Heather almost choked on a bite of cake. “Did he say where we’re going?”
Placidly watching Chip smear chocolate frosting in his hair, Margaret nodded. “He said something about questioning a neighbor of yours, somebody named John.”
Chocolate cake turned to sawdust in her mouth. Her appetite and serenity vanished, and she laid down her fork.
She had uncorked the bottle when she’d burst into Dylan’s house yesterday, and the genie had escaped. Who knew how much damage he’d do, before she could stuff her rebellious feelings back inside and imprison them again?
DYLAN ARRIVED AT NINE the next morning, appearing at the door of the guest room just as Heather finished dressing Chip after his bath.
“Dyl!” Chip jumped from her grasp and ran toward him.
He scooped Chip in his arms and swung him into the air. The sight of father and son, their faces lit with happiness, pierced her with its sweetness.
“Not Dylan, son. You can call me Daddy.” Dylan set the boy back on his feet, but his attention was on Heather. The hardened set of his jaw dared her to contradict him.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.” Chip’s laughter bubbled through the room, and he gripped Dylan’s right knee in a hammerlock.
To avoid a scene, she bit back her objection and stifled the urge to step between them. Nervousness dampened her palms as she struggled to find a way out of her dilemma. Her son’s attachment to Dylan was growing too fast, too strong. Since Chip’s kidnapping, events had tumbled out of her control, plunging her down a slippery slope with Dylan waiting at its foot.
Margaret’s arrival severed her agitated thoughts. “Ready for our trip to the park, Chipper?”
Chip released Dylan’s knee. “Go swing, Gramma?”
“The park has swings and seesaws, and we can buy popcorn to feed the seagulls.” Margaret picked up Chip and turned to Heather. “Frank will meet us when he’s through at the hardware store. We’ll take good care of Chip.”
“Don’t count on us for lunch, Mom,” Dylan said. “I don’t know how long this will take.”
Hiding her distress at leaving her son, Heather kissed Chip and followed him and Margaret into the front hall. From the screen door, she watched him and his grandmother walk hand in hand down the oak-shaded street toward the nearby waterfront park.
As soon as they were out of earshot, she whirled, almost bumping into Dylan. She backed up a few steps, placed her hands on her hips and glared at him. “You broke your promise.”
He repelled her accusation with a shrug. “You can’t have it both ways.”
“It?” She narrowed her eyes and tried to ignore how the cadence of her heart accelerated at his nearness.
“We have to work together to find out who’s after you. The sooner we find him, the sooner you can go home. Isn’t that what you want?”
She wanted a reason to censure and scold, to maintain her distance with angry words, but his logic defused her anger. She attempted to resurrect it. “Why talk to John Rowland? I told you, he’s harmless.”
“I checked with Officer Parker this morning. He talked with John yesterday and reached the same conclusion, but I want to observe how your neighbor reacts toward you.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then realized the futility. “Let’s get this over with.”
After a tense drive to St. Petersburg with the silence broken only by soft rock on the radio, she stepped out of the Jeep into her driveway.
“Ready?” he asked from the other side of his car.
She nodded. Talking with John Rowland was a colossal waste of time. He’d rant and rave about her oak tree until her stomach was in knots and Velma was in tears, and Dylan would learn nothing. But he obviously wasn’t going to leave her alone until he’d interviewed John.
Quickening her pace to keep up with Dylan’s long stride, she accompanied him up the brick walk to the neat, two-story clapboard house. Velma Rowland, a rake-thin woman with white hair, answered the door.
“Heather! You haven’t had more trouble?” Her watery-blue eyes, owllike behind thick glasses, filled with concern.
Heather smiled and shook her head. Despite her quarrel with John, she and Velma had remained friends. “This is Officer Wade from the Dolphin Bay Police Department. He wants to ask you and John a few questions about yesterday.”
“Of course. I remember seeing you visiting Heather often a few years ago.” Velma opened the door wide and invited them into a small living room crowded with dark mahogany furniture. “But we already told that nice Officer Parker everything we know.”
