by Mallory Kane
Chapter Four
“He is my son, isn’t he?” Despite the certainty in his voice, Kate could see the doubt, the questions, in his eyes.
“He is,” she said, her psychiatrist’s brain noting the defensiveness in her tone. She cleared her throat and tried to make herself talk—and think—rationally, like a physician, not like a single mom finally confronting the father of her child—his child—who’d been abducted.
“God, Kate, why didn’t you tell me?” His gaze dropped to the photo again. He stared at it for a long time.
“Tell you? Really?” she said, frustration and sarcasm winning out over rational discussion. She waited for him to answer his own question.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know. You couldn’t possibly know where I was. Hell, even if you had known, you wouldn’t have been able to reach me.” He looked up. “I thought you said he was four. It’s been five years—”
She gave a little laugh. “You have to allow nine months for the pregnancy.”
“Oh, yeah.” He looked at the photo again, then slowly, he touched the front of it with a trembling finger.
He must have felt her watching him because he turned back toward the shelf and set the packet of photos down. He started to place the snapshot he held on top of the packet, then changed his mind. He cocked his hip in a familiar way that always set her heart to racing and her insides to thrumming. Sliding his wallet out of his hip pocket, he slid the little three-by-five photo into it, then returned it to his pocket.
A lump grew in her throat and she felt the threat of tears swelling behind it. He’d put the photo of his son in his wallet—because he wanted to be close to his son or because that photo might be the closest he’d ever be to him? “I should get ready to go to work,” she said tightly, pushing the thought that Travis might never meet Max out of her mind. She’d never make it if she let thoughts like that in.
Travis turned to her and smiled. “You should. It’ll be good,” he said. “Trust me. You’ll see when you get there. You need to figure out how you’re going to make a case for temporary insanity.”
Temporary insanity. What if Stamps had shot Paul to stop him from saying whatever he’d been about to say, as Harte and Dani claimed?
“Kate?”
She blinked and realized that, for one moment, she’d gotten caught up in the case. “You’re right,” she said. “I’ve got to get to work. There’s a lot to do before the trial starts. I need to interview Danielle Canto, and probably talk to Harte again. I need to find out just exactly what Stamps said and did before he pulled the trigger.” She stood. “I should get dressed.”
Travis watched her walk determinedly into her bedroom and close the door. She’d finally started thinking clearly about Stamps’s insanity defense. That’s what she needed to do. It was the only way she could ensure her son’s safety. Travis’s thoughts screeched to a halt. Their son. “My son,” he whispered. The words felt alien on his tongue, like a different language.
He’d never intended to have a child. That notion was ranked Number Two on Travis’s Top Five Taboos, right behind Number One, getting married. But that Top Five was dwindling fast. Another item on his taboo list had been seeing Kate again. He laughed shortly. So much for Travis’s Top Five.
He glanced toward Kate’s bedroom. He needed her out of the house—preferably without her cell phone. She’d asked him to promise he wouldn’t tell anybody. But the only thing he’d agreed to was not calling any of his police-officer brothers or cousins.
When he heard the pipes creak, telling him she’d turned on the water in her bathroom, he looked around for her purse, hoping she hadn’t taken it into her room with her. There it was on the corner of the kitchen counter. Feeling guilty as hell, he fished in it until he came up with her cell phone, and pocketed it. Now, if he could just keep her distracted until she left the house without it.
* * *
BENT PARKED HALF a block from Dr. Chalmet’s house in the Garden District at a few minutes after eight o’clock in the morning. He lowered the driver’s side window and felt along the door panel to be sure his magnetic car sign was still in place. It was one of his best ideas ever. The sign advertised ACME Realtors with a large graphic of a house, an eight-hundred number and a bogus web address. Few people gave him a second glance once they saw that sign. Bent knew it was impossible to read the letters and numbers from more than about fifty feet away, but the graphic of a simple, boxy house with its pitched roof was the universal symbol for real estate agent.
