I'll Find You Part 12

"Non," he insisted.

"So, this woman is not your mother, and Aimee is not your mother," West clarified, holding on to his patience with an effort. He didn't much like being played for a fool.

"I'm Callie Cantrell," she insisted.

"You don't live with your mother? Teresa?" West pressed Tucker.

His tone shut the little boy up tight. He just stared at West and "Callie" snapped at him, "He lives with Aimee."

"And Jacques," Tucker said solemnly, never taking his eyes off West.

"Who's Jacques?" West asked.

"Jacques is the wharf cat who's adopted Tucker," she filled in.

Tucker asked, "Qui?"

"Jacques is your chat," she clarified.

Tucker nodded his head several times. "He eat rats."

"Can I meet Aimee?" West asked the boy.

"I'll take you there," she inserted tautly before Tucker could respond.

"Nooooo," he cried, running to the other side of the room and plopping down in one of her rattan chairs, holding on tightly to its arms. "I stay."

"What are you doing home so early?" she asked. "I thought you were at school."

"Ahh . . ." His small shoulders lifted in a very Gallic shrug. "Maman . . . um . . . Aimee forgot. We leave ecole soon."

"School was early out? But Aimee was there when you went home just now," she reminded. "You went there first."

"She was there," he said, but his eyes slid away.

"Tucker, was Aimee there when you got home?" she demanded.

"Oui. I eat what you brung me. Merci!" He suddenly jumped up and darted past West to the balcony.

"You're welcome," she said.

She was nervous, it was clear. Didn't want to hardly look at him. Well, fine. But the jig was up now, at least where Stephen Tucker Laughlin was concerned. He'd already been convinced she'd been connected with Teresa, and now, after seeing Tucker, nothing she could say would convince him this boy wasn't his brother's son.

As if reading his mind, she said, "I'm not Teresa."

"Yeah?"

"But I haven't been completely honest," she admitted.

No s.h.i.+t, sister.

He saw her hug herself and it caused her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to swell over the square neckline of her blue top. Dragging his gaze away, he looked instead around the room.

When he'd first followed her into the apartment, he'd looked around with a cop's eyes, sizing it up. It was clearly a rental. The flower-printed cus.h.i.+ons were faded and slightly worn although the pillows were plumped and clean. The small table and chairs were rattan, beaten up at the legs by a vacuum cleaner, if he was reading the whitened, scarred wood correctly. The kitchenette cabinets were functional but the laminate was peeling up just a teensy bit at the corners of the doors. Still, it was comfortable. And probably a h.e.l.luva lot cheaper than his room at Bakoua Beach; he'd purposely kept back the information that he was staying at the hotel, not wanting to scare her when she had inadvertently chosen his hotel as yesterday's venue. Now he was glad he hadn't been forthright. He was p.i.s.sed off at her. He'd wanted to believe in her. Had believed in her, but she'd hornswoggled him on d.a.m.n near everything and he'd believed he was beyond being hornswoggled by a good-looking woman again.

Just goes to show you, he thought darkly.

He'd gotten a call back from Dorcas, his ex-partner, who'd wanted to know what he was looking for. "The car that went over on Mulholland about a year ago," West had reminded him a bit impatiently.

"Yeah, Cantrell. Got it," Dorcas had said. "The husband and kid died. Wife survived. But what are you doing?" Then, before he could answer, "You on some kind of private case?"

"For my grandmother," he had said, seeking to squelch any further questions.

But Dorcas wasn't known for taking hints. An ex-college linebacker, Peter Dorcas kept his block of six foot three, two hundred fifty pounds in fighting shape from a five-day-a-week workout at the gym. West had also been a regular gym rat, but he was a much leaner build and not quite as tall. Since his falling out with his captain, which had included an IA review that had proven nothing other than showing Paulsen for the demiG.o.d he was, West had slacked off the workout routine, had been in search of whatever he wanted to do in this next phase of life with or without a job in law enforcement.

Dorcas had responded with, "Bulls.h.i.+t, pard. You're workin' on sumpin-sumpin, ain't ya?"

