For the Love of Pete

by Julia Harper

  He nodded. “Where’d you go?”

  “Indiana University in Bloomington. You?”

  “NYU, then Quantico.”

  “And you majored in, what? Law enforcement or something?” She signaled to pass a dump truck.

  He cleared his throat. “Ah, actually art history.”

  She glanced at him quickly. “You’re kidding.”

  His mouth was in a flat line. “No. What did you major in?”

  He looked kind of embarrassed, which only intrigued her. “English lit, but we’re talking about you. How’d you get from art history to the FBI?”

  He sighed. “I always wanted to go into law enforcement, but the family business is in art and antiques.”

  “Your parents have an antiques shop?”

  “Ah, it’s a little more than that.”

  “A little more.” She looked down at her hands, gripping the wheel of a car that probably cost more than twice her yearly wages. “How much more?”

  “Don’t do that,” he said quietly.

  “Do what?”

  He shook his head, glancing out the window a moment. “My family has an international art auction house. It was founded by my grandfather over fifty years ago. We have branches in Hong Kong, Milan, London, and New York.”

  “We?”

  He shrugged. “I inherited stock from my grandfather, so yeah, we. Everyone else in my family works at the business in different capacities.”

  “Everyone but you,” she said softly. He must’ve had nearly overwhelming pressure to join the family business. The fact that he’d opted for the FBI instead proved a strong and stubborn will.

  “Yeah, everyone but me,” he answered. “Now, those were some awkward Thanksgivings and Christmases—the first couple of years after I’d made my decision.”

  “But they did accept your career in the end, right?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Sure.”

  She glanced at him. He was staring straight ahead out the windshield, his mouth firmed into a grim line. “You don’t sound convinced.”

  He sighed, and his hand dropped to his leg, brushing the fabric stretched taut over the bandage underneath. “I grew up in a family devoted to the arts and business. My siblings and I all went to private boarding schools, we spent summers in Europe . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “To them I’m basically a cop. It’s not just that they don’t get why I’m an FBI agent, it’s more than that. Like I announced one day that I was going to become a wombat. Totally alien.”

  Zoey cleared her throat, realizing for the first time that Dante wasn’t only from a different world, he was from a different class. Mom had been pleased when Zoey had gotten into Indiana U, but it wouldn’t have been such a big deal if she hadn’t. If anything, Zoey was more educated than the rest of her family, whereas Dante’s family thought he’d stepped down in choosing the FBI. Wow.

  Just . . . wow.

  She glanced at him again, remembering something he’d said when they’d begun this discussion. “You never answered me. What didn’t you want me to do?”

  He grimaced. “Girls—women—get weird when they find out I’ve got money.”

  “Weird how?” But she thought she knew. She’d started stiffening up the moment she’d figured it out.

  “They either see me as a meal ticket or they get defensive, like I’m judging them on their manners or something—and finding them lacking. Either way, it tends to spoil a relationship.”

  “Huh. Bet it does.” Zoey kept her eyes on the road and wondered if he knew he’d used the word relationship in connection with her. Well, kind of in connection. Close, anyway. She shook the thought out of her mind. “You don’t have to worry with me, though.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. First of all, I’ve got more cash than you at the moment. And secondly, if you don’t like my manners, you can go blow.”

  His head reared back. “You’re telling me to go blow?”

  She pursed her lips. “Only if you find my manners offensive.”

  “Huh. That’s pretty tough talk for a poet.”

  “Watch it. Poets are notoriously sensitive. You don’t want to piss me off.”

  He snorted. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

  “You do that.” She felt herself smiling now for no particular reason.

  They were silent for a bit until they passed an Illinois DOT sign indicating that there was a gas station at the next exit. Zoey flipped on her turn signal. “I want to stop up here.”

  Dante looked out the window at the rolling, white, frozen fields. “Here?”

  “Yeah. I need a restroom.”

  “Already? This is the second stop since lunch.”

  “I bet you’re really fun on dates,” Zoey muttered.