Satisfied that his cover was in place, Bent took in Dr. Chalmet’s house. Her Accord was parked in the driveway, but a little hatchback with a Maryland license plate was at the curb. He made a note of the license number for later reference. Then he spent about half a minute debating whether to call his contact or to wait and see what happened. He decided to wait and see if the doctor kept to her routine and headed to her office between eight-fifteen and eight-thirty.
Sure enough, at around eight-fifteen Dr. Chalmet got into her car and headed toward her office. The other car stayed put. Bent stayed put, too. He wanted to see the owner. It could be a family member or a friend. Hell, it could be the kid’s father, except that none of his research had turned up a father. With a license plate from a thousand miles away, the owner of the hatchback couldn’t be a cop. But as his law-enforcement training as well as his fourteen years on the police force in Chicago kicked in, Bent’s pulse slammed into high gear. Montgomery County, Maryland, was so close to Washington, D.C., it might as well be part of the city. And Washington, D.C., housed, among many other things, the FBI. The Feds, who were always interested in kidnappings, especially those involving children. But they didn’t usually drive, certainly not a thousand miles. They preferred to fly in one of the FBI’s private jets and rent cars on the ground.
Besides, he was pretty sure the shrink was smarter than that. But even if she wasn’t, he sure as hell was. He was out of here if the FBI was involved. He’d never gotten mixed up with a federal case and he never intended to. His jobs were short and sweet and clean, these days. When he’d first lost his job and his pension for taking bribes, he’d accepted any job that came his way, including hits. But he didn’t like them. He still had enough police officer inside him to be bothered by taking a life. So he’d quickly moved into kidnapping for ransom. So far, he hadn’t had to harm anyone.
He wasn’t planning on breaking that record now.
He pressed the button to lower the driver’s side window. Taking his phone from his pocket, he set it on camera. Then he settled back in the car seat, wishing he could smoke a cigarette but not wanting to do anything that would attract attention to him. He sat there, holding the phone in position to take a picture, and waited.
At ten-thirty-three, a man came out of Dr. Chalmet’s front door. He was pale, and his clothes looked a size or two too big. He stood straight and tall, but he walked slowly, as if he were ill or injured. Bent surreptitiously snapped a few pictures as the man glanced around the neighborhood. As the man’s gaze turned toward Bent’s car, he froze, remaining perfectly still until the man’s eyes had traveled past him.
He breathed a sigh of relief. The guy hadn’t noticed him. To identify him as a tail and not react would make him one of the coolest guys Bent had ever seen. Would an FBI agent have that kind of cool? Bent didn’t think so.
The guy yawned, then made his way to the hatchback. Bent assessed him and decided that he wasn’t carrying. Even wearing clothes a size too big, it would be hard to completely hide even a small handgun. So he wasn’t FBI. Maybe he was the kid’s father. His client didn’t mention a man in the picture, but it wouldn’t be the first time a client hadn’t known or had neglected to tell him everything about the target’s neighbors, friends and family.
As the non-FBI agent cranked the car and pulled away from the curb, Bent debated what to do. Did he tail the sickly civilian or catch up with Dr. Chalmet at her office and stick with her, his top priority? As the h
atchback passed his parked car without a second glance and turned right onto the next street, Bent started his engine and took the left, headed toward Dr. Chalmet’s office.
* * *
TRAVIS WAS GLAD he’d waited to call Dawson’s office. If he’d made the call before he had left the house, he might not have seen the kidnapper. Travis had excellent peripheral vision, one of the many reasons he’d easily qualified for Special Forces. He spotted the dark sedan that was parked half a block down from Kate’s house without ever looking at it directly. He saw the real estate sign on the side, too, but he didn’t believe it for a second. For one thing, there were no For Sale signs in the neighborhood. But he rarely made assumptions based on appearances. That kind of carelessness could be fatal on dangerous missions.
