Burden of Proof

by DiAnn Mills

  April laughed. “Shortest guy, second string, and your son proves he’s a powerhouse,” she said.

  “Got accepted into A&M.” His face saddened. “My life insurance ensures graduation. See why I have to lay a path for my kids?”

  Don’t go there, Benson. “There are many ways you can keep your son in college without sacrificing yourself. Tell me about your daughter.”

  “She’s tiny, like you. Long blonde hair. Fifteen. A real beauty. Makes good grades. Looks like her mom when I first met her.” Benson talked for another forty-five minutes about his daughter and ex-wife. He appeared happy and relaxed.

  “I’m hungry,” she said. “Want to grab something to eat?”

  “We could do that,” he said slowly.

  “What do you like?” A surge of satisfaction coursed through her. She’d learned a lot about Benson, and she believed he had a solid future ahead of him. “For me, this time of morning, it’s eggs, bacon, hot biscuits and honey. Or pancakes?”

  “My stomach’s growling.”

  “And coffee,” she said. Her hand moved within an inch of his fingertips.

  “Houston has great coffeehouses,” he said. “My wife and I used to explore different cafés. Then she decided being married to me no longer had any meaning.”

  “I’ve been hurt in relationships, and it’s not fun. Ready to join me?” she said. “My treat.”

  “No need. I have money.” He reached into his pant pocket. “Can’t believe I don’t have my wallet.”

  “It’s okay. You can buy the next time.”

  “This must be my sign.” His voice sank low. “Child support due today. Our paychecks are delayed due to bankruptcy proceedings.”

  “Benson, I’ll help you sort out finances. I’m your friend, and we’ll take this one step at a time.”

  He placed his hands on each side of him, gripping the ledge. “You’re paid to talk to me. You’re no friend. I don’t even know you.”

  “You’ve shared with me about your family. You love them, want the best for them. You are a survivor—I believe in you.”

  He gave her a sideways glance. “Did my ex call the cops when I told her what happened?”

  “Yes. She was very concerned about you.”

  “Right. That’s why she reminded me of my financial obligations tonight.”

  April sensed she was losing him. She grappled for words. “After breakfast, we’ll put together a plan.”

  “I had one before you arrived.”

  “But we’ve talked through a new one.”

  “It’s over.” He flung himself over the ledge.

  “Benson!”

  2

  IT WAS 4:30 FRIDAY MORNING, an hour after Benson jumped, and April was battling depression. The walls of her cubicle seemed to close in, strangling her with instant replays of the tragedy. Fresh. Raw. Unbearable in every sense of the word. In the six years she’d worked hostage negotiation, she’d lost only two people, including Benson.

  “Need to talk?” Special Agent Simon Neilson stood at the opening of her cubicle, his prematurely white hair another reminder of how she’d failed Benson.

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “Sure you will, on down the road. I’m talking about right now.”

  She forced a thin smile. “Time is a healer, and experience limits future mistakes.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. Simon had drilled those words into her over the years, but it didn’t make the situation any easier to bear. “I’m trying to follow your advice.”

  “Rules are there to guide us, give us perspective when the world around us goes awry.”

  “I know. I keep thinking about how I could have done things differently.” She took a few seconds to compose herself. “Any word on Benson’s family?”

  “We’ve notified his ex-wife. They have two teenage children.”

  “He told me about them. Loved them.” Abhorrently unfair, and the searing through April’s stomach proved it. “I want to visit the family.”

  “We can go together. How many times this morning have you heard this wasn’t your fault?”

  “Didn’t count.” She’d been trained in defusing volatile people. Her success rate had been outstanding until a few hours ago. The victim who’d died hit her perfectionism way too hard.

  “April, I know you’ve heard this before. He had a choice.”

  “Choice is a complicated word.”

  “You’re not God.”

  “Trust me, I’d make sure life around here operated differently.” She grabbed a few seconds for positive self-talk, but guilt tossed ugly accusations. “I thought I’d gained his confidence.”