  He arched his brows, looking patrician and insulted at the same time. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Are your dates allowed to use the restroom? Or do they have to hold it in through dinner?”

  “Most people can make it all the way through a meal without getting up.”

  “You are dating females, right?” she asked sweetly.

  She waited for his comeback, enjoying the whole snarky exchange, but he didn’t say anything.

  She glanced at him as she turned into the gas station. “Dante?”

  “Look,” he said. He tilted his chin at the front of the convenience store. Two older ladies were swaying there, and beneath their long down jackets they had on saris.

  “Oh, my God!” Zoey’s heart sped up and she involuntarily jerked the wheel, making the car swerve.

  “Watch it.” Dante’s words were sharp, but his voice was even. “Pull in beside the store, over there.”

  Zoey followed his directions, stopping the car smoothly. She put the car in park and looked at him.

  “Wait here,” he said.

  He’d already drawn his gun. He got out of the car, holding the gun down by his leg where it was partially hidden in the folds of his long leather trench coat. Zoey watched him stroll toward the women. He must be working hard to appear casual, because his limp was slight. He seemed in no particular hurry, but her pulse was pounding. She could see now that one of the women held a child in her arms, a blue jacket hood pulled up over the little head.

  Dante stopped a few feet away and reached under his coat. When his hand came back out, it was empty. He’d put away his gun. He approached the ladies and said something to them. Even from inside the car, Zoey could hear both women shriek.

  She couldn’t stand this anymore. Zoey scrambled from the driver’s side of the car, the snowflakes stinging her face as she ran to the door of the convenience store. Both women were wailing, crying as if their favorite dog had died, and the baby was screaming, too, its little face pressed to the shoulder of the woman carrying it.

  Dante turned as Zoey approached. He frowned. “I thought I told you to stay in the car.”

  “I couldn’t,” she panted. She reached for the baby. “I—”

  But the baby’s head had turned at the sound of her voice. Zoey stared into big, watery blue eyes and a square little face topped with blond curls beneath the blue hood. The baby blinked and buried his face back into the woman’s neck, bawling.

  “Zoey?” Dante’s voice was urgent. “Zoey?”

  She looked at him blankly. “That’s not Pete.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Friday, 5:43 p.m.

  Not Pete?” Dante looked from Zoey to the two elderly Indian ladies. Had he accosted the wrong women? Except they’d reacted to the name Gupta, and there couldn’t be another pair of Indian ladies in saris running around southern Illinois.

  “That’s not Pete,” Zoey repeated. Her face was white, her big blue eyes stark.

  “You’re sure?” he asked idiotically. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Indian ladies exchange a glance. He shifted slightly, blocking access to the parking lot. “Zoey?”

  She shook her head. “I-I don’t know who this
baby is.”

  He might’ve done the totally unprofessional then and pulled her into his arms to comfort her, but the taller of the two Indian ladies tapped him on the sleeve. “Are you a policeman?”

  “I’m FBI, ma’am. Why—”

  But the short lady rounded on him. “That Terrible Man stole the baby! You must go after him at once.”

  “What man, ma’am?”

  “The Terrible one!” the taller lady said, apparently under the impression he hadn’t heard the first time.

  Dante sighed and rubbed the spot between his eyes where a headache was brewing. “It’s cold out here. Let’s go inside where the baby can be warm.” He stopped in sudden realization. “Whose baby is this? It doesn’t belong to you, does it?”

  The ladies exchanged another look.

  The taller lady began, “He—”

  But the shorter lady stepped on her foot, making her cut off her words with a squeak.

  “He is our baby,” the little round woman said.

  Dante looked between the blond, light-skinned child to the Indian woman. “I see.”

  “Savita-di, you are only making matters worse,” the taller woman scolded. She turned to Dante. “The child was in That Terrible Man’s car, along with the baby he stole.”

  “Wait. You mean—”

  But Zoey interrupted him. “He stole—kidnapped—two babies?”

  The taller lady nodded vigorously. “Yes! Yes, he is a most vile man.”

  “But where is the other—?” Zoey started.