After yawning and making a subtle but obvious point of checking his pockets for the house key Kate had handed him as she’d left, he locked the door to the house, walked to his car and pulled away from the curb. As he passed the car, he noticed the sticker on the windshield. Then, after he had put some distance between them, he glanced in his rearview mirror without moving his head. The sedan’s license plate was obscured with mud and dust, but he could read the first two numbers and the last. What he couldn’t make out was the state. Travis committed the numbers to memory. He would have liked to get a look at the driver, the man he was certain was Max’s kidnapper, but he didn’t want the man to know he’d made him.
Once he was sure the man was not following him, he dialed the number on an old card he had in his wallet, hoping Dawson’s office number was still the same.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice said.
“I need to speak with Dawson,” Travis said.
“Dawson?” Her voice was carefully neutral. Travis knew that Dawson’s investigations firm was exclusive. He didn’t advertise and he rarely gave out his business cards. He liked his referrals by word of mouth. He didn’t operate as Dawson Delancey for several reasons. He used John Dawson, his first and middle names.
“This is his cousin,” Travis parried. She wasn’t the only person who could be coy.
“Yes, and your name please?”
“Could you just tell him I’m here on leave? He’ll know who I am.”
“On leave? You’re Travis?” the woman said. “Travis Delancey?”
Travis was shocked—and worried. He didn’t recognize the voice, but then, he’d been gone five years, and it had been at least three years since he’d talked to any of his family. “Who is this?” he demanded.
“I’m Juliana Delancey. You don’t know me.”
Juliana Delancey? “No,” he said, a question in his voice. “I don’t.”
“First, are you all right?” Her voice was crisp, yet tinged with worry.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m all right. I’ve just got a situation I need to discuss with Dawson.”
“Thank goodness,” she said. “Unless I’m mistaken, it’s been quite a long time since anyone has talked to you?”
Travis was getting more confused by the minute. “Who are you?” he asked again.
“I’m Dawson’s wife, and partner in D&D Investigations.”
For the second time, Travis felt as if someone had punched him. “Dawson’s—what?” he stammered. From what he remembered about his cousin, Dawson had a longer taboo list than he did. And marriage was number one on his, as well.
“Yes,” she said with a pleasant laugh. “It’s wonderful to talk to you,” she said. “You’re the only one I haven’t met. You said you’re on leave. You’re here, in New Orleans, right?”
Travis thought fast. “Listen—Juliana. I really need to get in touch with Dawson. But for the moment, I don’t want anyone to know I called. It’s kind of touchy and complicated, so—”
“Travis. Say no more. I understand. And as a matter of fact, Dawson is in Chef Voleur today. He’s helping his dad move some furniture.”
“What?” Travis blurted again. More surprises. The last time Travis had been home, Dawson’s feud with his father had been going strong.
“When’s the last time you talked to your family?” she asked.
“About three years ago, before I was sent overseas.”
“Then you’ve missed a lot. I’ll give you Dawson’s cell number. Give him a call. He was planning to be finished by noon or so. I’m sure you two can get together.”
“Thanks,” he said. At the next red light, he dialed the number she’d given him.
When his cousin answered the phone, he said, “Dawson, it’s Travis. Don’t say my name.”
There was an almost imperceptible pause, then, “You okay?”
“Yeah. Can I see you today?”
“Sure,” Dawson said without hesitation. “Hang on. Dad, I need to take this call. Be right back.” Then a few seconds later, “Okay, I can talk now. What’s up?” He sounded curious, but also crisp and professional, like his wife had.
Travis wanted to ask about Juliana and about Dawson’s dad, but family stuff could wait. Kate’s son—his son—was missing, and that was the most important thing right now. “I need your help, Dawson. Can we meet somewhere?”
“Where are you? Oh, you’re calling on a New Orleans exchange. When did you get back?”
“Dawson, nobody can know I’m here. Not yet. I need to meet with you somewhere where nobody will know me. I need your help.”