Dylan flashed her a smile. “Sometimes when a different person asks the questions, people remember something they forgot.”
Velma glowed beneath the warmth of Dylan’s charm. “Have a seat. John’s puttering in his workshop. I’ll get him.”
Heather selected a wing chair in the corner, as far from Dylan’s unsettling presence as she could manage in the tiny room. He stood at the side window, gazing through lace curtains at the unobstructed view of her house.
Footsteps resounded in the hall. John Rowland came into the room and frowned when he saw her. “Changed your mind about that tree, did you?”
“This isn’t about the tree,” she said, clenching her jaw in her effort at politeness. “Officer Wade has some questions.”
John squinted at Dylan in the dim light, and his eyes lit with recognition. “So, you’re back. Velma and I figured we’d seen the last of you a couple of years ago.”
“Hello, Mr. Rowland,” Dylan said. “I’d like to ask a few questions.”
John acted as if he hadn’t heard. “Back then we thought you’d be moving in permanent next door. A good thing, too, I told Velma. I intended to talk to you about that tree, man to man. Women don’t understand such things.”
Heather bit her tongue. If John wandered off on that tangent, she and Dylan would be stuck here all morning.
“Too bad you didn’t marry her,” John continued. “Would have been a good thing, having a man next door. Women are no good in a crisis. If we have a major hurricane—”
“That’s why I’m here,” Dylan broke in easily. “There’s been trouble next door, and we need your help.”
She drew back into the shadows of her chair and studied John while Dylan spoke. The old man was about the same height and build as Chip’s abductor, and a wig and false beard could have disguised him. The man who had wrenched Chip from her arms had possessed remarkable strength. She recalled the heavy furniture she’d seen John wrestle in his shop in the process of refinishing. Anyone who could manhandle a solid oak highboy could easily overpower her. Shivering, she considered her neighbor in a new light.
“Day before yesterday,” Dylan was saying, “how did you spend your morning?”
“Same as yesterday. Same as every day, except Sundays when Velma drags me to mass.”
“Can anyone confirm that? I’m not doubting you. Verification is just routine.”
She had never witnessed Dylan’s interrogation technique. His conciliatory manner placed even the irascible John at ease. Why couldn’t Dylan exhibit at least one annoying imperfection, an irritating flaw that would make her love him less?
Dylan flawed?
Why kid herself? She knew the quality of his character. No man deserved her love more than Dylan Wade. But he didn’t want her love. At least, not on a permanent basis.
Carrying a tray filled with cups of coffee and a plate of brownies, Velma returned to the room. “Don’t look to me for an alibi,” she teased her husband. “I’ve often wondered if, when you’re supposed to be in your shop, you haven’t sneaked out the alley to the Shuffleboard Club.”
Velma’s comment jolted Heather upright in her chair. John Rowland knew her schedule, the make of her car, and could have easily slipped the ransom note through her mail slot without drawing attention. Had his bitterness over their tree dispute pushed him over the edge, made him lash out at her through Chip?
Dylan’s contemplative e
xpression suggested he was considering the same possibilities.
Velma set the tray on a low table. “It’s lovely to see you, Heather, and to meet your young man, but this is the third time we’ve answered questions.”
“Third?” Dylan raised his eyebrows.
“That’s right.” John, spurred by a glance from Velma, picked up the plate of brownies and offered it to Heather. “Officer Parker yesterday, the guy earlier this morning and now you.”
Forcing herself not to recoil at John’s proximity, she reached for a brownie. “Another police officer?”
John shrugged. “That’s what I assumed. Come to think of it, he didn’t give a name or ID. Said he just wanted to ask about the goings-on next door.”
“He was probably the detective working with Officer Parker.” She shifted backward in her chair, farther from her neighbor.
“What did he look like?” Dylan asked.