  “You were on the rooftop for nearly three hours. You did all you could do to talk him down.” Simon shook his head and sighed. “I worry about you, April. Sometimes I think you care too much.”

  “It’s who I am.” Compassion for others was etched in her DNA. “I’d rather be guilty of reaching out to someone hurting than stand by and do nothing.”

  “I hope it doesn’t get you killed.”

  “If it does, my parents will gladly confirm they were right about my career preference.” They would be ecstatic if she used her doctorate as a university professor.

  “Your goal is not to prove them right but to show them a woman who is fulfilled in her career. Go home and get some rest. How about dinner with me and the wife tonight?”

  A diversion or salve for her conscience? “Only if you two come to my home for dinner.”

  He moaned. “The last time I couldn’t move for twenty-four hours. Chicken adobo?”

  “Of course.” She struggled with her turmoil and resolved to mask her defeatist attitude. “Thanks. Simon Neilson therapy always makes me feel better.”

  As she gathered up her purse to head home, her facade fell flat. She’d followed the rule book and still failed.

  3

  APRIL’S STOMACH RUMBLED, and her fridge at home looked like she’d hung a Vacancy sign on it. Donuts were the last thing she needed after the earlier emotional trauma, as though filling her body with sugar and grease might reduce the overwhelming guilt, but her car still swung into the busy parking lot of a popular donut shop a few blocks from her home.

  How sad she also looked for something sweet to soothe the ache of loneliness. The idea of calling someone special, sharing her miserable past hours, and doing the same for him tugged on her heartstrings. Maybe her future held the possibility, but right now no one stood backstage, waving.

  A slight chill blew in from the north, and she grabbed her FBI jacket from the backseat, slipping it over her blouse. Inside the shop, she took a place in line behind four other customers.

  What drove a man to give up on himself and life? Benson had invited her onto the roof with him . . . so she could watch him commit suicide? For a while, she believed she’d gained his trust. Then an absent wallet destroyed his confidence and hers.

  A young woman behind her scolded a crying baby. “I told you to hush. All this way, you’ve whined and screamed. I’m hungry, so deal with it. Should have left you alongside the road.”

  The insensitive words irritated April, especially on the heels of the earlier incident. Loving mothers treated their children with tenderness, not like they were liabilities. They protected them from a world that was often harsh. April turned to the young woman who held the crying baby in pink pajamas. Tears stained the child’s cheeks, and mucus flowed over her lips.

  “Are you a real FBI agent?” The mother looked to be in her early twenties, long ponytail, taller than average.

  “Yes.”

  The young woman shoved the baby into April’s arms. “Take her for a few minutes, please. I need to breathe.”

  April attempted to return the baby, but the mother stepped back. “She’s making me crazy.”

  “I see you’re upset. We can talk.” April patted the baby’s back, but the child only cried louder.

  “I’m done with her.” The young woman rushed toward the entrance
and disappeared into a mass of parked vehicles.

  “Hey—” What just happened? April held the baby close to comfort her and detected a dirty diaper. She was shivering, too. Shrugging off her jacket, April stepped out of line to wrap the baby—who wailed louder than before.

  The mother might have gone to her car for a diaper bag.

  Seven minutes ticked by. April pushed through the entrance of the shop into the cold air, cradling the crying baby girl. At least the jacket kept her warm. April scanned the parking lot and walked to the rear. The young woman had disappeared.

  “Well, little one, looks like it’s just you and me,” she whispered and walked toward the front of the shop with the intention of calling Child Protective Services. “Wish I knew how to ease your tears.”

  A man jogged her way. “Stop! You have my daughter.”

  What had she been hit with now? April sized him up for a potential struggle. Trim build. Wore a brown leather jacket and a cap pulled down over his forehead. And a distinct frown.

