“Agent!” She felt hands around her waist. The cop practically lifted her into the air.
“Let me go!” Faith jammed her elbow back so hard that he dropped her like a stone. She scrambled across the grass, crawling to the witness. The hostage. The murderer. The only person left who could tell her what the hell had happened to her mother.
She put her hands to the Mexican’s face, stared into his lifeless eyes. “Please tell me,” she pleaded, even though she knew it was too late. “Please.”
“Faith?” Detective Leo Donnelly, her old partner on the Atlanta force, stood on the other side of the fence. He was out of breath. His hands gripped the top of the chain link. The wind whipped open the jacket of his cheap brown suit. “Emma’s fine. We got a locksmith on the way.” His words came thick and slow, like molasses poured through a sieve. “Come on, kid. Emma needs her mom.”
Faith looked behind him. Cops were everywhere. Dark blue uniforms blurred as they swept the house, checked the yard. Through the windows, she followed Tactical’s progress from room to room, guns raised, voices calling “Clear” as they found nothing. Competing sirens filled the air. Police cruisers. Ambulances. A fire truck.
The call had gone out. Code 30. Officer needs emergency assistance.
Three men shot to death. Her baby locked in a shed. Her mother missing.
Faith sat back on her heels. She put her head in her shaking hands and willed herself not to cry.
CHAPTER TWO
So, he tells me he was changing the oil in his car, and it was hot in the garage, so he took off his pants …”
“Uh-huh,” Sara Linton managed, trying to feign interest as she picked at her salad.
“And I say, ‘Lookit, bud, I’m a doctor. I’m not here to judge. You can be honest about …’ ”
Sara watched Dale Dugan’s mouth move, his voice mercifully blending in with the lunchtime noise of the pizza parlor. Soft music playing. People laughing. Plates sliding around the kitchen. His story was not particularly riveting, or even new. Sara was a pediatric attending doctor in the emergency department at Atlanta’s Grady Hospital. She’d had her own practice for twelve years before that, all the while working part-time as the county coroner for a small but active college town. There was not an implement, tool, household product, or glass figurine she had not at some point or another seen lodged inside a human body.
Still, Dale continued, “Then the nurse comes in with the X-ray.”
“Uh-oh,” she said, trying to inject some curiosity into her tone.
Dale smiled at her. There was some cheese lodged between his central and lateral incisors. Sara tried not to judge. Dale Dugan was a nice man. He wasn’t handsome, but he was okay-looking, with the sort of features many women found attractive once they learned he’d graduated from medical school. Sara was not as easily swayed. And she was starving, because she’d been told by the friend who’d set her up on this ridiculous blind date that she should order a salad instead of a pizza because it looked better.
“So, I hold up the X-ray and what do I see …”
Socket wrench, she thought, just before he finally reached the punch line.
“A socket wrench! Can you believe it?”
“No!” She forced a laugh that sounded like the sort of thing that came out of a windup toy.
“And he still kept saying he slipped.”
She tsked her tongue. “Quite a fall.”
“I know, right?” He smiled at her again before taking a healthy bite of pizza.
Sara chewed some lettuce. The digital clock over Dale’s head showed 2:12 and a handful of seconds. The red LED numbers were a painful reminder that she could be at home right now watching basketball and folding the mountain of laundry on her couch. Sara had made a game of not looking at the clock, seeing how long she could go before her self-control crumbled and she watched the blurring seconds tick by. Three minutes twenty-two seconds was her record. She took another bite of salad, vowing to beat it.
“So,” Dale said. “You went to Emory.”
She nodded. “You were at Duke?”
Predictably, he began what turned into a lengthy description of his academic achievements, including published journal articles and keynote speeches at various conferences. Again, Sara feigned attention, willing herself not to look at the clock, chewing lettuce as slowly as a cow in a pasture so that Dale would not feel compelled to ask her a question.
