Thirty-Seven
T he four of them rode back to Quantico in silence. After about ten minutes, the driver stopped at a guard station. The car was checked, their credentials verified, then they were cleared. The parade grounds looked vaguely familiar, though Taylor knew she was probably ascribing a mental picture from a variety of movies and pictures and Baldwin’s many descriptions.
The car stopped in front of a low office building, about four stories high.
“I thought you labored underground,” she said.
“You watch too much TV. We haven’t been underground for several years. They’ve uncaged us.”
Wills and Memphis walked ahead, giving Baldwin a moment to squeeze her hand. He leaned in close. “We’re gonna get them. I am so impressed with all you’ve done. We wouldn’t be half as close to catching them without all your work,” he whispered.
“Thank you. I’m just ready to catch them.”
Within five minutes they were settled back in the conference room. Taylor didn’t have time to assimilate much, but that didn’t matter. Baldwin could give her the tour once they had the case solved.
“So, Memphis. Where do we start?” Baldwin asked.
The Brit slid back in his chair, crossed his arms across his chest. “I studied anthropology at Oxford. We did all sorts of analysis about identical twins. I’ll wager that if one was adopted, the other was as well. And I recall an article in one of my courses about an adoption agency that was being shut down for unscrupulous practices. One here in America, in New York. They were separating identical twins. Highly unethical.”
Baldwin felt a jolt of recognition. He remembered that; he’d had a case study in law school about the ethics of the situation.
“I know what you’re talking about. I just can’t remember-”
“Oh, I can. Louise Wise. My mother’s name is Louisa, so it rather stuck with me.”
“Louise Wise Services. That’s exactly it. Nicely done.”
Baldwin looked at the man in appreciation. That was the best suggestion he’d heard all day.
Wills said, “We have a birthday for one of them, Gavin Adler. September 14, 1980. If that’s accurate, it could be the date to start looking at the New York adoption records. But this is such a long shot. Who knows if they were even born in New York? Who knows if that date is even right?”
“It’s a shot, though,” Memphis said.
Baldwin stared the younger man in the eye. “Okay,” Baldwin said finally. “Let’s go find them.”
They were set up, assembly line, she and Baldwin and Memphis and Wills. She was searching the live births, handing them off to Memphis, who cross-referenced the adoption records with the hospital records. Baldwin was making calls to every name he could find in association with the now-defunct Louise Wise Services, and handing off possibles to Wills.
She’d been combing through online records for an hour, searching for births in New York between 1979 and 1981 with more than one living child. It was laborious, painstaking work. She had to do a new query for every set of male twins she came across. Every time she hit a multiple birth, she noted the record and gave it to Memphis.
Having to use the computer was a blessing and a curse. They could cross-reference more quickly, but Taylor’s wrist was getting sore. Kevin Salt had set them up with access into the New York files. She didn’t want to ask how.
It was hard to know if they were missing anything, either. Reading on the screen wasn’t her forte. Give her hard copies any day.
It was close to 3:00 a.m. and they were making little progress. Baldwin stepped out to make some more coffee, Wills excused himself, as well.
The second the door closed behind them, Memphis said, “I think I may have something here.” Taylor could hear the excitement in his voice.
“What is it?” she asked.
Memphis leaned back in his chair, stretching. His shirt clung to his chest. Taylor forced herself to look away. She wondered about the timing-Baldwin walks out, Memphis finds something.
“Seriously, Memphis, what did you find? Time is crucial. Tick-tock.”
Memphis gave her a look. “You know, Jackson, you’re like an Amazon.”
She eyed him suspiciously. If she had a dollar for every man who’d used that come-on line…“Yeah, well, I don’t think I’m gonna be cutting off my right breast so I can draw my gun faster, but thanks for the thought.”
He got up and crossed to her side of the conference table. She sat up straighter, involuntarily. He took the seat next to her, scooted the chair close. He nestled up to her, reached out to touch a strand of her hair. “I can see it perfectly. You’d carry a sword, a broadsword, and slay all the men in your path. Would you slay me, do you think?”
“Are you actually flirting with me?” she asked, half laughing, half…something. She pulled away from him. He was dangerous. Cute, funny, lovely accent, great ass, but none of that mattered to her. Memphis Highsmythe was a player, no question about it. And she’d gotten into serious trouble the last time she fell for a man who was looking for sex.
“What did you find?” she asked, trying to steer them back on course.
“I’ve found you.” He started to move closer, but she stood up, knocking the chair back in her hurry. She got three feet away and turned back to him. He looked confused. She shook her finger at him, feeling foolishly like a school marm.
“Stop that. Right now. I am not free. Nor do I want to be. I’m engaged to the man you’ve asked for help, for Christ’s sake. We have work to do. I refuse to sit here and have you…whatever it is you think you’re doing. Knock it off. Capiche? ”
He had the good sense not to come closer. He eyed her warily, as if she might explode at any moment.
“You think I’m just after a quick bunk-up, don’t you?”
“Bunk-up…oh, I see.” Damn British euphemisms. He was constantly renaming things in that superior, upper- crust accent. It made her want to scream. “Isn’t it? Trust me, pal, I’m not the woman you want. There’s plenty of bait for you elsewhere. I’m sure you have a few eager Sloane Rangers waiting for you at home. But I’m off-limits. Don’t forget it.” She was breathing heavily, infuriated for no good reason. Jesus, Taylor. What’s got you in such a fuss? All he did was hit on you. No harm, no foul. Right?
Memphis started to laugh. She was half tempted to join him, but his smug smile made her want to hit him. Or kiss him. Whoa, there, chickie. What in the hell are you thinking? She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, then stood straight as an arrow.
“How does a homicide detective from Nashville know what a Sloane Ranger is?” Memphis asked.
She eyed him suspiciously. “I went to a private school in Nashville. We had a transplant from London. She talked about them.”
“You know, you never answered my question. What, aside from big-bad-daddy issues, drives a graduate of a Nashville finishing school to the life of a detective? Like the power of carrying a gun, do you?”
“What’s a viscount doing in the Met?” she shot back.
“Oh, touche. We have more in common than you think. Both born with the proverbial silver spoon in our mouths.”
“That is entirely beside the point.” She softened for a moment. “You don’t know me, Memphis. You don’t know the first thing about me. I prefer to keep it that way. I have things to do. I’ll talk to you later.” She left him in the conference room, went to the Ladies’ room on the opposite side of the building from Baldwin’s office. Lord knows she didn’t want to run into him right now.
She locked the door behind her and went to the sink. She splashed some cold water on her face, then stood gripping the porcelain. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her pupils dilated. Roused. And for what? For whom? Some guy she didn’t know, didn’t want to know. He looked at her like she was a steak. Damn anemic asshole.
So why did she respond to him? She’d felt it, that stirring, and she knew he’d picked up on it. Almost as if he could smell her attraction to him.
