Sweetest Desires (A Sweetest Day Romance)

by Beverly Taylor

  Turning on the faucets, she pushed in the shower button and began peeling off her clothes. With Bethany out the way, I’ll be his new daughter, she thought. I’ll be there for him. I’ll help him through his grieving. He can lean on me. I’ve already lost someone I love, so I know how it feels. And I’m not about to lose Carson too.

  But what if she’d sinned? Her grandmother had made her attend church faithfully, sometimes twice on Sundays. Thundering sermons about hell and damnation had kept her on the strait and narrow path. She wasn’t sure what brimstone was, but she was terrified of having to spend eternity in its midst.

  Surely, God would forgive her for what she’d done to Bethany. She’d done what she thought she had to do. God would understand. She was always taught He was a forgiving God. She just hoped she hadn’t jeopardized her chance of spending the next life in heaven with Norman.

  Grabbing a bar of soap from the dish, she stepped into the shower stall. Her thoughts were still with her father.

  * * *

  Bethany couldn’t speak. She opened her mouth and then closed it in rhythmic repetitions.

  “She’s hyperventilating,” the man snapped. “Don’t just stand there!” He looked around frantically. “Do something!” he bellowed to the other two men in the room. “Get a paper bag!”

  The younger man went running, coming back a moment later with a crumpled paper bag probably left over from somebody’s lunch. He gave it to the frenzied man.

  “Breathe into this, sweetheart,” the first man said. “Don’t be scared. It’ll be okay.”

  Bethany obeyed. Eventually, her gasping stopped and her breathing slowed.

  “Okay?” the man in cowboy boots said, and Bethany nodded. He removed the bag, and she closed her eyes, letting her head fall back limply. She was still trembling.

  “What’s your name?” His voice was soft, just above a whisper.

  She couldn’t answer or even shrug.

  “Scared?” he asked. His hand was warm on her arm, his arm solid around her.

  Removing his arm, he got to his feet and placed a hand under her elbow to help her out the chair.

  She straightened slowly, then lurched, throwing out her hands, clutching at his forearms to steady herself. They stood that way for a moment. Her eyes couldn’t let go of him. She recognized the blue uniforms of the other two men. But this one was in plain clothes.

  “You’ll be fine,” he said, bending to pick up her sweater and holding it up for her.

  She shoved her arms into the sleeves, and he led her to the adjacent room.

  “Who’s your mother?” he asked at last, lighting a match and dropping it into the crowded ashtray that sat on a long, chipped folding table.

  Bethany stared at him dumbly. His thick hair, cut just below the ears, was brilliant orange-red with strands of white. His eyes were light green with black specks, and his skin was splashed with freckles. He was a pleasant-looking man; no longer young, but not yet old. Only his eyes seemed somehow too old for his face.

  “Bet you’re hungry, right?”

  She nodded her head so rapidly that her teeth clicked together.

  He told another man to run out and pick up a burger, fries, and a strawberry shake. In the meantime, he placed his cigarette in the ashtray, poured himself a cup of coffee and gave Bethany a cup of water.

  She lifted the cup with both hands, shaking so much that the water splashed over the rim and streamed down her fingers. She set down the cup, but he put it back into her hands and urged it up to her mouth.

  “My name is Captain John Dougherty,” he smiled. “If you’d like, you can call me Captain D, just like the seafood restaurant.”

  Chapter 41

  “Captain.” A white policeman with an enormous stomach and bulging chest stood in the doorway. He was in full uniform. Bethany stared at him intently. He reminded her of the overweight cartoon cops who’d be in hot pursuit of a criminal but would always faint from exhaustion before catching him because they couldn’t keep up.

  “Yeah?” Captain Dougherty responded, looking up.

  He stepped inside. “The witness is ready to talk to you.”

  The captain patted Bethany’s hand. “I’ll be right back. This nice Santa Claus-looking gentleman”—he pointed at the policeman’s stomach—“is Officer Tuttle. If you need anything, he can help you.”