This was not Sara’s first blind date, nor, unfortunately, was it her least tedious. The problem today had started within the first six minutes, which Sara had marked by the clock. They had rushed through the preliminaries before their order had been called. Dale was divorced, no children, on good terms with his ex-wife, and played pickup basketball games at the hospital in his free time. Sara was from a small town in south Georgia. She had two greyhounds, and a cat who chose to live with her parents. Her husband had been killed four and a half years ago.
Usually, this last bit was a conversation stopper, but Dale had breezed over it as a minor detail. At first, Sara had given him points for not asking for details, and then she had decided that he was too self-absorbed to ask, and then she had chided herself for being so hard on the man.
“What did your husband do?”
He’d caught her with a mouthful of lettuce. She chewed, swallowed, then told him, “He was a police officer. The chief of police for the county.”
“That’s unusual.” Her expression must have been off, because he said, “I mean, unusual because he’s not a doctor. Wasn’t a doctor. Not white collar, I guess.”
“White collar?” She heard the accusatory tone in her voice but couldn’t stop herself. “My father’s a plumber. My sister and I worked with him for—”
“Whoa, whoa.” He held up his hands in surrender. “That came out wrong. I mean, there’s something noble about working with your hands, right?”
Sara didn’t know what kind of medicine Dr. Dale was practicing, but she tended to use her hands every day.
Oblivious, his voice took on a solemn tone. “I have a lot of respect for cops. And servicepeople. Soldiers, I mean.” He nervously wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Dangerous job. Is that how he died?”
She nodded, glancing at the clock. Three minutes nineteen seconds. She’d just missed her record.
He took his phone out of his pocket and looked at the display. “Sorry. I’m on call. I wanted to make sure there’s service.”
At least he hadn’t pretended the phone was on silent ring, though Sara was sure that was coming. “I’m sorry for being so defensive. It’s difficult to talk about.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” His tone had a practiced cadence Sara recognized from the ER. “I’m sure it was hard.”
She bit at the tip of her tongue. Sara couldn’t think of a polite way to respond, and by the time she thought to change the subject to the weather, so much time had passed that the conversation felt even more awkward. Finally, she said, “Well, anyway. Why don’t we—”
“Excuse me,” he interrupted. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
He got up so quickly that his chair nearly fell over. Sara watched him scamper toward the back. Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought he hesitated in front of the fire exit.
“Idiot.” She dropped her fork onto her salad plate.
She checked the clock again for the time. It was two-fifteen. She could wrap this up by two-thirty if Dale ever came back from the toilet. Sara had walked here from her apartment, so there wouldn’t be that protracted, awful silence as Dale drove her home. The bill had been paid when they ordered the food at the cash register. It would take her fifteen minutes to walk home, giving her time to change out of her dress and into her sweat pants before the basketball game started. Sara felt her stomach rumble. Maybe she could pretend to leave, then backtrack and order a pizza.
Another minute ticked by on the clock. Sara scanned the parking lot. Dale’s car was still there, assuming the green Lexus with th
e DRDALE license plate belonged to him. She didn’t know if she felt disappointed or relieved.
The clock marked another thirty seconds. The hallway leading to the bathrooms stayed empty for another twenty-three seconds. An older woman with a walker inched her way down the hall. No one was behind her.
Sara dropped her head into her hand. Dale was not a bad man. He was stable, relatively healthy, gainfully employed, had most of his hair, and except for the cheese between his teeth, had the appearance of good hygiene. And yet, all of this wasn’t enough. Sara was beginning to think she was the problem. She was turning into the Mr. Darcy of Atlanta. Once her good opinion was lost, it was gone forever. Changing the direction of a steamship was easier than changing Sara’s mind.
She should try harder at this. She wasn’t twenty-five anymore, and forty was breathing heavy down the back of her neck. At five feet eleven inches, her dating pool was already limited. Her auburn red hair and fair skin were not to every man’s taste. She worked long hours. She couldn’t cook to save her life. She had apparently lost her ability to conduct any small talk whatsoever, and the mere mention of her dead husband could send her into a hissy fit.
