Debra Salonen - His Daddy's Eyes

Ren raised his hand in warning. He studied his friend as he might a criminal with a gun. Keeping his tone calm, Ren said, “I was just surprised that I couldn’t see any similarities between the sisters.”

Bo’s shoulders relaxed visibly. “It’s not a very good picture. She was talking to that guy when I took it.” He put the photo on the table and pointed at a good-looking man standing at the edge of the photograph. “She even gave him a hug, and I heard her tell him she loved him.”

A funny, totally unexpected twinge caught Ren in the solar plexus. “Her boyfriend?”

Bo shook his head. “No. I got his plate through the store window. His name is Daniel Paginnini. He works in the Building.” Ren had met enough congressional insiders to know that meant the Capitol. “I’d say he and Sara are old friends. She’s got a lot of friends.”

Ren detected an odd inflection in Bo’s tone, but he let it go, although he was curious why Bo was so defensive of the woman. Ren picked up a shot of her holding the baby. Her back was to the camera, but her upper arms looked firm.

“Does she work out?” he asked. Jewel had been in peak physical condition, he recalled, her long, lean body as finely honed as an athlete’s. When he’d asked about her sleek muscles, she’d said, “My job keeps me in shape.” When he’d inquired about her job, she changed the subject by putting her mouth on a part of his anatomy that drained the blood supply from his brain, waylaying any questions he might have asked.

“Yeah,” Bo said snidely. “She lifts weights. I’d say forty pounds, about a hundred reps a day.”

“What?”

“The kid, man. She’s a single mom.” Bo shoved another photo in Ren’s face. All Ren could see of the child was a mop of curls and a pudgy fist clamped around a soft blanket. He missed the first part of Bo’s heated litany. “…gets up at dawn and works around this ugly house in Rancho Carmel until it’s time to go to the store, then she runs her business and chases the kid all over the place until after the noon rush. Then, she lets one of the hookers take over while she takes the kid to the park…”

The word took a couple of seconds to register. “Did you say ‘one of the hookers’?”

“Yeah.”

“How many are there? And what are they doing in a bookstore?”

“Two. The big one’s black. The little one’s white. And they’re her friends. As far as I can see, they’re there every day.”

Ren sat back, letting out a caustic laugh. “Oh, that’s a wonderful environment for a child.”

Bo leaned forward, his lips curled in a snarl. “I knew you were going to say that. Like you have any business pointing fingers.”

Ren’s mouth dropped open. “Okay. That does it. What the hell’s going on with you?”

Bo pulled out a second stool and hopped up to sit at the table. He dropped his chin into his palm and muttered, “I like her.”

“The aunt? Or the hooker?”

Bo glared. “Sara.”

Perplexed, Ren reached for the photograph again. He’d never seen Bo behave in this manner. When involved in a case, Bo rigorously maintained a hard-nosed impartiality.

“Have you actually talked to her? Since that first time?”

“Yeah, yesterday.”

Ren’s solar plexus took another hit. They’d agreed that Bo’s surveillance would be from a distance. “Was that necessary?”

Bo sunk lower in the chair. “It wasn’t my idea.”

“Whose idea was it?”

“The hooker’s.”

Ren smiled at the embarrassment he heard in Bo’s tone. Bo was a professional, one of the best. Ren could imagine Bo’s chagrin if someone had blown his cover.

“The big one or the little one?”

Ren almost missed the mumbled answer. “The little one, huh? Hmm. What happened?”

“She remembered me, okay? I can’t tell you the last time that happened. Maybe I need to work on my disguises—they get old, you know.”

Ren nodded, trying to keep from smiling.

“I didn’t think anybody noticed me Wednesday when I went back to take the pictures, but yesterday, right after Sara and Keneesha—the black hooker—returned from the park, I eased in behind a couple of shoppers—and wham. The little one—Claudie—nailed me. I thought she was gonna demand a strip search.”

Ren diplomatically covered his grin with his hand. “There’s an image.”

Bo shuddered as though recalling a harrowing experience. “It was so sudden. One minute I was standing in the Mystery section listening to Sara explain about some drumming group when—boom—Claudie grabs my arm and spins me around, feet apart, back against the wall. My hand was going for my piece—”

“You were carrying? Around m—a baby?” he corrected.

Bo scowled. “No. But old habits are hard to break, and she knew what I was doing. Believe me. I saw it in her eyes. She knows people. And she pegged me.” He sat back, shaking his head.

“What’d she say?” Ren was surprised when a smile crossed Bo’s lips.

“She said, ‘What’s this guy doing back again?’ And then Sara and the other one came up, and Sara told her, ‘We really need to work on your people skills, Claudie. Let the customer go.’”

Bo sat up straight. “You’ll never guess what happened next.”

“What?” Ren croaked.

“Sara invited me to join her gentleman’s reading group. Meets every other Wednesday at the store. So I figure I can keep an eye on things until you decide what you’re going to do about this.” Bo nudged the computer sheet toward Ren. “Have a look.”

Ren’s stomach contracted at the implication he read in Bo’s words and tone. His heart thudded loudly in his ear as he skimmed the page. “O-positive,” he said softly. “Same as mine.”