“Sure,” Dawson said. “We’ve got an apartment in the French Quarter.” He gave Travis the address and told him he could be there within an hour. “Depending on how traffic is on the causeway,” he amended.
“How many Delanceys know about this apartment?” Travis asked.
“None,” Dawson assured him. “Well, your brother Lucas did once, but he’s probably forgotten all about it by now. He borrowed it from me when he first came back here from Dallas. And truthfully, it’s not so much an apartment as it is a warehouse.”
Travis was racking up the questions. He’d store this latest one—what was Lucas doing back in New Orleans when he swore he’d never return—with all the others until he had the luxury of time to catch up, which he didn’t right now. “Should I wait in my car?” he asked.
“Nope,” Dawson said. He gave Travis the combination to a mailbox on the outside of the building. “The key’s inside the mailbox. Go to the fourth floor. It’s the only door. Wait for me inside.”
Travis drove to the address Dawson had given him and followed his instructions. He agreed with Dawson’s assertion that apartment was not the right word for the large room that appeared to take up the entire top floor of the building. It had a bathroom and an alcove with a double bed that was separated from the rest of the room by a heavy curtain, and it was air-conditioned. The kitchen, however, consisted of nothing but a microwave and a mini-fridge on a countertop.
Travis turned on the AC and pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge. He sat down in a chair to wait for Dawson.
He’d barely finished the water when Kate’s phone rang. The sound startled him and he dropped the plastic bottle. He cursed his damn jumpiness as he checked the display. The number was her office phone. He could picture her, fuming, ready to rip into him for sneaking her cell phone out of her purse. He hesitated, looking at the display, his finger hovering over the answer button. Then he shook his head. He didn’t want to talk to her yet, and certainly not over the phone.
She’d probably get back to her house before he did, and find him gone. If she was fuming now, he didn’t want to think about what she’d be like when he walked in tonight. He closed the phone. She’d have to wait. He needed to get Dawson on the trail of whoever had taken Max. That was the most important thing. He’d face her later. Hopefully he could show some results that would prove that he’d done the right thing in contacting Dawson. At the same instant that Kate’s call went to voice mail, he heard footsteps on the stairs. There was a double rap on the door.
“Trav?” Dawson’s voice came through the door. Then he heard a key turn in the lock an
d Dawson burst in, carrying a paper bag that he set on the bookcase just inside the door.
Travis couldn’t help but grin when he saw his cousin. “Dawson,” he said and stepped forward. The two men performed the basic man-hug—quick hand clasp and touch of shoulders, lightning-speed pat on back, then return to their corners. Dawson held on to Travis’s hand for one extra split second, though, and assessed him. “You don’t look so good, partner,” he said, frowning. “What’s the deal? Everything okay with you?”
Outside a car backfired. Travis jumped, then muttered a curse.
Dawson’s assessing eyes narrowed. “Tell me what’s up.”
Travis gave his head a shake and his mouth quirked up in a smile. “How much time have you got?” he asked wryly.
“Actually, I’ve got all day. Dad and I had just finished moving the furniture when you called. I was going to run by and see Ryker, but hell, I see him and Reilly all the time. I haven’t seen you in what? Three or four years?”
Travis nodded. “Yeah. And it sounds like a lot has happened while I’ve been gone. Apparently you found a ball and chain.”
Dawson laughed, but Travis saw pride and contentment soften his face. It was an expression he’d never seen on his cousin’s face—ever.
“Right,” Dawson said. “What we need to be talking about right now is what’s up with you. Let’s sit down.” He went over to the bookcase and retrieved the paper bag and brought it to the big oak table that sat near the windows. They each took a wooden hard-backed chair. Dawson pushed the paper bag toward Travis. “You still like café au lait?”
“Oh, man, thanks,” Travis said, reaching inside the bag and pulling out a hot cup. He lifted the lid. “Sugar?” he asked.
Dawson got up and retrieved a mason jar half-full of sugar and a spoon from the counter where the microwave sat. “Juliana likes a lot of sugar, too.”
