether friend or relative. This shelter was the most successful in all of Chicago at protecting its residents. Not one had been tracked down to this location.
Precisely why Lucas Camp had brought Sande Williams here.
Patrick stayed two steps behind Windy as they approached the house. The gate wasn’t locked, but there would be an armed guard just inside the closed and secured door. There would be no getting past him without the proper authorization.
Windy knocked, then recited the necessary pass code. A couple of seconds later, no doubt after the guard had studied both Patrick and her through the cameras positioned on either end of the porch, the door opened for their admittance.
“Windy Millwood.” The guard turned his attention to Patrick. “Patrick O’Brien.”
Windy displayed her Colby Agency ID, as did Patrick.
“Welcome.” The guard stepped back and allowed them to enter.
Inside, the long, narrow entrance hall was deserted. Before Patrick could assess the setting, a middle-aged woman stepped from the first door on the left.
“Your client is waiting in the conference