  “Why did you kidnap my daughter?” Despite the cool air, sweat beaded his brow. Before April could respond, the baby whirled to him with open arms. “Isabella, Daddy’s here for you.” He attempted to take the baby, but April stepped back.

  “You can’t take this child. A woman gave her to me, and I’m sure she’ll return in just a minute.” He was close enough to inflict harm.

  His face reddened. “Just give me my daughter, and we’ll be going.” He grabbed April’s arm.

  She kicked him in the shin, and he winced but didn’t release his hold. She held the baby tighter and kept her away from the man’s grasp. “Stand down. I’m FBI.” April couldn’t protect Benson, but she could keep this child from potential harm. The baby’s tears settled into a sob.

  He looked at the jacket and released her arm as though he’d been burned. “This is yours?”

  “Yes. I’m Agent April Ramos. This baby is under my care until I find her legal guardian.”

  “I’m Isabella’s father.” He reached into his pocket. “She was kidnapped last night, and I followed the car here. My driver’s license—”

  “Only proves your name.”

  “I’m asking you for the last time to give me my daughter.”

  “Or you’ll do what?” She made eye contact.

  He rubbed his hand over a stubbly chin. He trembled. “What if she were your daughter? How would you react?”

  “I certainly wouldn’t accost an FBI agent.”

  He hesitated. “I need help with a serious situation.”

  The moment the words were uttered, April’s instincts kicked in. “Is this about the woman who left me with the baby?”

  He glanced around the parking lot as though he planned to grab the baby and bolt. “Can we talk? The diaper bag is in my truck, and Isabella needs to be changed. I smell her.”

  Fat chance of that happening. “Why don’t you get the bag, and I’ll change her inside the donut shop while you tell me your problem.”

  He shook his head and opened the inside of his jacket just enough for her to see a Beretta. He closed his jacket, covering the weapon. Her Glock was tucked in her shoulder bag. “Don’t reach for your gun,” he whispered. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Sir, it’s difficult for me to be sympathetic when you’ve pulled a gun on a federal officer. What about endangering your daughter?”

  A muscle twitched below his eye, and he patted the gun inside his jacket. “Follow me to my truck, and I’ll explain.”

  “No.”

  “You have no choice.”

  She always had a choice, but not when an innocent child was placed in danger. She’d fight for this baby when the only risks were her own. He gestured for her to take the lead and pointed to a 2018 green Chevy pickup, extended cab. He slid her shoulder bag down her arm and placed it in his opposite hand. There went her Glock and phone. All she needed was an opportunity to seize control. They passed a woman with two small children. No point calling out to them when the man beside her had a gun.

  They neared the truck, and out of habit, she memorized the plates. He clicked a key fob. “Open the rear driver’s-side door,” he said. “A diaper bag’s inside with everything you need to change Isabella. And a clean sweatshirt and pants.” He looked into the baby’s face, and his facade saddened. “Sweetie, I know it’s cold, but that diaper has to come off.” The baby jabbered some unintelligible language.

  April obeyed him, and he backed up six feet, eliminating the opportunity for hand-to-hand combat. She laid the baby with her head nearly touching the car seat midway across. Her diaper-changing skills were at ground zero, but she managed and used a wet wipe to wash the baby’s face. “She is beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” His voice shook. Maybe he was second-guessing his actions.

  She needed him to trust her. “I’m ready to hear your explanation.”

  “Not yet. Put Isabella in the car seat.” He kept his distance.

  No one was in sight to even question the crime taking place. Once the baby was secure, he pressed the barrel of the gun against her back.

  She sighed. Was he reading her mind or had she left all logic at the office with Benson’s suicide? “Let’s talk about what’s bothering you and get this straightened out.”

  “Open the driver’s door and scoot over to the other side. Don’t try a thing, or I’ll use the gun.”

  She obeyed and crawled over the console. As soon as her feet hit the floorboard on the passenger side, he was seated and locked the doors. No way to kick him with the console . . .

