Fatal Identity Read online

  HOLY BOMBSHELL, BATMAN! Sam’s mind raced with implications and scenarios and flat-out disbelief. “You can’t honestly believe that your father, one of the top law enforcement officials in the country, kidnapped a child thirty years ago.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him,” Josh said.

  “He’s one of the most respected men in our business. He’s revered.”

  “Believe me, I know all about how revered he is. I hear about it on a regular basis.” He looked at her beseechingly. “You have to help me. I don’t know who else to turn to. Besides some of the people who work for my father, I don’t know any other cops, and you’re the best. And...I’m scared.” The last two words were said on a faint whisper.

  Sam wanted nothing to do with the snake pit this case could turn out to be, but the detective in her was far too intrigued to walk away. “How’d you get here?”

  “I took the Metro.”

  She took a look around to see if anyone was watching, but the parking lot was deserted, and the usual band of reporters that stalked the MPD were taking the day off. They tended to do that when it was freezing. “Come with me.” She led him to the tricked-out black BMW her husband had recently given her and gestured for Josh to get in the passenger side.

  Though she had no idea what she planned to do with him or the information he’d dropped in her lap, she couldn’t walk away from what he’d told her. “Tell me more about this website where you saw the photo.”

  “It’s a blog run by parents of missing children.”

  “How did you end up there?”

  “I read a story about a baby who was kidnapped from a hospital in Tennessee the day after he was born and how his parents have never stopped looking for him. The thirtieth anniversary of the abduction is coming up, so they’ve gotten some regional publicity. There was a link in the story that led to the blog where the age-progression photo was.”

  “So the photo hasn’t been picked up by the media?”

  “Not that I could tell, but I was too freaked out by what I was seeing to dig deeper, especially since my thirtieth birthday is next week. I told my boss I had an emergency. I left the office and came right to you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Are you serious? After what you did at the inauguration, the whole country knows what an amazing cop you are. Who else would I go to with something like this?”

  Sam winced at the reference to her crowd surfing stunt during the inaugural parade. She wished people would forget about that and move on, but the media attention on her and Nick had been even more relentless than usual since the inauguration and since their interview last week with one of the network morning shows. They’d hoped the interview would diffuse the interest, but that had backfired. Andrea, her White House communications director, had been inundated with hundreds of new interview requests for Sam, all of which she’d declined. The last thing she needed was more attention focused on her.

  “You realize that accusing the FBI director of a capital felony is not something you do without stacks of proof that he was involved.”

  “That’s where you come in. I need proof, and I need it fast before that picture gets picked up by the wires or social media and flung around the country. I need proof before he knows that I know.”

  Sam had to agree that time was of the essence before this thing blew up into a shitstorm of epic proportions. With that in mind, she started the car, pulled out of the MPD parking lot and into weekday afternoon traffic that clogged the District on the way toward Capitol Hill.

  “Where are we going?”

  “My house.”

  She glanced over at him and saw his eyes get big. “For real?”

  “Yes, for real.” She paused before she continued. “Look, if you want me to dig into this, I have to do it at home. I’m serving out a suspension for punching another officer.”

  “Whoa.”

  “As you can imagine, I’d prefer that not be all over the news in light of who my husband is, and I’ve gotta stay below the radar on this or my bosses will be all over me.”

  “No one will hear it from me.”

  After a slow crawl across the District, Sam pulled up to the Secret Service checkpoint on Ninth Street. Normally they waved her through, but she had to stop to clear her guest. “They’ll need to see your ID.”

  Josh pulled his license from his wallet and handed it to her.

  She gave it to the agent, who took a close look before returning it to her. “Thank you, ma’am. Have a nice day.”

  “You too.”

  “What’s that like?” Josh asked. “Being surrounded by Secret Service all the time?”

  “About as much fun as you’d expect it to be.”

  “Why don’t you have a detail?”

  “Because I don’t need one. I can take care of myself.” Thankfully, he didn’t mention the recent siege in Marissa Springer’s basement as an example of her inability to take care of herself. Sam liked to think that was a onetime lapse in judgment, never to be repeated.

  Outside their home, her husband’s motorcade lined the street. What was he doing home so early?

  She parked in her assigned spot—everyone who lived on Ninth Street now had assigned parking spaces—and headed up the ramp that led to their home.

  “Why do you have a ramp?” Josh asked.

  “My dad’s a quadriplegic. He lives down the street. My husband installed the ramp so he can visit.”

  “Oh, that’s cool. Sorry about your dad, though.”

  “Thanks.”

  Nick’s lead agent, John Brantley Jr., met her at the door. “Lieutenant.”

  “Brant. What’s he doing home so early?”

  “The vice president isn’t feeling well.”

  “Say what?”

