She smoothed down the last piece of tape and took a deep breath. Almost home free.
As if she’d spoken aloud, Finnegan moved suddenly, his thigh brushing her hip.
She stepped back, a shade too quickly, but he remained seated.
“Done.” She handed him the list of instructions. “I need to go over these with you. One of the nurses will explain—”
The curtain flew open behind Sophie. She turned, relieved. “Oh, good, here’s—”
“Dr. Brennan!” Cammie stood there, the chubby shine of her face flattened with tension.
Just over Cammie’s shoulder Sophie glimpsed Billy Ray’s ponytail swinging against the back of his shirt as he hovered in the hall.
“Room 4. Code Blue.”
The beating victim.
There would be no miracles tonight.
Sophie dropped the instructions on the examining table, shoved her pen into her pocket, and pointed a finger at Finnegan. “You. Sit. Stay!” Her coat billowed around her as she ran to catch up with Cammie, who’d already disappeared.
The muttered “woof” behind her didn’t even slow her steps.
Finnegan eased off the table. He watched her race down the hall, her shoes jingling.
Sophie’s curly hair bounced wildly against her white medical jacket. Dark brown with the glow of fire. Not red exactly but not brown either. There was a word for it. Russet. Yeah. That was it. The gray material of her skirt bunched and pulled against the length of her thighs as she darted between oncoming techs, hands out, warning them out of her way.
Long, smooth-muscled thighs.
His fingers curled around the curtain. When she’d leaned in close to him, she’d smelled of cinnamon and pumpkin.
And antiseptic.
In a full-out run behind her, a tech followed with a crash cart.
Electricity buzzed along his skin. Whatever was happening was bad. He understood that sudden crackle in the air—like ozone before a storm. He’d smelled it on stakeouts gone sour.
It was always bad.
He watched as Sophie and her colleagues entered a room at the end of the hall and shut the door. For a second everything down the long corridor slowed down, became too quiet, one of those moments between a breath, a moment between life and death. Irrevocable what the next tick of the clock would bring.
He knew that too.
And then, as if everyone had inhaled, exhaled, movement and noise resumed. Only an occasional furtive glance at the closed door revealed the enormity of the moment.
Finnegan glanced at the examining table in back of him. Nothing there that he needed. Nothing more he needed or wanted in this place. Shrugging, he pulled the curtain silently shut behind him and walked toward the exit, stepped out into the night and took a deep breath of his own, sucking the damp air deep into his lungs.
Life and death. A thin line, nothing more than a second or a wrong turn, a wrong word, separated the two.
An hour later, heartsick and exhausted to her bones, sweat beading her forehead, Sophie returned to the examining room and shoved the curtain aside.
A pile of red velvet and bloodied white acrylic lay puddled on the floor of the empty room.
Chapter 2
In a cold, driving rain at two in the morning, they found the baby lying in the manger of the Second Baptist Church, directly across the street from Beth Israel, the only synagogue in the tri-county area.
“What the hell,” Finnegan muttered as rain spat into his eyes and seeped down the neck of his yellow slicker.
“Lord have mercy.” Tyree Jones squatted and reached under the rough wood roof of the manger. His broad dark hand touched the cradle, hesitated. Rain dripped from the edges of the straw spilling over the edges of the cradle. “Shoot, man, it’s a baby, that’s what.”
The spotlight in the shelter shone down on the baby. Chocolate-brown eyes stared back at them.
“I can see it’s a baby, Tyree, an Asian baby, in fact. The punk knifed my shoulder. Not my eyes. What’s a baby doing here?”
“All right, I’ll play.” Tyree’s forefinger brushed against the baby’s cheek. “What?”
“Damn it to hell, Tyree. Get the kid out of there. It’s got to be freezing.” Finnegan rolled his shoulders, easing the ache of the stitches, and stooped down beside Tyree.
“She’s not an it, Judah. She’s an itty-bitty baby girl, that’s what she is.” Tyree said as Finnegan bent over him and scooped her up with one hand, tucking the pink Winnie-the-Pooh sheet around her. “What a pretty girl you are, too, honey,” Tyree cooed. “Now why’d somebody go off and leave you here all by your lonesome, huh?” Tyree poked his face close to the silent baby.
