Her Sister's Secret (Mills & Boon Vintage Superromance) by Linda Style Page A

IRSC or DATAFAX, you gotta supply some facts to get something back. I’ve done that using all the information you gave me, but Morgan was using a phony name and apparently never used her social security number to work anywhere. Under those circumstances, it’s pretty hard to run a trace or do any kind of background check. Especially when the last verifiable information was from four years ago, when she was only sixteen and living at home.”
    “But you found Gannon…and Morgan was with him. Can’t you just go from th—”
    “Whit—” Albert gave another sigh, and after a moment, she heard him take a deep breath. “I know how you feel. But I have done this before, and believe me, I’m following up on it from every angle I can. Sometimes people use part of their real names, or a relative’s, or even assume a dead person’s identity. It takes time to check it all out. And I’m following up on Gannon’s end, but at this point, it requires footwork, working backward, tracking down people Gannon might’ve known back then. That all takes time.” He stopped for another breath, the frustration in his voice evident. “Ya know?”
    Now it was Whitney’s turn to sigh, her spirits flagging.
    “And I do have other clients—and even a social life—such as it is.” He gave a derisive laugh, but when he continued, she heard understanding in his voice. “I’d love to drop everything and devote every waking minute to finding the kid for you, but it just ain’t practical. Ya know?”
    “I can give you more money if that’ll hel—”
    “Whit! I can’t do that and you know it.” He paused again, then taking his voice down a notch, said, “Believe me, I’m doing everything I can. I know it’s hard, but we’ll find her. Unless…uh, if you’d feel better getting someone else—” He let the sentence hang.
    “I’m sorry,” Whitney said. “You’re right. I know you’re doing everything you can.” Crap. It wasn’t Albert’s fault that Morgan had given Whitney only a few shreds of information.
    Morgan had left an out-of-the-blue message on Whitney’s voice mail one night, told her Gannon’s name, the last address where she’d known him to be, and then launched into all the despicable things he’d done to her. She’d told Whitney SaraJane’s name and age and asked her to promise to find the child and gain custody. That was it. She’d overdosed the same night.
    Albert, her sweet and patient cousin, had been there for Whitney through it all, even when the police told her as far as the LAPD was concerned the biological father had every right to his own child.
    But Albert had found Gannon for her, and she was sure he’d get the birth certificate somehow. Not that finding the birth certificate would be sure proof of anything, either. There was no way to know whether Morgan listed her own name or birthdate or place of birth, which would help prove Whitney’s relationship to her niece. They also had to know if Morgan had named Gannon as SaraJane’s father. If not, the man would have no legal claim on the child. Not without DNA tests—or proof of marriage.
    According to Whitney’s attorney, finding the birth certificate was as much a way to rule out certain things as it was to prove them. Because without it, even if she found SaraJane, if Whitney couldn’t prove the child was her niece, she was screwed.
    “Our best bet is Gannon,” her cousin said. “He’d know where the kid was born and where she is now.”
    “Yeah, I know, Al. That’s the plan, but I don’t know how much time I’ll need. I have to take it slow so he doesn’t get suspicious.”
    “You sure you don’t want me to do it?”
    “Can we not get into that again? I need to do this. Really.”
    “Okay, okay. Just so you know my feelings about it. I’ve got some other ways to get the info, like I said, but it’ll take some footwork. I’ll do what I can, but you be careful. You sure you’re gonna be okay?”
    “I’m fine, Al,”