Fugitive Mom. Lynn Erickson

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      “I’ve arranged for you to meet Luke in Chinatown at six.”

      “Oh,” she said.

      “Your mother and I will take your car and I’ll stash it in my garage for the time being. And I think it’s best if Charley stays with us, at least till after you’ve talked to Luke. Okay?”

      “I…Yes, sure, Charley will love it. He could really use some downtime, too.”

      “We’ll take good care of him, honey.”

      Grace smiled and squeezed her father’s hand. “Of course you will.”

      And then she heard Sally and Charley behind them, and Bob told her the name of the restaurant in Chinatown, reminded her that the meeting was at six and asked if she was okay with this.

      “Fine. Great,” she breathed as Charley leaped into her lap, a cookie mushed in his fist.

      IT HAD BEEN A LONG TIME since Grace had driven around San Francisco. She’d once taken Charley to Fisherman’s Wharf for lunch, but she hadn’t driven the hilly road to downtown then; she’d just scooted onto the Oakland Bay Bridge and negotiated the streets along the Embarcadero, which ran parallel to San Francisco Bay. No hills there.

      But Chinatown was located on the hills right in the heart of town, hills that often terrified drivers new to the city. She had trouble finding a parking space, as this was the summer tourist season, and she was afraid she’d be late for this meeting. But when she finally squeezed her parents’ station wagon into a slot on Grant Avenue and glanced at her watch it was only 5:30.

      Great. Now she had to sit here and wait, surrounded by hordes of tourists peeking into alleys and sweat-shops. Her nerves were pricking at the back of her neck.

      Luke Sarkov. She tried to recall him. A cop. Was a cop. Maybe he owned a private investigating firm now. Maybe he was…Oh, what did it matter? Her father had said Luke was the man for this job. But what, exactly, did that mean?

      She studied the passersby, who in turn stared into a tiny grocery store across from her. Ducks hung in the open sliding window and fish gleamed on the bed of ice below. Locals haggled prices with the butcher in mile-a-minute Mandarin. The aroma of fish oils and roast duck and garlic and ginger wafted around her. Familiar. She used to love Chinatown when she’d grown up near the city, the exotic scents and sounds, the early-morning fog furling around the hills. Now, though, everything seemed alien, strange to her senses.

      She glanced at her watch. Still fifteen minutes to go.

      Lum Lee’s was right down the block. Was Luke already inside waiting for her? Should she just go in?

      Forty-one years old, her father had said when they’d left the mall earlier. Five-eleven, well built, dark-blond hair, blue eyes. The description had sounded like a police report. But her mother had added, “He’s very good-looking, Gracie.”

      Good-looking, forty-one, used to be a cop. Her father told her she’d met him a couple of times when she was a teenager, but she had no recollection of him. Not a clue.

      Five-fifty-five. Okay, enough. She’d walk into Lum Lee’s and wait for him. She was a big girl. It was crazy how shy she could be, but she’d always hated going into a bar or restaurant alone. Eating alone was unthinkable. This was different, though. This was for Charley, and Luke Sarkov would show up, and everything would work out.

      She opened her door and stepped onto the curb, smoothed her khaki slacks, which were rumpled from sitting so long. She had on a short-sleeved white blouse—wrinkled, also—and she shivered and she felt the breeze off the bay. She’d forgotten how cool San Francisco could be even in the summer.

      Lum Lee’s was in a narrow building, with the glass storefront displaying the usual glazed spare ribs and seafood. There was a menu in the window, but Grace didn’t read it. She wasn’t there for dinner.

      Pushing open the door, she walked in, the scent of garlic frying in sesame oil hitting her like a soft blow. Chinese waiters ran around, yelling in their tongue, and most of the customers were Chinese, too. There was a dumbwaiter in one wall, which busboys opened and snatched dishes from and shouted into the shaft to the basement kitchen.

      Bedlam.

      On the right stood a bar with a few empty stools and a sleepy-looking bartender sporting a Fu Manchu mustache. Grace halted to get her bearings. Would Luke be at a table or…? She saw narrow stairs leading to a second floor. Maybe he was up there.

      She wouldn’t be embarrassed. She would stand there and collect her wits and take her time looking around.

      At that moment it struck her how her entire life had shifted on its axis. Nothing seemed real anymore—especially her meeting a strange man in Chinatown. It was all a nightmare, and her skin crawled with anxiety. This meeting was so furtive, as if she were a criminal.

      She would be a criminal in another day. According to the law, she would be. Oh, God.

      “Dinner, Miss?” a waiter asked, jarring her to awareness.

      “Uh, no, I’m meeting someone here.”

      “Ah, yes, Miss. You look for Mr. Luke?” He was short and round and smiling.

      “Luke Sarkov?”

      “Yes. He here. Upstairs. He like it better. Quiet up there. You go there.”

      She made her way up the narrow steps, came out into a dining room. A few Chinese families were eating early dinners, wielding their chopsticks, chattering quietly. Her eyes swept over them.

      Why was her heart pounding so hard?

      He was sitting in the farthest corner of the room. She spotted him right away, even though he was in the shadows. He was the only Caucasian besides her in the entire room. So much for her worrying about his description.

      She took a deep breath and made her feet move. When she got closer, she could see he was looking at her—staring at her, really—his eyes as blue as the empty sky, close under sandy brows. Oh, yes, now she remembered those eyes from twenty-odd years ago. All of a sudden, she had an instant of stark terror as he watched her approach, and she didn’t know why. He was her father’s friend, for God’s sake.

      He didn’t stand when she reached the table. He just looked up at her, his shirt unbuttoned at his throat, tie askew, old tweed sport coat stretched across broad shoulders. A definite whisker shadow on his cheeks and chin.

      “Well, well, Grace Bennett,” he said.

      “And you’re Luke Sarkov.”

      He gestured with a hand. “Sit.”

      She sat, her mouth abruptly dry.

      “You have any trouble finding this place?”

      “No. But parking was hard.”

      “Yeah, it always is.” He seemed relaxed while at the same time utterly alert. There was a Tsing Tao beer bottle on the table in front of him, and he lifted it and took a swig before asking, “You want something to drink or eat?”

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