"Ex-pard," West had said. "Just dig into the Cantrell accident and get back to me. And send me a picture of the wife, if you can."

"Where you at?"

"Martinique."

"Where the Sam Hill is that?"

"An island in the Caribbean."

"What the f.u.c.k, man?"

"Just get me the info." He had then told Dorcas the number to call him back, adding, "And anything you can find on Mrs. Cantrell would be appreciated." Then he had clicked off as Dorcas had tried to complain about the extra work. As yet, his ex-partner hadn't phoned back, but it was a lot earlier in Los Angeles, so maybe he would check in later.

"We can walk Tucker back," she said, as if it were the last thing she wanted to do.

"Noooo!" said Tucker, who was pressed up against the wrought-iron balcony rail, looking down at the pa.s.sing cars and pedestrians, vehemently shaking his head. "I not go back!" A torrent of French followed this, which West couldn't understand. Neither, apparently, could Callie because she said, "Speak American, Tucker."

That stopped the boy short. "American?"

"Mr. Laughlin and I don't know that much French. I think you were saying you're going with Michel," she encouraged.

He glanced at West and said solemnly, "Michel is mon amie."

"Michel's father, Jean-Paul, is a fisherman and the boys like to go fis.h.i.+ng with him," she explained.

She wouldn't meet his gaze any longer. West said, "All right, let's go."

Over Tucker's continuing protests, they headed for the door, and finally the boy stomped his way across the room and preceded them into the outer hallway.

She could feel sweat forming down her back and between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as they walked up the hot streets. She felt slightly light-headed, but maybe that was because she was anxious. Having West meet Tucker had ratcheted up the danger level.

Tucker, after getting over not wanting to leave Callie's, was in the midst of a fis.h.i.+ng tale that was half in French, half in English. "Big fish . . . big, big poisson," he said, stretching his arms wide.

"That big, huh," West said. His first comment since leaving her apartment.

"Big more," he said proudly. He smiled widely, a gap showing in the line of his lower teeth where he'd already lost a tooth.

But when they got to Tucker's apartment, Aimee was not there and the door was locked. Tucker ran down the hall and knocked on another door. A fortyish woman with a round shape and a big smile came to the door and ushered Tucker inside as if it happened all the time, which it probably did. Upon seeing Callie and West, she said, "Allo?"

"We were looking for Aimee?" Callie gestured toward Tucker's door.

"She is out. Tucker stays with me when she is out. Ummm . . . comprendez vous?"

"You're his babysitter. He comes to your place when Aimee is away."

"Oui."

"Come in!" Tucker called to her.

"Next time, buddy," she said. "Merci," she added to the woman, then she was alone in the hallway with West.

Callie walked out of the apartment building and once they were on the street, she opened her mouth again, but he interrupted her.

"I know. You're not Teresa."

"That's not what I was going to say," she said.

"Well, who the h.e.l.l's Aimee, and did she really give you the bracelet?"

"Tucker gave me the bracelet."

"Tucker gave it to you." He was surprised.

"He just brought it to me one day."

"Oh, sure."

"I'm not lying," she flashed. "About this, anyway."

"Well, what have you lied about? Or maybe I should ask what you haven't lied about. Whatever's shorter."

"Tucker found me. He picked me out at the pier one day when he was with Jean-Paul. I thought Jean-Paul was his father, but then it became clear that his son, Michel, and Tucker are friends. Tucker acted like he . . . I don't know . . . knew me."

"Knew you." He sounded disparaging.

"Hey, I'm telling you the truth here. This is what happened. I was about a week into my vacation and I just ran into him. He came toward me, skipping, and then he saw me and just beelined . . ." Her throat closed at the memory of Tucker giving her that first, enthusiastic, big hug, as if he'd just discovered something wonderful. "I was kind of taken aback, but he was so adorable. If Teresa's his mom, maybe he saw a resemblance," she added unsteadily. "I thought Aimee was his mother, but she is not, apparently. I found out he lived near me and we started this relations.h.i.+p, call it what you will. I needed him, too. I need him too," she corrected.

"What does Aimee think of you?"

"Of me, or of Teresa? She doesn't like me much. I don't know what she thinks of Teresa, but I asked her about it this morning."

"What do you mean?"

They'd been walking down the sidewalk but now he stopped short and Callie had to stop as well. "I went to the apartment this morning. Weren't you following me? You didn't seem surprised to find out where Tucker lived."

When she waited for him to respond, he admitted, "I saw you coming from that direction."

"I knew Tucker was at school, so I went to see her."

"What did she say about Teresa?" he demanded.

"She pretended not to know her, but she was taken aback when I said 'Teresa Laughlin.' I told her I had the bracelet and she really got upset and insisted the bracelet's hers." He was staring at her with cold blue eyes, intimidating enough for her to have to look away. "I didn't want to tell you about Tucker until I was sure everything was on the up-and-up. That's why I was at the Internet cafe today."

"Where is she now?"

"I don't know. I think Tucker's lying about going home first. But he said he had the pastry. . . ." She shook her head. "I was relieved to see the neighbor's a babysitter. Tucker just has so much freedom. Half the time he runs home by himself. I've tried to walk with him, but he just takes off and leaves me in the dust. He has zero supervision, as far as I can tell, which makes me crazy. I've told myself I should call Child Services, or whatever they are here, a dozen times, but I haven't yet. I don't know why. Well, yes, I do. Selfish reasons. I don't want to risk not being able to see him, but if something happened to him . . ." She couldn't finish the thought, it was too terrible.

"How long do you plan on staying on the island?"

"I told my attorney that I would leave this week," she answered, "but I might have lied to him, too."

West began walking again and Callie fell in step beside him. She couldn't discern his mood. Finally, he said, "Tucker is my brother's child. I'd bet my life savings on it."

"You believe I'm not Teresa."

"I don't know who you are. Right now, I don't really care. But I can tell you're concerned about Tucker." He paused, and then added, "Somebody should be."

Chapter Ten.

Daniella was hot, thirsty, and irritable. Why was it her job to always clean up the s.h.i.+t? She was glad Teresa was gone. Glad! She'd hoped she'd be gone for good, but Andre had other ideas. They were all supposed to be involved.

She'd been at her "search" for two hours. She wasn't sure why she was delaying. She was going to have to tell Andre where Teresa had gone, and what did she care anyway? Let him find her. Let them all find her. This wasn't going to end well for Teresa no matter what, so why was she delaying?

She shook her head and put the Malibu in gear, heading back to their house. She didn't like sharing Andre, and she was letting Teresa's defection play out because she wanted her gone. One less handmaiden to fight with. But was that the smart way to play this? It was so hard to tell.

Daniella felt a lump in her throat. She wanted Andre to herself, but could she ever admit that? Noooooo. She was just a handmaiden, and he was The Messiah, and she was sworn to share him. That's the way things stood. If she even tried to act like she was worth more than the rest of them, a whole pile of s.h.i.+t would rain down on her head. She would be told she was unworthy and maybe she was, but she didn't care. She just wanted him for her. Was that so bad? He was such a beautiful man, and he did possess true spirituality.

But that's why they all wanted him. Daniella had seen the way the other handmaidens slid glances at each other when they thought no one was looking. She pretended not to notice, but jealousy and envy came off Naomi, Jerrilyn, Teresa, and even Clarice, that little snot, in waves. You could practically touch it. No matter what they said, they all wanted to be Andre's chosen one. He knew it, too, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and he reveled in it. It was enough to break Daniella's heart.

She'd thought there was a chance things were breaking open when she'd realized there was something weird going on with Teresa. She'd stopped being all sa.s.sy, smart, and in control, and had gotten all depressed, even though it made Andre mad. It was like she'd moved to some other astral plane, detached, saying less, being more secretive, sometimes barely getting out of bed. Noting the change, Daniella had been secretly happy. Maybe she'd just go the f.u.c.k away forever.

And now she had . . .