LITMIR.BIZ

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was time to go home and fall into bed.

      And she wouldn’t check on Tom again, she told herself firmly. He was probably asleep, and if he wasn’t, he should be.

      As she was gathering her jacket and purse to leave, a voice behind her said, “Ms. White?”

      She turned around to see Detective Bob Jones standing at the nursing desk. Her breath caught in a quick gasp of fear. He wouldn’t be here so late if it wasn’t serious. Swallowing once, she said, “Hello, Detective. What can I do for you?”

      He watched her for a moment, and she felt as if he could see all the way inside her head, see the fear she’d tried to hide. Finally, he said, “I need to see Tom Flynt.”

      “At this time of night? I’m sure he’s asleep.”

      “I have some questions that can’t wait.”

      “He’s not going anywhere, Detective. He’ll still be here in the morning.”

      He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t need your permission to talk to him, Ms. White. He’s a suspect in a major crime, and I need him to clear some things up for me. Now do you want to wake him up for me, or should I do it myself?”

      “I’ll wake him up.” Shakily she turned away and walked down the hall. My God, what had they found out? This was the first time the detective had actually called Tom a suspect.

      When she peered into Tom’s room, she saw that he was sleeping. Slipping into the gloom of the darkened room, she motioned to the detective to wait outside.

      She stood next to the bed for a moment, watching Tom breathe. His face was relaxed and his eyes were closed. At least he was free from the anxiety that she knew filled him whenever he was awake. She hated to wake him, hated to disturb him, but she knew she didn’t have a choice.

      “Tom, wake up,” she whispered.

      He didn’t move. She touched his arm, once again trying to ignore the solid feel of him, the warmth that pulsed from him. “Tom, Detective Jones is here to talk to you.”

      His eyes fluttered open and he looked right at her. His mouth curved up in a smile and his hand reached for hers. “Tina,” he said in a sleepy voice, “why are you still here?”

      For a moment she returned the pressure of his hand, allowed herself to enjoy the warmth of his fingers curved around hers, then she gently slipped her hand away. “I was just leaving. I told Detective Jones to come back tomorrow, but he seems to think it’s urgent.”

      The sleepy, satisfied look disappeared and Tom’s eyes became more focused. He lifted himself in the bed, then pressed the button that would raise him up. He moved more easily than he had even that morning, but Tina could see that he was still uncomfortable.

      “Do you want me to stay here while the detective talks to you?”

      Tom looked over at her and smiled. “So you can protect me?”

      “I want to make sure he doesn’t tire you out.”

      “I want to talk to him, Tina, but I’d love for you to stay.”

      Tina turned around and nodded to Detective Jones, who stood in the doorway. He probably wanted to make sure I wasn’t trying to help Tom escape through the window, she thought sourly. “You can come in now, Detective.”

      He walked up to the bed and stood looking down at Tom. Tina offered him the chair, but he ignored her. Finally he said, “We traced your driver’s license, Flynt. It was a forgery.”

      Tina heard a gasp, and realized it had come from her. There was silence in the room. Finally, Tom said, “What is that supposed to mean?”

      “It means that Missouri has no record of issuing a driver’s license to you, ever. That license of yours was a fake, and a damned skillful one.”

      Tom studied the detective’s face. He said, “And what else? I know there’s more. I can see it in your face.”

      “For someone who says he’s lost his memory, you seem to know quite a bit.”

      Tom shrugged. “I can’t help what I remember or know.”

      “That’s convenient.”

      “That’s the way it is.”

      The two men stared at one another for another moment. The detective looked away first. He glanced down at the small notebook in his hand. “Your credit card bills are sent to a P.O. box in Missouri, too. The address that the post office has for the box doesn’t exist. It’s a vacant lot in a rough part of St. Louis.” He rattled off an address to Tom, then looked at him. “Does that ring a bell?”

      “Not at all.”

      The detective snapped the notebook shut and slipped it into his back pocket. “You’ve got a problem, Flynt…” he paused “…if that’s really your name.”

      “It’s the name on my credit cards and driver’s license, isn’t it?”

      “That doesn’t mean squat.”

      Tom shrugged, but Tina could see the tension in the line of his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I can’t give you any answers. The only reason I know my name is Tom Flynt is because you told me so.”

      “As far as I’m concerned, Flynt, you’re a suspect in the murders of David and Lisa Steele.” Detective Jones fixed his hard stare on Tom. “I’m going to do my best to get all the facts in this case. And when I do, I’m going to arrest you.”

      “There were a lot of people at this ball, weren’t there?” Tom asked.

      “Only a couple hundred of them,” the detective shot back.

      “Did any of them see me shoot the Steeles?”

      “No.” The admission was grudging. “No one saw the actual shooting. But several people saw you and another man running out of the ballroom immediately after the shooting. When I put that together with your fake identification and the gun we found with you, I add up two and two and get four. If you weren’t the shooter, then I figure you for an accessory to the murders.”

      Tom stared at the detective, and Tina could see him trying to force himself to remember. She stepped forward to tell the detective to leave, but Tom grabbed her hand.

      “Wait,” he said without looking at her.

      “What about my gun? Was it the murder weapon?” he asked the detective.

      “We’re checking that. And we’ll need a set of fingerprints from you to run through the computer.”

      “Then all your evidence is circumstantial,” Tom said slowly. “It wouldn’t hold up in a court of law.”

      Detective Jones snorted. “Would this be called selective amnesia? For someone who claims they can’t remember anything, you sure sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

      Tom leaned back against the pillows, weariness etched on his face. “I told you, Detective, I can’t help what I can remember. And I don’t know why I know that. I just do.”

      “And I know this—” Detective Jones leaned closer to Tom “—don’t plan on leaving town once you get out of the hospital, Mr. Flynt.” There was a subtle emphasis on Tom’s name. “We may not have any direct evidence yet, but I’ll find it. And then I’ll nail you.”

      “You’re welcome to try,” Tom shot back. “I want to know the truth as much as you do.”

      The detective straightened. “We’ll see if you’re singing the same tune in a few days.”

      “In a few days, I hope I’ll have regained my memory and I’ll be able to tell you everything you want to know,” Tom said coolly.

      “I’m looking forward to it.”

      The

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