  * * *

  The captain pulled himself back from the table, smiled at Bethany, and left the room. Closing the door behind, he walked over to a very busy, large open area where men in uniform and others in white shirts sat behind desks talking to a variety of people: prostitutes, a homeless man arrested for loitering, three teenage boys picked up on suspicion of burglary who refused to identify themselves.

  A policeman named Officer Floyd, waved Dougherty over. “Cap,” he said, presenting the witness, “this is Mr. Donald Akin.”

  Captain Dougherty introduced himself to the witness, who stood to acknowledge him. They shook hands.

  Akin’s eyes were a dark rum color and slightly brooding. He was over six feet tall and had the strong, lean build and supple grace of a natural athlete and a near-perfect complexion. He removed his Atlanta Hawks cap and held it tightly, nervously against his chest.

  “Thank you, Mr. Akin,” the captain said. “That’s an admirable service you provided.”

  “It’s my duty as a concerned citizen,” Mr. Akin said modestly.

  “Please, have a seat,” the captain said. He scooted around the table, shoving some papers off to the side to create a seat for himself and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I know you’ve been over all this with Officers Tuttle and Floyd, but could you reiterate for me what happened?”

  He took a deep breath as though ready to launch into a long and complicated story. “Uh, yeah. I, um—”

  “Wait just a minute please,” Captain Dougherty interrupted. He pressed the recorder button. “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “I, uh, had just finished changing my tire in front of a sidewalk mall on Campbellton Road when I noticed an old ’81 or ’82, brownish-beige Dodge van pull up and a young black girl who looked to be around fourteen-fifteen jumped out and ran. The driver blew his horn at her and then a split second later, a little girl—around five or six years old—stepped out. She was calling after the teenager. She tried to run after her but the older girl had disappeared and the driver took off.”

  He dropped his eyes then glanced up at the captain who squinted at Mr. Akin, chewing the inside of his cheek, taking it all in.

  “Go on,” the captain encouraged him.

  Mr. Akin gazed at Officer Floyd who nodded. “It all happened so fast, I really didn’t get a chance to see the tag.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. After all, how many ’81-’82 Dodge vans are there?” The captain grinned at Officer Floyd, who didn’t grin back.

  Mr. Akin frowned. “Uh, it wasn’t a Georgia tag. I couldn’t make out the state. The van was pretty dirty.”

  The captain’s grin had disappeared. He glanced at Officer Floyd, who was scratching the stubble under his chin. “All right. What happened next?”

  “Well, the little girl began to cry, so I went up to her and asked if she was okay. But she just kept crying. I tried to ask her some questions, but she either couldn’t or wouldn’t talk. I didn’t have a cell phone, so I asked the little girl to come with me across the street to a gas station to call the police. I reached for her hand and she pulled back, shaking as if I was going to hurt her. So I told her not to move, that I’d be right back. As I crossed the street, I turned to see if she was still there. She hadn’t moved an inch—still crying, though. I told the cashier what happened, and he let me use the phone to call the police.

  “I jogged back across the street to the little girl. I asked her what her parents’ names were, and she just cried and kept wiping her nose with the back of her hand.” His face fell. “I didn’t have anything to give her to wipe it with, you know.” He looked sorrowfull
y at the captain and then at Officer Floyd.

  “A few minutes later, up ahead, two police cars blocked the street. Their lights were swirling. An unmarked cruiser pulled up with a cherry light on its roof. Then an ambulance stopped near my car. Its lights and sirens were off. One of the cops, uh, policemen, motioned to a woman in a police sergeant’s uniform. She swaggered over. She was a little heavy and pigeon-toed, and had a flustered look on her face.”

  Dougherty wanted to laugh. Given the accurate description, he knew exactly whom he referred.

  “The cop, uh, officer, handed her my ID. She viewed it and then looked at me. ‘Check it out,’ she told him and handed my driver’s license back to him.” Akin hesitated briefly.

