The Triple Threat Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  He crouched down on his heels. “Well, that’s not such a hardship, is it, sweetheart? Aren’t you a pretty thing. And smart. I can tell just by looking at those bright eyes that you’re smart.”

  Estella watched him, her face serious, her rosebud lips pressed together as if she were waiting for something.

  “Maybe try something in Spanish,” Allison said. “You know more than I do.”

  “Which is hardly anything,” he said. Then he looked at Estella. “Hola. Me llamo Marshall,” he said. He reached his hand toward her, fingertip extended.

  To their surprise, she flinched, then turned her head and started to cry softly, a repetitive, exhausted sound. Allison pulled the little girl to her chest and patted her back.

  “It’s like she’s afraid of me.” Marshall stood up and took a couple of steps back.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Allison said, but part of her worried he was right. Maybe not afraid of Marshall, but of another man. Some man in her life. The thought made her heart contract. Had anyone ever hurt Estella? Even uttered a harsh word to her? “I think she’s had a terribly long day, and you’re just one more stranger looming over her. We’ve had hours to get used to each other.” Turning Estella back around, she still held her close, thinking that the girl might be able to feel her heart beating against her shoulder blades. Maybe she could think like a mother after all.

  “Do you think she’s hungry?” Marshall asked. Then he turned his gaze to Estella, careful not to come any closer. “Comida?” He looked at Allison. “I think that’s it, anyway. I don’t remember the word for hungry, but I think comida means food. Comida, Estella?”

  Estella licked her lips.

  At the sight of her little pink tongue, Allison said, “I think you got her interest.” Then a bit of panic set in. “What do we have in the house to feed a child, Marshall?”

  They both liked to cook, with the result that their refrigerator was stocked with items like capers, kalamata olives, and roasted red peppers. And what was Estella used to eating? Did they have any tortillas in the house? Or refried beans? And what if all she really wanted was something like a Pop-Tart?

  Allison’s earlier feeling of confidence was evaporating. Weren’t there rules about what you fed toddlers, like no grapes or hot dogs or hard candies, so they didn’t choke? And what about allergies?

  “We’d better not give her peanut butter,” she said. “Or any kind of nuts. What about milk? Do you think milk would be okay?” She looked at Estella. “Leche?” she hazarded.

  Estella looked interested. So, a glass of milk. Allison wondered if they had any plastic cups.

  “I think we’ve got one of those blue boxes of mac and cheese,” Marshall said. “Don’t all kids like mac and cheese?”

  They all ended up eating the mac and cheese, although Marshall couldn’t resist grating half a block of Tillamook Sharp Cheddar into the pan.

  Before they took their first bite, he said grace. “God, thank You that You kept us all safe today. Thank You for bringing Estella and Allison together, and help us to get Estella back to her family. And help this city to get back to normal—and for this crime to be solved. Loving God, watch over us.”

  “Amen,” Allison said, and then ladled pasta onto everyone’s plate.

  In lieu of a booster seat, Estella was perched on the yellow pages. She had only consented to leave Allison’s lap when their two chairs were placed side-by-side.

  “Nicole and I were supposed to meet with Jim Fate tomorrow. He was getting death threats.”

  “Guess they were more than threats,” Marshall said. “Did he say who they were from?”

  “He didn’t say much at all.” Allison sighed. “And now it’s too late to ask.”

  “Do you think it’s terrorism?”

  She raised her shoulders. “Who knows? Jim Fate has made a career out of making enemies. It could be personal, it could be political, or it could be anything in-between.”

  Estella ate well, but was still unnaturally quiet, jumping at any unexpected noise. Eventually, the child’s head began to droop. Her eyes were at half-mast. It wasn’t yet seven o’clock, but Estella was clearly ready for bed.

  Allison tried calling Child Protective Services again. She was surprised when she actually got a dial tone and then again when the phone began to ring. And ring and ring. She was about to hang up when an obviously harried woman answered.