  He gave her a “you heard me” look that nearly made her laugh, except she was too concerned about Nick to laugh. Her invincible husband didn’t get sick the way other mortals did. In all the time they’d been together, she’d never known him to have so much as a cold.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

  She used her thumb to point to her guest. “This is Josh—he’s with me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She hated the way the agents insisted on calling her ma’am, as if she were seventy years old or something, but she’d chosen not to fight that battle. She wanted to say, if you can call me ma’am why can’t you call me Sam? Close enough, wasn’t it? But Nick had asked her not to make an issue of it, so she didn’t. But she wanted to.

  “Have a seat.” She directed Josh to the sofa while she tossed her coat over the back of it. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay.”

  Sam dashed upstairs to their bedroom, anxious to see what was wrong with Nick, who’d been fine earlier. She found him in bed, curled into the fetal position, and was instantly concerned. Leaning over the bed, she pressed a kiss to his forehead, which was on fire. “Babe.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  “Don’t know. Was fine and then I wasn’t.”

  “You’re burning up. Did you take something?”

  “Couldn’t. Stomach.”

  “I’m calling Harry.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine, and I’m calling Harry.”

  He mumbled something that sounded like “don’t bother him,” but to hell with that. She was bothering him. Withdrawing her cell phone from her pocket, she found the number for one of their closest friends, who happened to be a doctor, and made the call.

  “Madame Vice President,” Harry said. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  “Nick is sick. Can you come over?”

  “Sic
k with what?”

  “I don’t know. He said it came on out of nowhere, and now he’s burning up and says his stomach hurts too bad to take anything.”

  “Sounds like the flu. Keep your distance.”

  “Way too late for that warning.” Sam winced when she thought of the sex they’d had last night and again this morning. Not getting too close to her husband was usually the last thing she wanted to do.

  “Figures with you two,” Harry said with a huff of laughter. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Can you clear me through security?”

  “Yeah, I’ll let them know.”

  “Try not to worry. He’s an ox. He’ll be fine.”

  Sam usually took Harry’s assurances to heart, but she was worried. She’d never seen Nick this way and had no idea what to do to make him feel better. She hated feeling powerless. Then she remembered Josh was downstairs waiting for her to figure out what to do about his suspicions.

  So much for a nice, peaceful few days “off.”

  Sam ran her fingers through Nick’s hair, which was sweaty from the fever. “Babe, I have to go downstairs and take care of something. I’ll be right back up, okay?”

  He had gone back to sleep and didn’t respond.

  Sam bent over to kiss his cheek, trying not to notice that he already felt hotter than he had a few minutes ago. She ran back downstairs to where Josh was waiting right where she’d left him. His leg bounced as he bit his nails.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem.”

  Their assistant, Shelby Faircloth, came into the room from the kitchen, carrying a cup of tea and holding her iPad under her arm.

  “Hey, Sam, what’re you doing home? And why is Nick here?”

  “He’s sick, and I’m off for four days,” she said with a meaningful glance.

  “Ahh, gotcha.” Shelby knew Sam was due to hear the results of the IAB hearing today.

  “Could I borrow your iPad for a minute?” Sam asked. “Oh, and this is Josh. I’m helping him out with something. Josh, Shelby, our assistant.”

  “Nice to meet you, Josh.” Shelby punched in her code and handed the iPad to Sam. “What’s going on?”

  Without telling Shelby about Josh’s connection to Director Hamilton, Sam told her about the photo Josh had found on the Internet.

  “Oh my,” Shelby said, dropping into a chair.

  Sam gave the iPad to Josh. “Show me the site where you found the photo.”

  He did some typing and poking at the screen until he landed on the site. “Here.”

  Sam took it from him and scanned the text that accompanied the photo. A newborn male by the name of Taylor Rollings had gone missing from a maternity ward in Franklin, Tennessee, located twenty miles outside of Nashville in Williamson County. According to the article, the baby’s kidnapping had been the lead story for weeks in the Williamson Herald and had been picked up by papers and TV news channels around the state.

  His parents—Chauncey, a farmer, and Micki, a homemaker—were now in their sixties but had never given up hope of finding their missing son.

  “He was taken right out of his bassinet while I was sleeping,” Micki said in the article, “and we’ve never seen him again.” The reporter noted that Micki still weeps when she speaks of the son who disappeared on a cold winter night three decades ago. “I’ll never stop looking for him. As long as I have a breath left in me, I’ll look for him.”

  Touched by Micki’s sorrow, Sam skimmed the rest of the article, planning to read everything she could find on the case later. “If you really think you’re the missing son of this family, we could reach out to local law enforcement in Williamson County.”

  “What would happen then?”

  “They’d probably request DNA and run it against Mr. Rollings to see if it’s a match. That might be a good place to start.”

  “But what if it doesn’t match? They’ve been through so much. I’d hate to get their hopes up.”

  “That’s a very real concern and one you’ll need to weigh carefully if you’re determined to go through with this.”

  “What would you do?”

  Sam tried to put herself in his place. “I’d want to know, but that’s my nature. I always want to know everything. I guess that’s why I’m good at my job. I’m not satisfied until I know the truth.”

