Identity Unknown. Debra Webb

have five minutes to discuss the recent rash of incidents in your neighborhood?”

      When looking for a cover story, he’d read about the outbreak of robberies in the area. Any criminal activity in the community was likely to prompt immediate cooperation from residents. And if Ms. Childers reacted as expected, she would automatically assume he represented the local authorities in one capacity or another.

      Nancy Childers hesitated only half a second. “Sure.” The suspicion vanished and she managed a polite smile. “Come in.” The door opened wider in invitation as she stepped back, allowing them entrance.

      “We can talk in the living room.” She led the way.

      When they were seated, Patrick explained briefly what he’d learned about the rash of robberies before asking, “Have you considered that someone in your neighborhood might be the perpetrator?”

      Nancy frowned. “No.” She shook her head. “I discussed the problem with one of my neighbors just yesterday and we’re shocked. This isn’t the norm for this area. I guess I’m lucky my home wasn’t hit, since I’m rarely here.”

      “So you haven’t noticed any suspicious activities? No strange automobiles or people loitering about?”

      “No. Not at all.”

      “May I use your restroom?” Sande interjected.

      No one was more surprised by the question than Patrick. He glanced from Sande, who’d asked, to their host.

      Nancy’s brow creased with another frown, this one laced with renewed suspicion. “Sure.” She hesitated a second or two, then waved her hand in the direction of the hall. “Second door on the right.”

      When Sande had left the room, Patrick drew the woman’s attention back to the conversation. “Are any of the residents in the neighborhood new arrivals? Or is there anyone who perhaps keeps a particularly low profile? You’d be surprised how important small, seemingly insignificant details like that can be to an investigation.”

      Nancy pondered his question. “It’s difficult for me to say, since I travel so frequently. In fact, I only just returned from several weeks in Dallas.”

      “Your work keeps you away for extended periods?” She’d mentioned that, but he wanted details.

      “Most of the time.” She shifted to a more relaxed position, but the tightening of her jaw gave away her continued uneasiness. “I help analyze and organize accounting departments for major corporations.”

      So far he’d learned nothing he didn’t already know. Once he and Sande were gone, the woman’s actions would tell the rest of the story—if there was anything else to tell.

      Noting Sande’s approach from the hall, Patrick stood. “We certainly appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Childers. If you think of anything at all out of the ordinary that you might have forgotten to mention, please give me a call.” He provided her with a card that included his name and cell-phone number. “One of us will be in touch if we think of any additional questions.”

      Sande resumed her position at his side, her expression as neutral as it had been when they first entered the house. She shook Nancy’s hand and thanked her for her cooperation. Patrick studied the interaction between the two women. Nothing. Not a flicker of recognition.

      Nancy Childers was either an accomplished actress or a dead end.

      Patrick didn’t question his client until the door was closed behind them and they were nearing the street. “Nothing, huh?”

      Sande shook her head. “Nothing.”

      “Sande!”

      Patrick’s attention jerked left, toward the source of the greeting. An older woman, seventy or seventy-five, waved from the yard next door to Nancy Childers’s home. As he watched, she leaned her rake against the fence, tugged off her gloves and started in their direction.

      “I thought that was you!” The spry woman hurried to the sidewalk to meet them. “I’ve missed our garden chats. Where in the world have you been?” She scrutinized Sande for longer than was comfortable. “You don’t look well. Have you been ill?”

      Sande’s expression left no question as to her utter surprise as well as total confusion. “I…uh, yes. I’ve been in the hospital.”

      The older lady shook her head. “I wish you’d called me. I didn’t know what in the world happened. Then those men came around this morning looking for you, and I didn’t know what to say. They wouldn’t tell me a thing, just kept asking questions.” She wrung her hands. “Frankly, I was worried you’d…” She looked left then right, as if expecting trouble from somewhere on the street. “There are so many murders these days.” She heaved out a big breath. “You never know when someone just disappears like that. I sure wish you’d called.”

      “I’m sorry.” Patrick offered his hand, diverting her attention to him. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Patrick O’Brien.”

      “Alma Spears.” She grasped his hand with surprising strength. “I keep a watch on Nancy’s house when she’s away. Usually.” Her gaze shifted back to Sande. “But this time she hired herself a house sitter while she was away. I was going to ask her about that, but every time I drop by she’s on her way out or tied up on the phone.” Alma glanced back at the house. “Maybe she thinks I’m getting too old for the job.” Alma smiled. “In the end I made myself a new friend in Sande here.” Her smile dimmed. “I’m so glad to see you’re all right.”

      Sande stared at the woman who called herself Alma Spears. She’d said one thing that had settled like a massive stone in her stomach. “Men came looking for me?” The idea that it may have been those men from the hospital who’d come here terrified her.

      “Yes. Two of ’em.” Alma dabbed at her forehead with the back of her hand. “If you’re not in a hurry, why don’t you come on in and we’ll visit over some tea?” She made eye contact with Mr. O’Brien. “Or coffee.”

      Two men. More of that paralyzing fear prickled Sande’s skin. Wait. Focus. The woman had asked her a question. Tea. She wanted to visit. Maybe that was a good idea. How was it that this Alma Spears could know Sande? And she felt no sense of recognition? No connection whatsoever?

      “Coffee would be great,” O’Brien agreed cordially.

      Sande had to pay attention. She’d completely ignored the invitation. Pull it together, girl. O’Brien had told her to pay attention. To relax and just feel.

      Alma Spears led the way through her backyard, past a lush garden. Lots of pansies and deep-green ferns set against the darkening red of dwarf nandinas.

      Once inside, she said, “You two make yourselves at home and I’ll get the refreshments.”

      As soon as Alma was out of earshot, O’Brien turned to Sande. “You’re certain nothing in the house next door stirred even the slightest reaction?”

      She shook her head. “I explored a bit when I asked to use the restroom. Nothing felt familiar.” That was the absolute worst feeling. To know you had a history, maybe family, and not be able to access those memories. It was like some part of her—the part that mattered the most—was missing.

      “What about this lady?” he prodded. “Anything?”

      Sande turned her palms up. “Nothing yet.”

      His next question was preempted by Alma’s return. The tray she carried was laden with a floral porcelain coffeepot and three dainty cups and saucers. “I was hoping we’d get to say a proper goodbye before you left for your next assignment.” She passed Sande a cup prepared with tea, then filled the remaining two with coffee before passing one to O’Brien. “After four days I was certain you weren’t coming back.” She cradled her own cup and sighed. “Like I said before, I feared the worst.”

      “Did the men who