Maybe her standards were too high. Her marriage hadn’t been perfect, but it was pretty damn good. She had loved her husband more than life itself. Losing him had almost killed her. But Jeffrey had been gone for almost five years now, and if Sara was being honest, she was lonely. She missed a man’s company. She missed the way their minds worked and the surprisingly sweet things they could say. She missed the rough feel of their skin. She missed the other things, too. Unfortunately, the last time a man had made her eyes roll back in her head, she’d been fighting boredom, not writhing in ecstasy.
Sara had to face the fact that she was extremely, awfully, horribly bad at dating. There hadn’t been much time to practice. From puberty on, Sara had been serially monogamous. Her first boyfriend was a high school crush that had lasted until college, then she’d dated a fellow student all through medical school, then she’d met Jeffrey and never given another man a second thought. Except for a disastrous one-night stand three years ago, there had been no one since. She could only think of one man who had even remotely given her a spark, but he was married. Worse, he was a married cop.
Even worse, he was standing at the cash register less than ten feet away from her.
Will Trent was wearing black running shorts and a long-sleeved black T-shirt that showed his broad shoulders to good advantage. His sandy blond hair was longer than it had been a few months ago, when Sara had last seen him. He’d been working a case that involved one of her old patients at the children’s clinic back home. She’d stuck her nose so far into Will’s business that he’d had no choice but to let her help with the investigation. They had shared what felt like a flirtation, and then when the case was over, he had gone back home to his wife.
Will was extremely observant. He must have noticed Sara sitting at the table when he walked in. Still, he kept his back to her as he stared at a flyer pinned to the bulletin board on the wall. She didn’t need the clock to count off the seconds as she waited for him to acknowledge her.
He turned his attention to another flyer.
Sara pulled out the clip holding up her hair, letting the curls fall past her shoulders. She stood up and walked over to him.
There were a few things she knew about Will Trent. He was tall, at least six-three, with a runner’s lean body and the most beautiful legs she had ever seen on a man. His mother had been killed when he was less than a year old. He’d grown up in a children’s home and never been adopted. He was a special agent with the GBI. He was one of the smartest men she had ever met, and he was so dyslexic that, as far as she could tell, he read no higher than a second-grade level.
She stood shoulder to shoulder with him, staring at the flyer that had caught his attention. “That looks interesting.”
He made a very bad show of acting surprised to see her. “Dr. Linton. I was just …” He tore one of the info tags off the flyer. “I’ve been thinking about getting a bike.”
She glanced at the ad, which had a detailed drawing of a Harley Davidson underneath a headline asking for members to join. “I don’t think Dykes on Bikes is your kind of ride.”
His smile was crooked. He’d spent a lifetime covering up his disability, and even though Sara had found out, he was still loath to acknowledge there was a problem. “It’s a great way to meet women.”
“Are you looking to meet women?”
Sara was reminded of yet another one of Will’s traits, which was that he had an uncanny knack for keeping his mouth shut when he didn’t know what to say. This resulted in the sort of awkward moments that made Sara’s dating life look downright ebullient.
Thankfully, Will’s order was up. Sara stood back as he took the box of pizza from the tattooed and multipierced waitress. The young woman gave Will what could only be called an appreciative glance. He seemed oblivious as he checked his pizza to make sure they’d gotten the order right.
“Well.” He used his thumb to twist the wedding ring on his finger. “I guess I should go.”
“All right.”
He didn’t move. Neither did Sara. A dog started barking outside, the high-pitched yips traveling through the open windows. Sara knew there was a post and water bowl by the front door for people who brought their pets to the restaurant. She also knew that Will’s wife had a little dog named Betty, and that the care and feeding fell mostly to him.
The yipping intensified. Will still made no move to leave.