“Casual clothes, sunglasses. Couldn’t tell you his age, but he was about my size. You should contact the police department and tell them how to get in touch with you,” John told Heather. “This man said he has something for you, but he doesn’t know where you’ve gone. Wanted us to tell him.”
Velma shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Poor man, he must have lost all his hair. He was wearing the homeliest black wig. Even his beard looked fake.”
The brownie slid from her grasp and, as if in slow motion, floated to the floor, bounced and exploded into crumbs.
Dylan had been right.
The kidnapper wasn’t through with her.
Chapter Seven
Dylan watched the color leave Heather’s cheeks.
“It was him,” she said. “For all we know, he’s watching the house now, waiting for me.”
“The man who broke in yesterday?” Velma asked.
Heather nodded. “The same one who kidnapped Chip the day before.”
“Kidnapped Chip?” Velma pressed a quivering hand to her chest. “We didn’t know.”
“There’s not much to tell,” Dylan said quickly, before Heather could speak.
Even if the Rowlands weren’t suspects, they didn’t need to know specific details of the crime. He launched into a censored version of events, while Heather knelt on the rug, sweeping brownie crumbs into a napkin with unsteady fingers.
“I’m sorry for what you’ve been through,” John said to Heather with surprising gentleness when Dylan finished. The grouchiness had vanished from the old man’s attitude. “We had a son. He was killed in Vietnam.”
Dylan’s suspicion of Rowland dissipated when he noted tears in the old man’s eyes.
“I lost my son,” Rowland said, “and I would never wish that pain on another parent.”
My son.
Now Dylan had a son of his own, and his heart swelled with love for his child. Close on its heels came bitterness toward the man who threatened Chip and Heather.
He clamped a lid on feelings that would only hinder his investigation. This morning the Rowlands had spoken face-to-face with the kidnapper. Perhaps they’d noticed a clue that would point to his identity. “Can you tell me anything more about this man who questioned you?”
Velma shook her head. “He refused to come in, and, like we said, his face was covered by a beard and sunglasses.”
“What about his arms and hands?” Dylan asked. “Any distinguishing scars, tattoos?”
“Now that you mention it,” John said, “it did seem strange he kept his hands in his pockets the whole time.”
“And his shirt was long-sleeved,” Velma added, “so we couldn’t see his arms.”
Heather placed her crumb-filled napkin on the tray and dusted her hands. Her composure had returned, and with it, the delicate hues of her complexion, “What about his car? Did you get a license number?”
The Rowlands shook their heads.
“He parked headed into the driveway,” John said. “I couldn’t have seen the tag if I’d been looking, but I wasn’t. Didn’t have a reason to.”
“I’m sorry we’re not more help.” Velma looked ready to cry.
Heather slipped her arm around the woman. “You’ve helped more than you know.”
Dylan ground his teeth, frustrated the kidnapper had been so close, yet eluded them again. “Can you describe the car?”
John nodded. “It was black—”
“Black?” Heather flashed Dylan a look of surprise.
“Did you recognize the make?” Dylan asked.
“Sorry,” John said. “I wasn’t paying that much attention.”
“It was a newer model,” Velma added, looking happier now that she had something to contribute, “one of those, oh, what do they call them, John?”
Her husband shrugged. “Beats me.”
She wrinkled her forehead as if trying to remember. “They’re always driving them through the woods and mud in the TV commercials.” Her face brightened. “Like the one you drive, Officer Wade.”
“A sport utility vehicle?” Dylan suggested.
“That’s it,” Velma said. “With tinted windows.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Rowland, you’ve been a big help.” He glanced at Heather. “We’d better be going.”
“Won’t you stay for coffee?” Velma looked disappointed.
Heather hugged the older woman and released her. “Thanks, but I should get back to Chip.”
“And I need to alert Officer Parker to what you’ve told us.” Dylan pointed to the window that overlooked Heather’s front door. “Keep an eye out in case that guy shows up again If he does, call the police.”