  “This is what we are trying to tell you!” Savita Gupta said. “He took our minivan with the child inside!”

  “Oh, my God!” Zoey said.

  “Can we go in the building?” Dante asked.

  No one listened to him.

  “He is iniquitous!” the tall lady was sputtering. “A terrible, terrible man, and I do not know what he will do with that sweet, innocent baby, no, I do—”

  “Look,” Dante said loudly. “Let’s go inside before the remaining baby freezes, shall we?”

  “You don’t have to yell,” Zoey muttered.

  He rolled his eyes but refrained from snapping back, since she was obviously under strain. He herded the women inside the little convenience store. There was a fast-food sub shop to one side of the store, and Dante found them all a table. The baby by this time had stopped whining and appeared to have fallen into an exhausted sleep. He was a chunky little kid and looked too heavy for the woman holding him.

  Dante sighed. This was the problem growing up with an old-fashioned mother. He spoke to the shorter Indian lady. “He looks heavy. Why don’t I give you a break?”

  He could feel Zoey’s startled glance, but he kept his own gaze on the Indian woman. She narrowed her eyes at him, but her arms must’ve been aching. She nodded reluctantly.

  He took the warm little body—amazing how solid babies were—and settled the sleeping child against his shoulder. “Now. What are your names?”

  The ladies exchanged looks again. This time it was the smaller lady who spoke. “I am Mrs. Savita Gupta, and this is my sister-in-law, Mrs. Pratima Gupta. We are respectable ladies, and—”

  “What were you doing stealing a Humvee, then?”

  Mrs. Savita Gupta’s eyes widened, as if surprised at his sharp tone. What was with all the women around him not taking him seriously?

  “Well?”

  “He stole our kesar,” Mrs. Pratima Gupta blurted.

  Dante blinked. “Your—”

  “Our Grade 1A Very, Very Fine Mongra Kesar. Saffron,” the short one exclaimed.

  Dante looked from one woman to the other and shook his head. “Why in the world would he steal your saffron?”

  “Because it’s expensive. It’s a spice,” Zoey said. She frowned. “Or maybe an herb. Anyway, we sell it in bulk at the health-food store I work at. Saffron comes from the stigmas of crocus flowers. There are only two or three stigmas per flower, and they’re really small. You have to pick a lot of flowers to get a little saffron, so it’s pretty expensive.”

  “Oka-ay.”

  The taller lady—Mrs. Pratima Gupta—leaned forward. “We used a very large portion of our savings to buy our Grade 1A Very, Very Fine Mongra Kesar. This is the very best kind of saffron in the world and most important for the dishes at our new restaurant. So when That Terrible Man took it, we knew we had to steal it back. He kept it in his very big truck, and we bided our time, and when he wasn’t looking, we took the truck!”

  “So he would not be able to follow us,” the shorter lady said.

  Now his head really did hurt. “And you didn’t go to the police because . . . ?”

  Both ladies looked slightly chagrined.

  Savita Gupta cleared her throat. “We did not purchase the saffron, hmm, exactly legally.”

  Dante’s eyebrows shot up. “You have contraband saffron?”

  Both ladies drew back as if he’d blurted out a foul word. Pratima Gupta shook her head. “Not—”

  “But what about Pete?” Zoey cut in. “I don’t understand. Was she in the Humvee when you stole it? Did you have her until recently? How was she? What happened?”

  Mrs. Pratima Gupta immediately turned solicitous. “What a pretty baby. So sweet and adorable! When we, er, took the Humvee from That Terrible Man, we found the babies in the back. Such a surprise, you cannot imagine. I thought poor Savita-di might have failure of the heart. And what could we do?” She shrugged elaborately, appealing to Dante and Zoey as if their actions were perfectly practical. “We could not go to the police because of the saffron, and the babies could not be returned to such a Terrible Man, so naturally we took them with us.”

  Amazingly, Zoey was nodding along with this nonsense, as if she agreed completely.

  “And you drove some three hundred miles with two kidnapped children, why?” Dante drawled.