  “Don’t forget the seat belt,” he said.

  “Sir, your actions will have serious consequences.”

  His brown eyes bored hard into her face. “I’m a desperate man.”

  This must be a domestic or custody dispute. The baby no longer cried, a blessing since April questioned what kind of insanity she’d met for the second time today. Images of the early morning death slammed into her brain. In truth, the memory would never leave her.

  “Do you live alone?” her abductor said.

  “Yes.”

  “Address?”

  She gave him one.

  He typed into his phone. “That belongs to the FBI.” He pulled the Beretta from his jacket and aimed it at her. “This is a life-and-death matter. I hate pulling you into my circumstances. But I have no choice when my daughter is threatened.”

  Definitely a troubled man. She’d gain the upper hand at her home. With that reassurance, she gave him the correct address.

  “We’ll talk there.” He typed into his phone and placed the truck in reverse.

  While Jason drove to Agent Ramos’s home through heavy traffic, he worried the cops were on his tail. Emotion for what he’d experienced over the last several hours threatened to break loose. He’d shed nearly as many tears as when Lily died. Now Russell . . . And he’d almost lost his baby girl. Jason stared at Isabella through the rearview mirror. “Daddy is so sorry for what you went through.” She’d been the victim of his worst nightmare: an abduction.

  “Are you ready to talk?” the agent said.

  “Not yet.” The tiny woman beside him probably had hand-to-hand combat skills beyond his imagination. He’d done his best to avoid a flying fist or foot. At least he had her purse, most likely containing a cell phone and a weapon. A huge risk. But her influence in law enforcement could right a terrible wrong. Several of them. “I’m thinking through how to present my story.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  “I’m Jason, and you’ve met my daughter, Isabella.”

  April nodded. “I’m glad I was there. Would you like for me to call Isabella’s mother and let her know her daughter’s safe?”

  “Isabella’s mother died a year ago, giving birth to our daughter.” He’d disappointed Lily too. She’d kissed Isabella at two hours old, just before saying good-bye to them forever. What had he just done? “Nabbing a federal agent was an impulsive decision. Not my normal wa
y of handling a problem.”

  “I won’t deny you’re in a lot of trouble. Let’s talk this out.”

  He swallowed hard. “No amount of talk can fix the tragedy affecting my life.”

  “Then I need to hear what you have to say.”

  After two more turns, he pulled into a driveway in front of a cottage-style home. A risky plan formed, one of justice and a way to solve a murder.

  4

  JASON TOLD APRIL to carry Isabella into her home while he shouldered the diaper bag and April’s purse. Holding a gun on an FBI agent who had his daughter in her arms marked his degradation, so he replaced it inside his jacket.

  In her kitchen, with the door locked behind them, he requested warm water to make Isabella a bottle. “Filtered, if you have it.”

  April blinked as though his request sounded odd. “Yes, of course. Are you ready to tell your story?”

  Isabella whimpered for him to take her. But he couldn’t. Relief and fear about the future slapped against him like pounding waves. But he refused to give in to the despair. “There’s a bottle in the diaper bag and a can of formula. Four scoops for eight ounces of warm water. She likes it with the chill off.”

  “A little hard for me to prepare a bottle and balance her at the same time.”

  “Move to the table and I’ll do it.”

  April complied, and he went through the familiar motions of knowing just when the water was warm enough. He walked to the table, and Isabella grabbed it. His baby girl was so hungry. He sat across from them—his daughter and the FBI agent. Shrugging off his jacket, he draped it over a chair and laid his weapon on the table. He breathed a prayer for focus . . . and strength.

  “Go ahead,” she said, her voice soft, even kind.

  “What I’m about to say sounds crazy, but I swear it’s the truth.” He drew in a deep breath. “I’ve been falsely accused of murdering my best friend.”

  Her lack of emotion indicated people regularly admitted the bizarre. “I’m listening, Jason. If I can help, I will.”