  “I don’t know why she wanted to run a check on me. I was just trying to help the little girl. But now I see why folks don’t want to help each other—because the police look at everyone as a suspect. People just don’t want to get involved. But I wasn’t raised that way. My parents always taught us to help our fellow man, especially a child in need.”

  “I understand,” the captain said, wishing Mr. Akin would move the story along.

  “Yessir. Anyway,” Mr. Akin said, shifting in his seat, “inside the cruiser, the uniformed cop—I mean policeman—was making a phone call. Some curious drivers and passengers had caused the traffic to slow down, and customers and pedestrians started coming out to see what was going on. The sergeant asked me to explain what happened. I told her. She asked me if the little girl needed to be examined. I really didn’t know since the child wouldn’t talk to me, but she appeared to be okay physically, just hysterical.

  “The EMTs did a quick examination to check her for bruises. They asked her questions, but she didn’t answer them, either. Then one of the EMT's motioned the sergeant over and whispered something to her, then he and his partner got in their ambulance and took off.”

  Akin continued. “‘You’ll need to give a statement,’ the sergeant said to me. ‘No problem,’ I told her. ‘I’ll follow you.’ Then she said, ‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to detain you and escort you to the station. After we’re finished, we’ll bring you back to your vehicle.’

  “I really didn’t want to go, but she made it seem like I didn’t have a choice. So I asked her if someone could drive my car to the station because the area is a high-crime zone, you know, but she assured me it would be okay where it was.” He shrugged. “I guess that was it, and now here I am.” He leaned back in the chair and scratched above his left eyebrow.

  The captain nodded and rose from his seat to shake Mr. Akin’s hand once more. “Very good, Mr. Akin. Thanks again. If you’ll remain seated for a moment, we’ll get your signature and send someone to take you back to your vehicle.” He clicked the machine off.

  The captain’s face burned with embarrassment. The sergeant had been out of order to bring Akin to the station against his will. After all, he wasn’t a suspect; an on-the-scene statement would’ve sufficed. But he had to admit taking a recorded statement was more helpful.

  “Well, okay,” Akin said. “Just let me know if I can be of further help.”

  “Will do, sir.” The captain smiled with his lips folded against his teeth.

  When Akin had gone, the captain returned to the room where the little girl was. He was pleased to see the strawberry shake was gone, and she had practically finished her burger and fries. Maybe now she would provide them with answers.

  Just as he was about to ask Officer Tuttle to put in an Adam Walsh warning, a plainclothes agent entered the room. She was skinny and dark-skinned, with tight curls and huge, almond-shaped brown eyes. She looked just out of her teens. With hands and feet so big, they reminded the captain of a St. Bernard puppy.

  “Sir,” she began. “We have an Amber Alert.”

  He thought she’d smiled slightly but couldn’t be sure. He glanced at Bethany. “Does it sound promising?”

  This time her smile was unmistakable. She gave him a thumbs-up. “On point, sir.”

  “Great. Name?”

  “Bethany O’Connor,” she said in a low voice.

  The little girl looked up at the woman and responded, “Yes?”

  “Uh,” the captain uttered, glancing at Bethany and back to the agent. “Have Floyd handle it and have him come see me when he’s done.”

  The young woman gave a firm nod and closed the door.

  Dougherty allowed a few moments to roll away as he watched Bethany chew slowly on a French fry.

  “Are you full?”

  She nodded, still chewing.

  “Are you ready to talk to me, Miss Bethany?”

  Another nod. She swallowed the bite she was chewing.

  Officer Tuttle, who sat at the table a few seats away from Bethany, took a pen and notebook from his shirt pocket to document the conversation.

  “Your sister? Was that your sister who split on you? That was kind of a stupid thing to do, huh?”

  “She . . .” Bethany gave a denying motion with her head, her unblinking eyes fixed on his. “Not . . . my . . . She’s . . . not—”

  “She’s not your sister?”

  Bethany shook her head hard and aggressively.

  “Did they hurt you?” he solicited an answer. He noticed how she kept rubbing at her stomach. “Are you in pain? Do you need to see a doctor?”