  “I don’t know what to do. You saw what they said about Taylor’s mom, how she still cries when she talks about him thirty years later. What it if turns out not to be true, and I get their hopes up?”

  “What if it turns out to be true? What if you’re their missing son? Think about the peace and comfort you could bring them.”

  He dropped his head into his hands and sighed.

  “May I ask a question?” Shelby said.

  Josh raised his head to nod.

  “What’s your gut telling you? I’m a big believer in trusting my gut.”

  “Me too,” Sam said.

  “There’s something to this,” Josh said. “I know there is. I don’t know if I’m this missing kid, Taylor, or not, but when I saw the picture? I felt like I’d been struck by lightning.”

  “You should listen to that feeling,” Shelby said.

  “I agree,” Sam said. “Maybe there’s a way we can test the DNA without getting the parents involved until we know there’s a match.” She flipped open her phone and scrolled through her contacts to find Dr. Lindsey McNamara’s number.

  “Hey, Sam,” Lindsey said. “Heard you were off for a few days.”

  “Is that how it’s being played?”

  “Well, actually I heard you were suspended for punching Ramsey.”

  “I still say he had it coming.”

  “You won’t hear any argument from me. So what’s up?”

  “I need an off-the-books favor. I have a friend who needs a DNA test done. Do you think you could come by my house and take care of that for him?”

  “Um, sure. I’m leaving for lunch shortly. Could I do it then?”

  “That’d be perfect. And if you could keep this between us, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Of course. No problem.”

  “I’ll clear you through security.”

  “See you soon.”

  “Hey, Brant,” Sam said when she ended the call with Lindsey. “Would you please let them know outside that Drs. Harry Flynn and Lindsey McNamara will be coming over shortly?”

  “Sure, thing, Mrs. Cappuano. No problem.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Who was that you called?” Josh asked.

  “The District’s Chief Medical Examiner, Dr. Lindsey McNamara. She’s a friend and a colleague. I trust her to be discreet.”

  “I thought medical examiners worked on dead people.”

  “Usually they do, but she’s also a medical doctor and handles DNA testing for us.” She glanced at the stairs. “I need to check on my husband. He’s not feeling well. I’ll be right back down.”

  Sam went upstairs to the bedroom, where Nick was exactly where she’d left him. She placed her head on his face and was stunned by how hot he felt. Running back downstairs, she called Harry again and got his voicemail. “Harry, it’s Sam again. He’s scary hot. I’m worried. Let me know if you think I should take him to the ER.”

  Sam’s phone rang, and she pounced on it, hoping it was Harry. “Mrs. Cappuano, this is Mrs. Perry at Eliot-Hine. The school nurse asked me to call to let you know Scotty’s not feeling well. He has a fever of one hundred point two. Is it okay if we send him home with his detail?”

  Sam’s heart sank at the news that Scotty was sick too. While she’d rather pick him up herself, the agents could get him home faster. “Yes, please. Send him home.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  SCOTTY NARROWLY M
ISSED throwing up on Sam when she met him on the sidewalk in front of the house. Fortunately, she saw what was happening and jumped out of the way in time for him to puke on the street rather than on her. She patted his back and took tissues from Darcy, one of his agents, to wipe his mouth when he was done.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. His face was so pale he barely resembled her robustly healthy son.

  “Don’t be sorry. You can’t help it, buddy. You okay for now?”

  “I think so.”

  Sam wrapped her arm around him to lead him inside. “How long have you felt lousy?”

  “About an hour. I was fine and then my head was spinning and my ears were buzzing. Then my stomach started hurting, and I felt really hot.”

  “Whatever it is, your dad has it too, and Harry’s on his way.”

  Scotty closed his eyes and leaned his head against her. “Okay.”

  “Oh my goodness,” Shelby said when Sam brought him inside.

  “You need to get out of here while the getting is still good,” Sam said. “Whatever they’ve got is the last thing you need.”

  “I can’t leave you to deal with this by yourself.”

  “Yes, you can. Go, Tinker Bell. That’s an order.”

  “If you’re sure,” Shelby said tearfully. Everything made her cry these days.

  “I’m very sure this is no place for a pregnant woman.”

  “All right, I’m going. I’ll check in after a while.”

  In a low voice only Shelby could hear, Sam added, “Please don’t say anything to anyone, even Avery, about what Josh told you.” Sam wanted to say especially Avery, but she showed some restraint. The last thing she needed was Shelby’s FBI agent fiancé catching wind of possible accusations against his boss. Shelby hadn’t put Hamilton plus Hamilton together to get Troy Hamilton, but Avery was apt to.

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “Um, should I go too?” Josh asked, eyeing Scotty warily.

  “No, you stay. I’ll be back down as soon as I can.” With her arm still around Scotty’s shoulders, she guided him to the stairs. “Come on, pal. You gotta help me out here.”

  “Sorry.” He climbed the stairs in slow steps. By the time they reached the top, he’d broken into a sweat.