  The ladies flinched again and glanced at each other. The little one licked her lips nervously. “We did not think our nephews or nieces in Chicago would, hmm, understand precisely our reasons for keeping the babies safe—”

  “Kidnapping,” Dante muttered.

  “Uh, yes.” She turned to Zoey, perhaps realizing Zoey was the more sympathetic party. “We decided it might be wise to leave Chicago just for a bit, until That Terrible Man gave up looking for us—”

  “So we came to visit our nephew, Rahul, who owns a very nice motel in Cairo,” Pratima Gupta finished triumphantly.

  Both ladies looked at him as if that wacky explanation made any sense at all. Even Zoey was looking at him expectantly. The baby in his arms chose that moment to stir. He opened wide blue eyes and stared up into Dante’s face. He must not’ve liked what he saw, because his little mouth opened wide, like a baby bird wanting a worm, except instead of a cheep what came out of his mouth was a loud, drawn-out scream.

  Dante winced, his headache now full-blown. He looked over the head of the screaming child and asked the final, unanswered question:

  “So who the hell does this kid belong to?”

  Chapter Thirty

  Friday, 6:25 p.m.

  Ashley was going to fucking kill him.

  It was Neil’s only thought as he stared, stunned, down at the strange little girl. Ashley would fucking massacre him. He’d stolen back the wrong kid.

  It’d been pure luck that he’d seen the purple minivan with the big daisy on its side from the highway. The van’d been stopped at a gas station, and he’d had to find a place to turn around, praying the whole time that it was the right fucking minivan and that it’d still fucking be there when he fucking got back. It’d seemed like his luck had finally taken a turn for the good when he’d snatched the van out from under the old biddys’ eyes.

  Only to turn around three exits later and find that Neil Junior wasn’t in the van. Now he was stuck with a naked girl baby with a shitty diaper.

  Somebody fucking hated him.

  The baby girl smiled up at him and kicked her legs, nearly sending her full
, smelly diaper into his stomach. She seemed to enjoy having a bare ass. Kinda like Neil Junior. Ashley used to say how Little Neil liked to wait until she took his diaper off and then take a wizz into the air. Neil had thought it pretty funny at the time. Of course that was before he had to change a diaper full of shit himself.

  He glanced around the rest-stop men’s room, scowling. Had he known that the girl was a girl, he wouldn’t’ve brought her in here. It wasn’t right, a little girl lying not five feet from a urinal. Fucking disgusting was what it was.

  A guy with long stringy hair in a ponytail strolled in and glanced at the naked baby. Neil bared his teeth at him and Ponytail did an about-face, rethinking his need to take a piss. Fucking pervert. Served him right. This was why these plastic changing gizmos in the men’s can were an oddity of nature. Guys were not supposed to have to deal with baby crap. That there was clearly a woman’s job, and guys who went around changing babies in the men’s can were clearly pussies.

  Except there wasn’t a woman around to change this baby, and the kid smelled like a sewer. Neil sighed and grimly started mopping shit.

  Ten minutes later, he held a dripping baby girl over the sink. He’d finally decided to hose the kid down, which should’ve been simple but had somehow turned into a water park. He stared glumly at the baby. She grinned back, her pudgy legs bicycling in the air. Her dimpled pink butt was now clean and smelling of the cheap sink soap, but it was still totally bare. He didn’t have a diaper.

  Behind him, a guy in designer sunglasses and a turquoise ski jacket entered the restroom. He was holding a kid on one hip and a blue and white striped diaper bag over the other shoulder.

  He looked at the plastic changing gizmo—littered with the baby girl’s clothes—and then over at Neil. “Uh, you gonna be done soon?”

  “Yeah,” Neil grunted, still holding a wriggling, wet baby girl. “You have a spare diaper on you?”

  “Uh . . .” The guy looked at him, obviously not wanting to give up a baby diaper, for chrissake. Fucking prick. See? This was the kind of guy who changed his kid in the men’s can: a fucking pansy.

  The baby girl chose that moment to pee, a tiny yellow trickle running down her leg and into the sink.