Coming at them sideways now, the rain sliced against Finnegan’s face and drizzled under his slicker. “Go back to the car and get the blanket. She needs to be kept warm—”
“Judah,” Tyree said patiently as he rose to his full six feet three, “I have babies of my own. I know what to do.”
“Yeah, reckon you do, all right.” Holding the baby in a football grip, Finnegan shot him a wicked grin.
“Well, shoot, that too.” Tyree grinned back and loped toward their unit parked on the sidewalk. “Making babies is part of the re-ward, you know?”
“Kids? A reward? I don’t know. All those late nights and early mornings. Diapers and all that—”
“Be the same if I still worked patrol. I’d still have late nights, early mornings. More fun my way,” Tyree called back as he dashed toward their unmarked car.
Finnegan hunched forward, keeping the baby under the manger roof and near the warmth of the spotlight. “Got a story to tell, don’t you?” he said to her before looking off into the shadows at the sides of the church.
Rain glistened against the stained-glass windows. The branches of the huge banyan tree on the right side of the church lifted with the wind. Rain drummed the wide leaves and streamed to the ground. “You sure didn’t walk here by yourself.”
Considering him carefully, the baby’s eyes followed his face.
“Not very talkative? Can’t say I blame you.” Judah looked toward the unit, turning carefully so he wouldn’t slop water from his slicker onto the baby. “Not a fit night for dogs to be out. Much less you.” He looked away from the solemn face. Sheesh. Somebody dumping a baby on a night like this. On any night. What a world. First the undercover Santa lookout earlier in the evening, now this. No wonder a cop’s job was never done.
In the blaze of the car’s dome light, he could see Tyree speaking into the mike, shaking his head.
Huffing back, Tyree pulled the cotton blanket out from under his slicker and tossed it to Finnegan. “Nobody’s reported a lost baby tonight. Nothing but an anonymous call into dispatch saying we should check out the prowlers at the Second Baptist.”
“Prowlers?” Judah looked off into the darkness of the wind-whipped trees and back down at the unprotesting lump in his arms. “Funny kind of call, don’t you think? No prowler left this package.”
“Nope. Probably the mom. Not wanting to leave our little darlin’ completely alone.”
“You’re figuring it was the mom, then?”
“Most likely. Some kind of twisted maternal instinct.”
“Could be. I don’t know.” Judah stared back at Tyree’s face gleaming with rain and shadowy reflections. “Prowler? That’s an odd word choice, isn’t it? I think a mother abandoning her kid would refer to the kid as ‘my baby.’ ‘My child.’ Something, anyway, that would give a heads-up about an infant. But not prowler. It would be interesting to find out who made the call.”
“Going to worry it like a dawg with a bone, aren’t you? I swear, you think too much sometimes, Judah.” Tyree swiped rain out of his eyes. “Anyway, my man, whatever, whoever, our orders are to have li’l missy here checked out at our fine medical facility. Guess we’ll be making another run to your favorite establishment.” He sent Finnegan a sly, sideways look. “Some nights just don’t get any better, do they? This
one’s been a world-beater. Got to play Santa, saved a baby, and now you get to revisit your favorite doc.”
“We haven’t been riding together long enough for you to go there, Tyree. Back off.”
White teeth sparkled as the big man gave him a huge grin. “So? I got my opinions. You gonna beat me up because I say what I see, Judah? You with that baby slung under your arm like you’re ready to gallop into some end zone? Huh? You think you can take me?” His grin glinted again as he did a little two-step in the rain, his arms moving in a smooth rhythm. He tapped Judah lightly on the chest, the shoulder. “Bring it on, then.”
“Oh, go to hell, Tyree.” Hunching over and draping his slicker across the baby, Finnegan stomped off toward the car.
“It’s a wonder Yvonna hasn’t whomped you upside the head, you know that?”
“Hey, I’m Yvonna’s sweet-talking man.” He slid under the steering wheel, fired up the engine, and slammed the door.