She said, “That sounds a lot like a Chihuahua.”
He listened intently, then nodded. “I think you might be right.”
“There you are.” Dale was finally back from the restroom. “Listen, I got a call from the hospital …” He looked up at Will. “Hi.”
Sara made the introductions. “Dale Dugan, this is Will Trent.”
Will gave a tight nod. Dale returned it.
The dog kept barking, a piercing, panicked yelp. Sara could tell from Will’s expression that he was prepared to die rather than acknowledge ownership.
She found some mercy in her heart. “Dale, I know you need to get to the hospital. Thanks so much for lunch.”
“Sure.” He leaned in and kissed her squarely on the lips. “I’ll call you.”
“Great,” she managed, resisting the urge to wipe her mouth. She watched the two men exchange another tight nod that made Sara feel like the only fire hydrant at the dog park.
Betty’s yips intensified as Dale walked across the parking lot. Will mumbled something under his breath before pushing open the door. He untied the leash and scooped up the dog with one hand, keeping the pizza box steadied in the other. The barking stopped immediately. Betty tucked her head into his chest. Her tongue lolled out.
Sara petted the dog’s head. There were fresh sutures crisscrossing her narrow back. “What happened?”
Will’s jaw was still clenched. “She got into it with a Jack Russell.”
“Really?” Unless the Jack Russell had a pair of scissors for paws, there was no way another dog had made the marks.
He indicated Betty. “I should get her home.”
Sara had never been to Will’s house, but she knew the street that he lived on. “Aren’t you going right?” She clarified, “This way?”
Will didn’t answer. He seemed to be gauging whether or not he could lie to her and get away with it.
She pressed, “Don’t you live off Linwood?”
“You’re the opposite direction.”
“I can cut through the park.” She started walking, giving him no choice. They were silent as they headed down Ponce de Leon. The traffic noise was loud enough to fill the void, but even the exhaust from the cars couldn’t overshadow the fact that they were in the middle of a brilliant spring day. Couples walked down the street hand in hand. Mothers pushed baby carriages. Runners darted across four lanes of traffic. The cloud cover from this morning had
rolled eastward, exposing a sky of denim blue. There was a steady breeze in the air. Sara clasped her hands behind her back and looked down at the broken sidewalk. Tree roots pushed against the concrete like gnarled old toes.
She glanced at Will. The sun picked out the sweat on his brow. There were two scars on his face, though Sara had no idea what had caused them. His upper lip had been split open at some point, then badly stitched together, giving a raffish quality to his mouth. The other scar followed the line of his left jaw and dipped into his collar. When she’d first met him, she’d taken the scars for signs of boyhood mischief, but knowing his history, knowing that he had grown up in state care, Sara now assumed the damage had a darker story.
Will glanced at her and she looked away. He said, “Dale seems like a nice guy.”
“Yes, he does.”
“Doctor, I guess.”
“That’s right.”
“Looked like a good kisser.”
She smiled.
Will shifted Betty in his hand to get a better grip. “I guess you’re dating him.”
“Today was our first date.”
“You seemed friendlier than that.”
Sara stopped walking. “How’s your wife, Will?”
His answer didn’t come quickly. His gaze fell somewhere over her shoulder. “I haven’t seen her in four months.”
Sara felt an odd sense of betrayal. His wife was gone and Will had not called her. “You’re separated?”
He stepped aside so that a runner could pass. “No.”
“Is she missing?”
“Not exactly.”
A MARTA bus lurched up to the curb, its engine filling the air with a protracted grumble. Sara had met Angie Trent almost a year ago. Her Mediterranean looks and curvaceous figure were exactly the sort of things mothers were thinking of when they warned their sons about loose women.
The bus pulled away. Sara asked, “Where is she?”
Will let out a long breath. “She leaves me a lot. That’s what she does. She leaves, and then she comes back. And then she stays some and then she leaves again.”
“Where does she go?”
The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle Page 168
