Remembering That Night. Stephanie Doyle

all she knew she was a stripper. Maybe it was the only way she could afford to make rent, pay for food and take care of her child.

      Oh my God! Do I have a child?

      “Stop with the what-ifs,” Greg told her. He reached over and grabbed her hand. “Your breathing is accelerated, your pupils are dilating. You’re in a mild stage of panic. Stop wondering about what you can’t answer. Take five deep calming breaths and then concentrate on eating.”

      It was the way he said it. As though he was a doctor ordering two aspirin and a follow-up call in the morning. She did as he directed without thought and then went back to her bland pasta meal.

      “For now we’ll call you Jane.”

      Jane sighed and felt tears well up. It wasn’t her name. She knew it. Instead, she worked on her breathing and forced down her tears. “It doesn’t feel right.”

      Greg nodded, and it wasn’t until then that she realized his hand was still resting warmly on top of hers. He made her feel safe, just with his touch. That was quite a gift.

      “Okay. Then we know two things about you. Your name is not Jane....”

      “What’s the other?”

      “You’re the daughter of a wealthy Italian-American family.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      HE WATCHED AS JANE SCRUNCHED her face in rejection.

      “You can’t possibly know that.”

      “You said the name didn’t feel right.”

      “Yes, I know my name isn’t Jane. It’s the other part you can’t know. Look at my hair.” She unraveled the wet knot that was now partially dry and it dropped to nearly her waist. Long shimmering strands of blond on blond.

      “Genetics is a crazy thing. I didn’t say you were southern Italian, only that you came from an Italian family.”

      “Oh, here he goes.” Chuck groaned. “He’s about to Sherlock Holmes you.”

      “What?”

      “Follow,” Greg began. “You refer to the sauce as gravy, as do most Italian-Americans. You tried not to, but you winced at the bread and the container of cheese, which means you’re used to finer Italian cuisine. You instructed us on how to properly prepare it, which means you have some expertise with Italian cooking. Your back isn’t touching the chair and the paper napkin was spread on your lap in a manner that suggests you’re used to using cloth. Also, you got yourself a spoon, which indicates you were raised in a house where manners were important. Manners are traditionally more important among upper-middle-to upper-class homes. Why I say you’re wealthy is that you looked at me while I twirled my fork against my plate, and then you studied your own plate as if you were concerned for the surface. That suggests you eat on finer dinnerware, potentially china, and china for everyday eating suggests wealth.”

      Jane gasped.

      “I know,” Chuck said. “It’s freaky. But he’s usually right.”

      Greg watched her face, as she assimilated all the information he’d given her. Eventually, she nodded. “Okay. I guess that makes sense. I had the same thought about the china, too. And I hope you don’t think I’m not thankful for the meal...but the white bread was a little off-putting.”

      “You just need to put a lot of butter on it,” Chuck suggested as he reached for another slice.

      “It’s all just pieces, Jane. Put enough of them together and eventually they will start to paint a picture. When you see the picture it will make more sense.”

      She nodded and reached again for her fork and spoon.

      Greg’s cell phone went off and he pulled it out of his back pocket. Only a number registered, but he recognized the area code.

      “Excuse me.”

      He got up and walked as far away from the kitchen area as he could. The place he and Chuck inhabited was basically one large open space that comprised the kitchen and living area. Off that space were two bedrooms and a spiral staircase that led to a loft where Chuck kept all his technical equipment. By Philadelphia standards it was big and luxurious and something they never would have been able to afford without Chuck’s squirrels.

      Unless Greg walked into his bedroom and shut the door, there wasn’t a lot of privacy for this type of conversation. He didn’t want his actions to seem suspicious, but he was afraid he had no other choice. He had a fairly strong inkling who was calling.

      Closing the door to his bedroom, he finally answered the phone. “Hello?”

      “Chalmers? This is Sheriff Danielson. That girl still with you?”

      Greg imagined Jane might take exception at the description of “girl.” She might not know her birthday, but she certainly knew she was a grown woman. For that matter, so did Greg.

      “Yes. She’s still with me. I told you I would watch over her.”

      “Well, you’re going to need to bring her back in for questioning. We’ll need her clothes, too.”

      “What good is questioning her going to do if she doesn’t remember any of the answers?”

      “She’s going to need to try harder.”

      Greg picked up on the ominous note in the sheriff’s voice that implied he knew something. He wished the man would skip the dramatics and get to the point. This was probably the most excitement the sheriff had had in a long time. “Why is that?” Greg asked.

      “There’s been a reported murder. In Atlantic City. Witnesses report seeing a woman with long blond hair walking away from The Grande Casino early Sunday morning, covered in blood and wearing a gray dress. It’s a pretty good bet that’s our girl.”

      “Who was killed?”

      “See, this is where it gets interesting. You ever hear of Hector D’Amato?”

      Greg’s stomach clenched. Sure he’d heard of Hector. The last time Greg had been in A.C. D’Amato’s thugs had invited him—in a memorable way—to never come back. In one respect, he was grateful to them because that last beating put him over the edge. The pain of it had been nothing compared to the humiliation.

      Besides owning and running one of the largest casinos in AC, D’Amato was rumored to be involved in drugs and prostitution. Only no criminal charges against him had ever been able to stick. D’Amato’s assertion had always been that he was clean and his only crime was running a successful casino and having an Italian last name.

      “Yeah, I know who he is.”

      “He’s our victim. Found dead in the alley between his casino and the Plaza. A bullet through his skull. Lots of blood.”

      “You suspect our Jane Doe.”

      “That’s the thing, she’s not a Jane Doe anymore. Her name is Eliza Dunning. The witnesses who saw her walking away from the hotel knew her. She was an employee of The Grande, but the people we talked to implied there was more between her and D’Amato than that, if you get my drift.”

      Greg did and didn’t like the feeling that came with it. A mobster’s mistress? He couldn’t picture it. Although, if she was present at his death—whether as a participant or a mere witness—it would be a pretty good basis for a traumatic reaction that could bring on hysterical amnesia.

      If she was telling the truth.

      “You’ve been with her all day. Do you still think she’s telling the truth about not remembering anything?”

      Greg thought about her reaction in the hospital. Then what she’d looked like coming out of the bathroom, clean of blood and wearing fresh clothes. He had seen relief. Because she felt like she was getting away with murder? Or because her hair was no longer coated with blood?