  She shook her head again, keeping her eyes on his as if she were under some sort of spell. “My tummy doesn’t hurt,” she assured him. “I’m just rubbing it ’cause I’m full.”

  He gave her hand a squeeze. “You’re doing fine,” he said, smiling. “We’re going to press charges against the people involved. Do you know what that means?”

  “No. I mean, no, sir,” she said,

  “It means they’re in big trouble.”

  “Will they go to jail?”

  “Maybe.” He lifted a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and lit one, all the while studying her face. He’d chosen one of two interrogation rooms in which smoking was allowed.

  She looked at him with widened eyes but said nothing.

  “Do you know the name of the man who was driving, Bethany?”

  She lowered her eyes to her lap. “No,” she whispered.

  Captain wondered if she’d heard the man mention his name but couldn’t remember it. “Is he a friend of your sis . . . your friend?”

  She shook her head and tugged on her fingers with nervous intensity.

  “What’s the girl’s name that was with you?”

  “D-Deanna.”

  “How old is Deanna?”

  “Twelve. But she’s almost thirteen.”

  “Where were you and Deanna going?”

  “To the hospital to see my mother.”

  “Your mother is in the hospital?”

  Tuttle stopped writing and looked at Bethany, engaged in her story.

  Bethany bobbed her head emphatically. “And Deanna said she was going to take me to see her, but we didn’t go.” She crinkled her face, and a tear fell down her cheek. “I wanna go home.”

  “I know you do. And, I promise, we’re going to get you there.” He gave her a moment to collect herself. “What’s your mother’s name?” he asked soothingly.

  Tuttle positioned his fingers around the pen preparing to write it down.

  “Can you take me to the hospital to see my mother?” her voice cracked, followed by teardrops. “Her name is Katharine O’Connor.”

  “We’ll see what we can do.” He smiled and handed her a napkin from her meal. “Do you know why she’s in the hospital?”

  “Because she got sick.”

  “Where did you and Deanna go?”

  “We—we got in this man’s van and it was stinky.” She held her nose.

  “Did you or Deanna know the man?”

  “Uh-uh.” She moved her head from side to side. “I mean, no sir.”

  “What did the man look like?”

  “He was fat.”

  “What color was he?”
/>
  “White. But he looked like a boy in my class named Ricardo Alvarez.”

  “Oh, so he’s Hispanic or, uh, Mexican?”

  Another nod. “But Mommy said people aren’t really black or white—they’re shades of brown or shades of pink.”

  The Captain didn’t know how to respond so he just cleared his throat and continued his line of questioning. “Is Deanna your cousin?”

  “No. She’s my dad’s friend’s daughter.”

  “What’s your dad’s friend’s name?” He took a final drag on his cigarette before grinding it out in the ceramic bowl on the table and blew out a cloud of smoke he’d been savoring in his lungs.

  “Ms. Cindy.”

  “Do you know her last name, or Deanna’s last name?”

  She shook her head wordlessly.

  “What’s your dad’s name?”

  “Carson O’Connor.”

  “Cars—Carson O’Connor?” he repeated in a choked voice. He locked eyes with Officer Tuttle. “Tell Floyd to get in here!” he ordered Tuttle.

  The captain forced himself to extinguish his anger as they sat silently, waiting.

  “Yes, sir,” Officer Floyd said, poking his head in the doorway.

  “My mother said smoking is bad for you,” Bethany told Captain Dougherty.

  “She’s right,” he said, smiling at her. “I’ll be right back.”

  The captain escorted Floyd outside the room while Tuttle stepped back inside to stay with Bethany. Dougherty held his hand on the outside doorknob, supporting his weight. “Do you know whose daughter this is?” he whispered sharply.

  “Yes, sir. Carson O’Connor’s.”

  He threw his hands up in frustration. “Why in hell am I the last to know?”

  “I was going to tell you just as soon as you were finished questioning the girl. Uh, Mr. O’Connor has been notified and is on his way here.”