  Allison quickly explained what had happened. She could hear the caseworker’s sigh through the line.

  “I can’t get hold of most of my staff. Even if I could, I’m not sure I could find a foster home for this girl right now. The Red Cross is working on a Web site to reconnect missing relatives, but it’s not up yet.” As she spoke, more phones rang in the background. “Look, I need to put you on hold for a second.”

  When the woman came back on the line a full five minutes later, Allison said, “Why don’t you take the information I have about Estella. Things should be better by tomorrow, and we can keep her for tonight. And you could always call us if you hear from her family.”

  “Sounds great,” the caseworker said, and from her tone Allison could tell she was already moving on to the next set of problems.

  After Allison hung up, Marshall said, “Maybe I should sleep in the guest room, and you two can have our bed. I mean, we can’t leave her on her own, and I seem to make her nervous.”

  “Honey, are you sure that’s okay? The guest bed isn’t that comfortable.”

  He raked one hand through his hair. “Of course it’s okay. A few hours ago, I thought I might never see you again. Sleeping on the guest bed is a small price to pay for having you safe and sound.”

  Getting ready for bed offered more challenges. Luckily, Estella knew how to use the toilet. Should Allison try to bathe her, change her clothes? But she had to admit that she would look askance at any stranger who undressed or bathed her future child. She set Estella on the edge of the tub and contented herself with removing her little socks and shoes. Using a warm, wet washcloth, Allison knelt down and wiped Estella’s face, hands, and feet, murmuring baby talk that felt a little more natural than it had earlier in the day. When Marshall knocked on the door, Allison was marveling over Estella’s tiny, perfect toes.

  “It’s strange to think that in six months we’ll have our own baby toes to stare at.” Marshall’s voice was husky, as if the day was catching up with him.

  Allison felt exhausted, from the miles she had walked and from the residue of fear that had hovered over her the whole time. “I don’t know if I’m ready.” She closed her eyes, suddenly feeling the full weight of the day. Only half-aware of the gesture, she put her hand on her belly.

  “I don’t think anyone is ever ready.” Marshall’s hand was warm on her shoulder. “We’re just going to have to take it a day at a time, and trust God to give us the wisdom we need.”

  Allison carried Estella to the bed and tucked her in on Marshall’s side. Estella closed her eyes, her breathing already slowing. But when Allison turned to get up, the little girl opened her eyes and sat up, crying out in Spanish. The only word Allison understood was “Mami!”

  Reluctantly relinquishing the idea of a shower, she slipped into her pajamas and slid into bed. And five minutes later, she and Estella were both asleep.

  In the middle of the night, Allison jerked awake from a nightmare where people had again been falling to the sidewalk, but this time bright-red blood bubbled from their lips. She lay in the darkness and heard Estella repeat, “Mami, Mami, Mami.” Her little voice was sad and hopeless, and it made Allison’s heart break.

  She reached over and switched on the light by the bed. “Hush, honey. I’m here. I’ll watch over you.”

  But Estella still begged, looking past her, unwilling to pretend any longer that this stranger was her mother. “Mami. Mami.”

  It was a long time before they both fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 13

  Hedges Residence

  Dear God,�
� Berenice Hedges began, and Nic obediently closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of the heaping platters of food. She didn’t believe in making her mother angry. Especially when she was starving.

  Besides, they did have a lot to be thankful for. Mama squeezed Nic’s hand, and Nic passed it on by squeezing her daughter’s hand. She heard Makayla’s giggle as she completed the circle by squeezing her grandpa’s hand.

  Nic was alive. Mrs. Lofland was alive, when she could so easily have been trampled to death in the stairway. Nic’s family was fine, as were nearly all the residents of the city of Portland. And right now, as Nic waited for Mama to finish praying, she could smell the tureen of milk gravy sitting directly under her nose, the mouthwatering scents of beef and garlic and roux. She was alive and she was hungry, and she was about to eat a delicious meal.