The baby jerked in Finnegan’s arms. He laid his hand lightly across her forehead. Too warm.
“Sorry ’bout that, baby girl. Didn’t mean to spook you.” The low velvet of Tyree’s words moved through the darkness, easing the sudden tension. Not looking at Judah, Tyree added quietly, “We got to talk about George sometime. You know we do.”
“No. We do not.”
“Fine. Be a jackass. But I’ll still be your partner.”
Finnegan clipped his seat belt in place and settled the still-silent child into his arm. “That can be changed, too, Tyree.”
“Partners share, Judah. That’s all I’m saying. We’ve partnered for four months now. And you don’t share. Ever. Hard enough being a black cop in this town without wondering if my partner’s gonna be at my back.”
For a long moment there was only the hiss of the heavy tires and the sound of the rain beating against the windows. Finnegan ran the back of his forefinger over the baby’s cheek and stared out at the neon lights sliding past in the darkness. The slap-slap of the windshield wipers punctuated the silence.
He sighed. “I’ve got your back, Tyree.”
“Okay, then.” Tyree let out a sigh of his own. “Didn’t mean to push so hard.”
“Yeah, you did.” Finnegan scooched down farther into his seat, adjusting the quiet infant against him. “You realize you’re plumb irritatin’, don’t you?”
“Hell, yes.” Tyree’s smile was quick and open. “Part of my charm.”
“Whoever said that was a damned fool.”
“Hey, man, don’t you go insulting my Yvonna, hear?” They slid to a stop under the protected entrance of Poinciana’s ER. Water spurted onto the side windows. “Not if you want any more of her potato salad.”
“Well, there you go then. Obviously Yvonna, a woman of brilliance and charm of her own, has adopted you as her very own charity case, Tyree. That’s the only explanation.” Yanking the hood of his slicker up with one hand, Finnegan hoisted the blanket over the baby, tucked her under his rain gear and slid out of the car. As he did, he added, “But in spite of her unfortunate taste in husbands, I sure do admire that woman’s potato salad.”
At his sudden movements, the baby waved its tiny fist under the blanket, gave a burp of movement and then lay still again as Judah shouldered his way through the ER doors.
He saw her, of course.
It had been that kind of night from the start. One screw-up after another. Why should he expect anything else at the end of a lousy day?
A flicker of movement caught his gaze, nothing more than her arm rising to her forehead, but he slowed. He wanted to look away, felt the urge so strongly that he almost believed for a second that he was walking toward the desk and the crowd of people in front of it.
But something about her gesture checked him, rooting him to the floor.
Unable to look away from the figure at the end of the hall, he watched her.
And resented her because he couldn’t look away. Resented the power she had to compel his attention.
Resented her most of all because he didn’t want to look away.
They were standing close together, Sophie and another doctor, the man stooping down to her. Her head was bowed. She’d jammed her hands into her pockets. From time to time she nodded as the man jabbed his finger in the air. With each nod, her dark hair bounced, swung forward, hid her expression.
It was the slump in her shoulders that held Finnegan’s attention.
Exhaustion.
Defeat.
He understood defeat, its nasty-ass gut-punch. That’s what his eyes read in the sag of her shoulders, in the brace of her sneaker against the wall behind her.
He just hadn’t figured cocksure, bold-as-brass Sophie Brennan for someone who’d ever look this defeated.
This diminished.
All the sparking, combative energy had drained away, leaving her small and helpless, the bells on her goofy socks silent.
Suddenly, as if he’d whispered in her ear, Sophie’s head jerked upright. She looked straight at him for a long moment.
Judah held her gaze, willing her to blink.
She didn’t.
The infinitesimal lift of her chin was the only sign that she saw him.
No, he thought. Not helpless at all. Not Sophie.
“Hola, tall, dark and battered. Back so soon? It’s only been three hours. Got something else you want sutured?”
“No thanks. And it’s been four hours.” He glared down at the woman tapping him impatiently on the arm. The picture ID clipped to the pocket of her blue scrubs gave him her name. Cammie Esposito. The same short, round-faced nurse who’d rushed Sophie out of the examining room earlier.
“What in the world do you have there? Not somebody’s pet poodle, I hope? We don’t do pets. Even for good-looking hombres like you, amigo.”
He pushed his parcel toward her. Once more a miniature fist pushed free of the blanket and banged his hand, a soft graze of skin against skin.
She lifted the edge of the blanket. “Oh, my.” All teasing gone, She took the baby from him and turned abruptly toward Sophie and the man still with her. “Dr. Brennan, you’ll want to see this.”
Sophie’s clear voice rode lightly over the relative quiet of the ER. “Sure, Cammie. Be right there. What’s the problem?”
“A baby.”
“A baby?”
He watched as Sophie pushed off from the wall, watched as she straightened her shoulders, and he recognized the effort. Like the last embers flaring in a gust of wind before dying out, she suddenly glowed. Even her hair gleamed now with that touch of firelight he’d noticed before sparking in the dark curls.
Her hands were still jammed in her pockets, though.
He noticed that, too, and wondered about that bit of body language and what it might mean.
Details.
His preacher daddy had been a humorless man with meanness bred bone deep. All his passion had been spent in an adoration of God that left no room for love of humankind. But he’d said one good thing to Judah. Judah didn’t believe in anything else his daddy had said, but he’d never forgotten the old man’s beautiful voice, sonorous, one of those hypnotic magic voices that could fill the pews of their small church, pronouncing, “God is in the details, Judah,” he pronounced. “Don’t you be forgetting that. You pay attention, hear?”
Then the preacher man had slapped him twice, once on each side of his face. Hard enough to leave a bruise. “Hear me?”
Judah heard.
And he’d remembered.
In his experience he’d concluded it was more likely the devil he discovered in the details. Still, he’d found that bit of instruction to be one of the few useful bits of his father’s legacy.
If Tyree knew it was Judah’s pa who’d taught him the basic rule of being a detective, Jonas suspected Tyree would hoot about that, too.
George had known.
With a quick tap on his arm, the nurse interrupted the melancholy flow of his memories. “What a doll. Girl?”
He nodded.
“Oye, muy bonita. Pobrecita. What’s the story?”
“It’s…she’s…” he corrected himself, “she’s been outside a while. Don’t know how long, though.” He rubbed his hands along the side of his slicker and water sluiced off, dripping to the floor and splashing against his jeans. “It’s a rough night. Don’t know anything about babies, but she seems okay. A bit warm, maybe. Quiet.”
“Sí, this baby’s come to the right place.”
Judah shifted as Sophie reached him.
“Detective.” Her expression dismissed him.
The hairs along his arms rose lightly as her scent reached him. “Doctor,” he replied politely.
Her gray-blue eyes glittered momentarily, then flickered to the bundle. “What brings you back this evening?” Her tone was cool and crisp.
“Morning, actually,” he said, matching her coolness.
“So it is. Do you need our attention again? Or have you managed to keep yourself out of harm’s way for a few hours?”
“I’m not your patient this time.” He pointed to the nurse’s blanket.
Sophie leaned toward the bundle, peered inside the blanket, and that scent that wasn’t perfume, wasn’t exactly soap, wasn’t anything except her filled his nostrils.
Funny, he thought, amused by his body’s awareness of her. An awareness he didn’t want, but there it was. That old devil sex could rear up and trip a man when he least wanted it.
Or expected it.
He’d thought this past year had made him immune to the very particular appeal of Dr. Brennan.
On edge, he gestured toward the baby. “Well. She’s all yours. I’m out of here.”
Sophie’s warm hands brushed against him as she lifted the baby out of the nurse’s arms and cradled her. Sophie’s face went soft, as soft as the curves of her breasts where the baby lay, and he thought he saw sadness in her eyes as she touched the baby gently and said, “Ah, you’re a little love, aren’t you? Let’s go see how you’re doing, sweetie-pie.” Her hands moved lightly over the baby, automatically evaluating, examining.
Dead Calm Page 3