“Where will you be, dear?” Velma asked Heather.
“In a safe place,” Dylan said before Heather could reply. “If you need to get in touch, call the Dolphin Bay Police Department. They’ll forward your message.”
He dug into his pocket, extracted his card and handed it to John Rowland. “Don’t approach this guy. Consider him armed and dangerous.”
“Thanks again for your help.” Heather strode ahead of him to the door.
Dylan stepped outside and scanned the street and driveways of the neighborhood. Not a white car or black sport utility vehicle in sight. Nothing and no one moved on the sleepy residential street.
Except Heather.
In spite of his longer strides, Dylan had to rush to catch up as she raced across the Rowlands’ lawn toward her driveway. “Whoa! What’s your hurry?”
She circled his Jeep and peered at him over the hood, her eyes luminous with urgency. “Please, take me to Chip. That man’s still looking for him.”
“Mom and Dad are with him. He’ll be fine. Besides, if that creep had any idea where you were, he wouldn’t have been hanging around here this morning asking questions.”
Dylan stifled the urge to go to her and gather her in his arms, to promise to keep both her and Chip safe. The golden highlights of her hair flashed in the sunlight, and anxiety pinked her cheeks and darkened the exotic green in her eyes. During the past endless, lonely months, he had longed for her with a fierceness worse than torture, but now that she was within reach, circumstances had him as hogtied as a steer in a roping contest.
He could look all he wanted, but not touch. She had clarified her feelings from the start. Not only didn’t she love him, she didn’t even want him around.
His brain recognized her rejection, but his heart refused the message. Or maybe what his mother called his hardheaded stubbornness made him crave all the more the one woman he couldn’t have.
“Get in,” he said with a tenderness he couldn’t hide. “I’ll take you to Chip as soon as I’ve talked with Officer Parker.”
THAT AFTERNOON, Dylan paced his living room like a caged beast during mating season. Taking off from work had been a mistake. Heather had effectively quashed his plans for spending time with his son. After this morning’s scare, she didn’t want Chip out of her sight, and she had invoked Dylan’s earlier promise to leave her alone if she went to his folks.
If he’d
had any leads on the identity of the kidnapper, he would have spent the afternoon tracking him, but the only clues he had were sketchy.
After leaving the Rowlands, he and Heather had visited the St Petersburg PD. Officer Parker had been on patrol, but Detective Cramer, who’d handled the investigation of the break-in at Heather’s, had taken the information they’d learned from the Rowlands.
“We still don’t have enough to go on,” Cramer said when Dylan finished his report.
“I don’t understand,” Heather said. “I thought you had computers that could collate lists of every white Mercedes and black sport utility vehicle in the county.”
Cramer slowly removed his gold-rimmed glasses and polished them carefully with the end of his faded silk tie. Dylan admired the seasoned detective’s patience.
“Our computers could do that,” Cramer said agreeably, “but there’d be hundreds, maybe thousands, of vehicles from this county alone on that list. It would take more than a dozen officers—which we can’t spare—knocking on doors to attempt to identify which car belonged to the kidnapper. And they wouldn’t have much luck unless the guy answered the door wearing his wig and fake beard.”
“And it’s possible,” Dylan added, “the kidnapper bought his vehicle at a Tampa, Sarasota or New Port Richey dealership. That adds three more counties and thousands more vehicles to the list—and that’s assuming the cars were bought or rented in this part of the state.”
“Does that mean there’s nothing you can do?” Heather asked.
“Not at all. I have a plan.” Cramer slid his glasses on. “But I’ll need your help.”
“Anything. I want the threat to my son ended and this man behind bars.”
“I knew I could count on you,” Cramer said with an approving grin. “How long will it take to reconstruct your address book?”
“A few hours, maybe. Why?”
“So I can contact your friends,” the detective said, “see if the kidnapper visited them, maybe even set up surveillance at a few places.”
“I’ll work on it this afternoon,” Heather promised.
First-Class Father Page 9