  And then there was Leif. Nic had let him hold her this afternoon. Only for a moment. But she had let herself relax against his broad chest, tucked her head under his chin, and felt some of the unbearable tension leave her body.

  “Amen,” Mama said. At the same time Makayla’s hand shot out and grabbed the serving dish heaped with potatoes that had been cooked along with the pot roast.

  “Say excuse me,” Nic cautioned, as Makayla heaped potatoes on her plate.

  Her daughter grinned unrepentantly. Her braids bounced as she lunged forward for a roll.

  “So will Makayla be staying with us for a while?” Nic’s father asked. Lloyd Hedges was a tall, slender man with big eyes made even bigger by his narrow face.

  “I’m afraid so. They’re putting together a task force to figure out exactly what happened.” Nic tried to hide her pride at the next bit of news. “I’ve been appointed the case agent.” She had lobbied hard for it, pointing out to John Drood, the special agent in charge, that Jim Fate had reached out to her and Allison just before he was killed.

  “Congratulations,” Berenice said. “I think.” She knew what long hours such an assignment meant.

  “Why can’t I just stay home by myself instead of coming here after school?” Makayla said. “I’m almost ten. And everybody thinks I’m at least twelve.”

  Makayla already came up to Nic’s nose. She had another striking feature: her unusual green eyes. Even strangers commented on them and sometimes asked where she had gotten them.

  No matter how much she tried to pretend Makayla was all hers, there were times when the truth slapped Nic in the face. The green eyes, the height, the paler hue of her skin—all came from Makayla’s daddy.

  But Nic had sworn to herself that Makayla would never, ever know that.

  Or him.

  Nic shook her head. “It doesn’t matter what you look like. What matters is how old you really are. And in this state you have to be twelve before you can stay home alone. Besides, in the next couple of weeks there are probably going to be times when I don’t come home until after midnight. Your grandma will feed you and make sure you brush your teeth and do your homework.”

  “And say your prayers before you go to sleep,” Mama added, giving Nic a significant look.

  Nic didn’t rise to the bait. She was mostly silent through dinner, her mind going back through everything that had happened during the day. Was it really just this morning that the Bratz Bandits trial had begun? It seemed like a week ago.

  She mentally retraced her route down the stairs with Mrs. Lofland, and then back into the courthouse. She again saw Mrs. Lofland safely into a taxi—paying the driver herself over the older woman’s protests—and then walked with Leif back to the FBI office. It had been a rare sunny day, the kind that made you think that spring was just around the corner. February could be cruel like that.

  But as they walked through the nearly empty streets, past abandoned cars and even an empty stroller, Nic only had eyes for Leif.

  “Did you ever listen to his show?” Leif had asked.

  “The Hand of Fate? Not really. Too one-sided for me. He made sure he always had the last word. Not to speak ill of the dead, but the last time I listened to him, he was saying that food companies could be counted on to do a good job of policing themselves because they wouldn’t want to kill off their own customers. And that the big-government advocates were using Chicken Little tactics to scare consumers. Well, hello, I am scared. I’ve got a child to raise. Peanut butter is pretty much 50 percent of Makayla’s diet. And that one company had rats and mold and all kinds of things it doesn’t bear thinking about. I say, bring on the nanny state.” She realized Leif was grinning at her. “What?”

  He shook his head, looking amused. “I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you get that riled up.”

  “And I don’t like to feel like that. If I’m going to listen to the radio, I’d rather listen to some jams, not something that’s going to raise my blood pressure. But don’t worry. Just because I want the food policed doesn’t mean I won’t do a good job on this.”

  Leif ’s expression turned serious. “Don’t worry. Everybody knows that if you give Nicole Hedges a case, you had better stand back, because she’ll go after it with a vengeance.”

  Back at the office, Nic had immediately been engulfed in a series of meetings and phone calls and database searches, activities so routine they took some of the edge off the events earlier in the day.

  Now her father said, “You’re drooping, sweetheart. Do you want to sleep here tonight?”