“Yeah, I know. I hacked your file, too.”

Neither man spoke. Ren stared out the window at a mockingbird strutting in his backyard. A black and white maitre d’ against a flawless green expanse. What does this mean? Another coincidence or am I a father?

Over the pulsing static of questions, strategies, legal precedents, moral obligations, terror and niggling hint of joy in his head, Ren heard Bo mutter something about reading books not being part of his contract.

Suddenly, the incongruous image of Bo in a literary setting struck Ren as hysterical. Laughing, he said, “A reading group. You?” The release loosened the pent-up emotions percolating in his chest, taking him beyond humor. Gasping for breath, he sputtered, “That’ll have Professor Neightman rolling over in his grave.”

Bo jumped off his stool and stalked to the door. “You know what you and Professor Neightman can do, preferably in public with your fiancée watching,” he barked.

Sobering, Ren drew in a shaky breath and wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. He regretted his jest. For a man who seemingly cared not a whit what people thought, Bo could be damn touchy about certain things, and his lack of formal education was one of them. Not that he hadn’t had his chance. But Bo hadn’t been in study mode during college; he’d been too busy partying.

“Hey, man, I’m sorry. I appreciate what you’re doing, really. I know you’re not crazy about this, but is there any chance you could get some better photos?”

“Why? You think she’s gonna get sexier?”

Ren flinched. “I’d like a shot of the child. Type O is pretty common. It could be a fluke, but if he—”

Bo shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”

Ren would have pressed the point, but Bo didn’t give him the opportunity. The heavy door swished closed, leaving Ren in silence.

He picked up the photographs and headed for his study, intending to go through his mail and pay bills. But once there, he laid out the photographs on his desk. Maybe his calling Sara plain had come from his need to see something of Jewel in her. According to the background information Bo had faxed him, the two women had different fathers. Julia’s had split shortly after her birth. Her mother had married Lewis Carsten a year later and he’d adopted Julia. He’d died when Sara was a toddler. Their mother—an alcoholic—died when Sara was 17.

Ordering himself to put aside any memory of Jewel, he studied Sara’s image. Her jawline was strong but not harsh, her nose perky and small. He liked the shape of her eyes, her thick lashes a shade darker than her hair. In the black-and-white picture, her heart-shaped lips reminded him of an old-time movie heroine—innocent yet sensual.

He could tell, even in the blurry image, that she wore no makeup—a practice that set her apart from other women of his acquaintance. Perhaps he’d done her an injustice. She was pretty, and if she changed hairstyles—hers was straight and plain—she could probably turn a man’s head. However, that didn’t alter the fact that she projected not one iota of the sexual chemistry her sister had exuded.

A sudden knife-like pain sliced through his gut, making him bend over. Tears rushed to his eyes, and he choked back a cry that had been lurking in his subconscious for days. He lowered his head to his desk and wept—for the loss of someone he barely knew, but who’d touched his life with a kind of unfettered passion he’d never experienced before. He hadn’t loved her, this enigmatic Jewel, but on that one night she’d given him…freedom.

THE RAUCOUS SQUABBLING of two blue jays in her neighbor’s sycamore tree reminded Sara of Claudie and Bo, the most recent recruit to Sara’s gentleman’s reading group. It had taken Sara until this Sunday morning, when the mindlessness of scraping paint freed up her random access memory, to place him—the customer who had asked about first editions for his friend. At the time, she’d brushed him off with a flip answer.

“Sara, is it okay if I give Brady a peanut butter sandwich?” Amy Peters asked. The thirteen-year-old wasn’t a terribly experienced baby-sitter, so Sara only used her when she was home and needed some relatively uninterrupted time.

“Sure. You know where everything is, right?”

“Yeah, but it looks like this will be the last of your bread.”

“Darn. I forgot to buy some last night. Oh, well, Brady and I will walk to the market before his nap.”

Amy dashed back inside. Brady was a pretty good toddler, but he had a mischievous streak in him—he loved to be chased. And just lately he’d discovered he could send Amy over the edge by hiding.

With a sigh, Sara tackled her task. A good mile of gutters encircled Hulger’s house. Unfortunately, the original painter had failed to prime them adequately; the brown paint flaked like dandruff in some spots, yet resisted her most vigorous scraping in others. Another reason she hated her brother-in-law’s house.

After the accident, Sara had given up her apartment, which was within walking distance of the bookstore, and had moved into Julia and Hulger’s twenty-eight hundred square-foot house because she hadn’t wanted to uproot Brady. Although it meant a difficult commute twice a day, she’d welcomed the security the gated community offered. But now she was regretting her decision.

“Hello, Miss Hovant,” a grave voice said.

Only one person called her that—Mary Gaines, her neighbor to the left. “Sara, Mrs. Gaines. Please, call me Sara,” she said, striving for patience. Sara didn’t even bother trying to correct the woman on her last name.

“I see you’re finally getting that gutter painted,” the white-haired woman said. Her emphasis was clear.

“Just scraping. I’m still waiting for a bid on the painting. The painter was supposed to meet me yesterday but didn’t bother showing up.” After the scathing message she left on the painter’s machine, Sara doubted she’d ever hear from him again.