  “Thanks, Daddy, but I’m going to go on home. I’ve got to get an early start in the morning. I’ll bring over some clothes for Makayla on the way in to the office.”

  “Please, can’t I come with you, and then you can bring me back in the morning?” her daughter begged. “I want to get some books and my Game Boy.”

  “You can just give me a list.”

  “But I won’t remember everything I need. Please?”

  Nic was too tired to argue. “Okay, baby. But you can’t complain if I wake you up really early.”

  She helped her mother carry the serving dishes into the kitchen. It would all be packaged into Tupperware, which Daddy might tuck into late at night. Nic envied her father’s ability to eat whatever he wanted in huge quantities and not gain an ounce. Spending her lunch hours in the gym and her weekends with a Thai boxing instructor was the only reason Nic’s butt wasn’t as big as the planet.

  She was turning to go back to the dining room when Mama laid a hand on her arm. “There’s something you need to know. Makayla was asking questions about her father today.”

  An icy finger slowly traced her spine. “What did you tell her?”

  “That we don’t have contact with him. And that she has you and me and your father and brothers, and that should be enough.”

  “It will have to be enough,” Nic said. “Won’t it?”

  “I’ll be praying for you to have wisdom,” Mama said.

  Nic bit her lip to stifle a retort. Ten years ago she had pleaded in desperation for God to help her, and what had He done? Nothing.

  Hoping that Makayla would realize this was no time for asking difficult questions, Nic took her daughter and drove the two miles home.

  The first thing she did after locking the front door was to unbuckle her holster and put her Glock in the gun safe. As an FBI agent, Nic carried her Glock to dinner, to the grocery store, and to her kid’s third-grade play. The FBI required that agents be ready for duty at all times.

  When Makayla was younger, the gun had fascinated her. Nic had told her that she could ask to see the gun as often as she wanted, but only in the house and only when the two of them were alone. And she was never, ever to touch it. Now Makayla took the gun for granted, no more remarkable than her mother’s car keys.

  In a daze of exhaustion, Nic helped Makayla pack up her things (including a stuffed bear named Fred that Makayla pretended she didn’t really care if she brought with her or not), and then got ready for bed. Nic would have to get up at five to have time to drop Makayla off and still drive down to Clackamas County to observe the autopsy.


  Two hours later, she was still turning restlessly. Questions ran through her mind. Why had Jim Fate been killed? How would she react if Makayla started questioning her? What would have become of her daughter if Nic had died in the stairwell? And Leif—what was Nic going to do about him?

  For some reason, Nic thought of Mrs. Lofland, the way her lips had moved in silent prayer for others, and she felt herself calm a fraction.

  CHAPTER 14

  Pierce Residence

  Wednesday, February 8

  Allison woke, but didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t feel rested at all. Why were her shoulders and hips so achy? Was she sick? And that faint breathing next to her—had Marshall gotten up and the cat sneaked in to steal his place?

  Then she remembered. Remembered walking miles and miles with a toddler in her arms, trying to escape the terror of downtown. Her eyes flew open. And there was Estella, lying on her side facing Allison, watching her with huge, dark eyes.

  When Allison opened her eyes, the little girl smiled.

  As Allison reached out to hug her, she hesitated. This was not her child. Her own child was growing in her belly. This girl had her own mother someplace, a mother who must be frantic to find her. So Allison contented herself with brushing back her hair.

  Something delicious scented the air. Pancakes. “Comida?” she ventured, remembering one of the words Marshall had used the night before. “Comida, Estella?”

  She was rewarded with a small nod and another smile.

  Leading Estella to the kitchen by one hand, Allison checked her phone with the other. There were texts from Nicole and Cassidy, saying they were okay and asking how she was. It was too complicated to explain what had happened, so she just texted them both back: FINE. XO. TALK SOON.

  In the kitchen, Marshall was pouring batter into the frying pan, with a stack of just-made pancakes on a plate next to him. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder.