No Kind of Hero (Portland Devils Book 2)

by Rosalind James

  “You’re coming with me, then? I’m not sure . . .”

  “No,” she said. “Or yes and no. I agree, I’m not going with you, because that’s too scary, if she’s weak. Two people sitting there, and one of them a lawyer? Or looking like your girlfriend? No in both cases. That could be something to push against. I think I should be there, but in another booth. She doesn’t know me, and she doesn’t need to know what I’m there for. We’ll work out what you should say. We’ll practice. And if there’s a right moment, you can signal me, and we’ll take it from there.”

  It sounded good. And April giving up her rights to Gracie? That sounded better. Too good to be true, in fact. “You said she had as much right to Gracie as I do. What if she wants to take her?”

  “I’ll check on that with Joan, too. I imagine we could get an emergency hearing in that case. You tell April, ‘I’ll find out how to do that and let you know,’ like you’re calm, and she trusts you, because of course she trusts you. You’ve got the affidavits showing abandonment. This is going to be all right, Evan. It really is. It’s scary when things get put in motion, but it’s better. You want them in motion, because you want to get to the end. We’re starting, and that’s good.”

  Evan hadn’t been able to sit still all morning. Beth was off somewhere, meeting with the attorney or printing out paperwork or both. She’d drive to Taco Time separately. If April got there early, she wouldn’t see anything. Just Evan showing up with Gracie.

  Right now, Gracie was in her stroller with Henry lying at her side, the two of them supervising as Evan trimmed the bushes dividing his lawn from the neighbor’s. He’d already mowed and edged. If all this drama kept up, he was going to have one neat yard. He’d be sweaty to meet April, too, but he didn’t care. He needed to move. And if April thought he was no prize? The feeling was mutual.

  Gracie was squawking, and he glanced over at the shady spot under the Japanese maple where he’d stuck her stroller. Henry was standing up, and Gracie was leaning as far over as the lap belt would allow and reaching for him.

  He headed over there. “Settle down, squirt,” he told her, picking up the soft bunny rabbit rattle she’d dropped, the one with the crinkly ears, and shaking it for her until she grabbed it and stuck an ear into her mouth. She was a mess again, her nose running. He should give her the antibiotic, too. It was half an hour too soon, but he couldn’t exactly stop in the middle of that conversation with April to do it.

  “Hang on a moment,” he told her. He set the clippers on the bottom step and took another look at Henry. He’d lain down again, completely calm, so that was all right. Evan headed into the house, stopping to unlace his grubby boots and leave them by the door. That had been something, having Beth help him clean house yesterday. It had been domestic, and it had been fine.

  He didn’t think about her going back to Portland. One crisis per day. That was plenty. He headed through the house to the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of bubble-gum pink medicine and the dispensing spoon.

  Henry barked.

  Evan was moving on the sound, because it didn’t sound one bit normal. Henry was growling, barking furiously, a dog who’d snapped.

  Evan was through the house, bursting out the door to see Henry standing rigid, his tail straight out behind him, the fur standing up in a line down his back. Barking and barking, and now, running.

  Evan was running too. Running toward the pale-haired figure who was climbing into an old blue Dodge Dakota, a quilt trailing out behind her, and slamming the door.

  The truck had been idling rough, and now, the tires spun as it took off with the roar of a badly tuned engine and a cloud of black smoke, a flapping triangle of pink still stuck in the door. Evan was running, and so was Henry. Henry was faster, almost catching up. When the truck stopped at the sign, Henry would make it. Evan’s legs were pumping. Pumping.

  The truck didn’t stop. It blew right through, an oncoming driver hitting the brakes, skidding out, and laying on the horn.

  “Henry!” Evan shouted it, still running. The dog had dodged the car, was on the other side of the intersection. Evan kept going, called again, and Henry stopped, turned, and came running back. Panting, his tongue hanging out.

  Evan raised a hand to his face, scrubbed it over his jaw. The hand shook, and then his legs started in as well.

  He didn’t let that stop him. He turned around and ran with Henry. Back to the house. Back to call.

  “Nine-one-one,” the dispatcher said. “What is your emergency?”

  “I need an . . . an Amber Alert,” Evan said. The hand holding the phone was still shaking. He willed it to stop, but it wouldn’t. “My daughter’s been kidnapped. My baby.”

  “Can you tell me where you are, sir,” the dispatcher asked. Completely calm. “Do you have a street address where she was taken?”

  Evan gave it. His name, Gracie’s name. The vehicle, the time. The license plate, what he’d seen of it through that black smoke. “Dodge Dakota, blue, maybe a ’95, ’96. Washington plate, started with AA. She took her and jumped inside, and they took off headed east.”

  “I’ve dispatched a unit,” the woman said. “Did you recognize the person?”

  “Yeah. My girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. The baby’s mother.” His legs were still trying to shake, trying to give out. He was still holding the bottle of pink medicine, too. He went and set it on the porch. He set it down for when they brought Gracie back. And when he hung up, he called the number he should have dialed first. He called April.

  Beth was probably speeding. She didn’t care. Ever since Evan had called her, she’d been numb. And when she turned the corner and saw the flashing red-and-blue lights of two squad cars, pulled to the curb and saw Evan, two police officers, and Henry standing next to an empty stroller, it was worse. She was barely aware of tumbling out of the car, and then she was hustling over there.

  Evan glanced at her like he didn’t recognize her, and she looked into his empty eyes and was afraid.

  The older cop looked at her. She didn’t know him, but then, she didn’t know most people. “Who are you, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Beth Schaefer. Don Schaefer’s daughter,” she added, because right now, Evan needed all the help she could give him.

  The cop nodded, then turned back to Evan. “You saw the baby’s mother take her. What does the custody agreement say?”

  Beth recognized the look on Evan’s face now, because it wasn’t blank anymore. That was fear. When he spoke, the words came out tight, like he had to force them out. “We don’t have one yet.”

  Beth saw the cop’s attitude shift, his stance becoming less rigid, saw the look the two cops exchanged. Evan must have seen it too, because he said, “We’re in the middle of it. I have proof that she hasn’t seen the baby for over seven months.”

  “A petition for custody has been filed,” Beth put in. “With supporting affidavits. From Blake Orbison, among other people.” Name-dropping again. Whatever might work.

  The cop put his notebook away, and Beth didn’t have to look at Evan to know what he was feeling. “I’m sorry, sir,” the cop said, “but without a judge’s order on a custody decision, it’s not a kidnapping. It’s just a mom with her kid.”

  “You telling me she can just grab my baby?” Evan’s voice was rising. “She’s sick. She needs her medicine. There was somebody else in that truck, too. Somebody who’s got my daughter. And she’s sick.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the cop said again. He glanced at Beth, and Beth knew why. Don Schaefer’s daughter.

  “Washington plate,” Evan said desperately. “Crossing state lines.”

  “You need a judge,” the cop said. “You need a decision. Then we can go after her. Have you tried calling her, asking her what’s going on?”

  “Of course I have. She’s not answering. And yes, I’ve left messages. What do you think? I’ve left three. I’ve called her parents and told them. I’ve called everybody. What the hell do you think?” His voice had risen, an
d Beth had her hand on his arm. He lifted an unsteady hand, ran it through his hair, and exhaled. “Just run that plate, then,” he said, his voice a fraction calmer. “Run it for me, give me everything it matches. How many mid-nineties blue Dakotas can there be with those first two letters on the plate? I’m not even asking you to do it. I’ll do it. Run the plate, give me the list, and I’ll do your job. I’ll do it, since you won’t.”

  “Sir,” the older cop said, while the younger one shifted his weight like he was preparing to jump in. Physically. “I understand that you’re upset, but I’m going to advise you not to try to take the law into your own hands. You’ll wind up in trouble if you do. You say you’re going after custody. Work on that.”

  Evan was about to snap. Beth could see it. She squeezed his forearm and said, “Evan. Wait. We’ll talk to Joan, and we’ll talk to my dad. We’ll see about an emergency hearing.”

  Evan stared at her, and a muscle jumped in his taut jaw before he said, “How does that help, if we don’t know where she is?”

  “It’s what we can do,” Beth said. “We need to focus on what we can do. I’m going to think. I’m going to work. We’re going to get her back.”

  It was a council of war. Six people sitting around Evan’s kitchen table, next to the empty high chair. Evan, Beth, and Joan, although the attorney hadn’t told them anything they’d wanted to hear. Evan’s mother Angela, her face no longer good-humored but tight with worry. Michelle and Don Schaefer. And Blake and Dakota, leaning up against the kitchen counter because there were no more chairs.

  Beth had called her father after another call to April’s parents had yielded nothing but voicemail, after Joan had said, “We can ask for an emergency hearing, but I’m not sure we have a strong case.” After dead ends everywhere.

  “Evan needs help,” she’d told her dad. “Gracie’s sick, and she doesn’t have her medicine, and her mother didn’t take good care of her even while she was here. She’s unstable. Please, Dad.” Her voice had wobbled and cracked, and for once, she hadn’t tried to hide it. “Please help him.”

  “Hang on,” her dad had said, and Beth had rested her elbow on the table and the phone against her forehead and tried to pray. There had to be an answer. Something.

  “Elizabeth?” Her mother’s voice. “I can’t get any sense at all out of your father. Tell me.”

  Her parents had come over fast, and her dad had already called the police chief, too. But the answer had been the same. Nothing he could do. Nothing anybody could do except request that hearing, and they didn’t even know where April was. Where Gracie was. So what good would a hearing do?

  “I understand that,” her father said. “But we’ll be asking for the hearing anyway. And any pressure I can put on, I will.” He looked at Evan with none of his usual good humor and said, “Whatever Joan tells me I can do, I’ll do. Got to be careful pushing a magistrate, but I’ll do everything I can. You have my word.”

  “Thanks,” Evan said, his mouth barely moving.

  Her dad reached out and gripped Evan’s forearm. “Hey. I’ve got a daughter too. We’re all here for you, son.” Beth saw Evan swallow. She put her own hand on his back, and she loved her father. But it was so little, what they could do. So much too little.

  Now, they all sat and listened to Joan explain that yet again. “Right,” Beth said when Joan finished. She wanted to cry and panic, but she couldn’t cry and panic. “If we can’t get help fast enough through the system, we need to try ourselves. A private investigator, although a background check didn’t turn anything up. But still. He could start with her friends here, maybe, and with her neighborhood around her parents’. Somebody’s going to know where she is, who she’s with. Or even if she’s at her parents’ after all.” Even though April’s mother Tiffany had sworn, when Angela had called, mother to mother, and begged for answers, that April wasn’t there. But when Angela had pressed, Tiffany had said, “You think I’m telling you something that’s going to get April in trouble? No way. She’s got as much right to that baby as Evan has. More. She’s the mother.”

  Now, Beth said, “So that’s where we start. We check.” She asked Joan, “You must know of somebody. Somebody who could start now. Right now.”

  Blake said, “Never mind that. I’ll find somebody, and I’ll get them wherever they need to go, wherever we need to look. Helicopter.” He pulled out his phone. “I can get it spinning up right now, get it here and ready to go.”

  “Nonsense,” Beth’s mother said. Sitting erect in her chair, her hair perfect, looking like a queen.

  “Mom,” Beth said, “we have to. I know you’ll say to wait, but Gracie . . .” Her hand tightened in Evan’s, or his tightened in hers. “She was so sick yesterday. You didn’t see. There was no way there was a car seat in that pickup, and anyway—who grabs a baby when they don’t know how to take care of her? Somebody who’s thinking about themselves and not the baby. Gracie’s not safe. She isn’t. We can’t wait.”

  Why had she called her parents at all if they weren’t going to be more help than this? Evan didn’t need two more people telling him there was nothing to be done. Blake got that, at least. Thank God for Blake. A helicopter sounded good. A helicopter sounded fast. And Beth had a feeling that Blake wasn’t a guy who waited for courts if there was a faster way.

  Her mother said, “Of course we can’t wait. Did I say to wait? Be quiet and listen,” she added when Beth would have spoken. “An investigator? Ridiculous. Nobody knows this town better than I do. Nobody can find out more than I can. We’re going to do this ourselves, and we’re going to do it now.” She asked Evan, “Did she work while she was living here? Did she have friends?”

  “Yes,” he said. His face was more wooden than Beth had ever seen it, but his eyes slid over to hers. She shrugged helplessly. Evan must have figured the same thing she did, that they could use any help they could get, because he went on. “At Round Table. She had a couple friends who worked there. Amber something, girl with dark hair. And, uh . . .” He shook his head, and Beth could see how fragile his grip was. “Can’t remember. Carol? Karen? Something like that.”

  “Good,” Michelle said. “Perfect. Make a pot of coffee, Beth. We have a lot of planning to do.” She pulled out her phone, scrolled, then made a call. Beth looked at Evan, Evan looked back, and Michelle said, “Valerie? Hello. Michelle Schaefer here. I need a favor. Your Round Table girls. Just the girls. The ones under thirty or so. I need you to call them and tell them to get into the restaurant now. Not now, though—say, at four. Time enough for them to get there, but before things get busy. Tell them they’ll be paid double time, and a lot more if they’re useful. And yes, that’s me paying it. Right now, I need their names and ages and how long they’ve been working there. And I need everything you know about April . . .” She snapped her fingers at Evan, and he said, “Yates.”

  “Yates,” Michelle said. “April Yates. Everything you know.”

  Everybody had wanted to come, but Michelle hadn’t let them.

  “If you come,” she’d told Blake, “they’ll all be looking at you. I want them looking at me. You’ll get your chance to help, but it’s not now. And no,” she’d told Evan before he could open his mouth. “Absolutely not. Who knows what she’s told them about you? Girls and their stories. I’d think you’d have had better taste, but that’s another conversation for another day. But no. Beth will come with me. And Joan, you shouldn’t come either. You don’t need to know what we do. Evan, you stay here with your mother and the others.”

  Beth would bet Blake Orbison hadn’t been called “the others” a whole lot, or told what to do, either. But then, Blake hadn’t run up against her mother that much.

  Her mother had taken her home and made her change, too. “You’re not one of the girls,” she’d said. “You’re polished. You’re confident. You’re intimidating, but you’re not as intimidating as I am.”

  “Bad cop/good cop?” Beth had asked.

  “I don’t know what you�
��re talking about. Here. Scarf.” Her mother had tossed it over. “I’d say to be sympathetic, but you’ll do that anyway.”

  Now, her mother sat at the desk in the manager’s office at Round Table like a judge presiding over court. Beth stood beside her, while four young women sat on straight chairs crammed into the tiny office.

  Michelle said, “I think you all know April Yates, who used to work here. Yes?” She looked around, and Beth knew what she saw. A couple nods, a couple dropped gazes. “You’re thinking,” Michelle said, “that April must be in trouble. And you’re right, but not in the way you think. She may be in danger, and we need to find her.”

  “Why?” It was the dark-haired girl. Amber. Who had more than a little bit of attitude. “I mean, if she’s in trouble, why are you asking? Wouldn’t the police be here?”

  Michelle had worn her reading glasses to this meeting, and had a legal pad in front of her. She looked, Beth had to admit, like the sternest of judges. She looked like she meant business. Now, she dropped her chin and stared at Amber over the glasses until Amber’s gaze fell. “The police,” Michelle said, “can’t do everything. They want warrants. They want evidence. Meanwhile, April’s in trouble, and so is her little girl, and we can help them.”

  “Gracie?” Another girl, a somewhat bottom-heavy blonde, looked at Amber, then away. “What’s happened to Gracie?”

  “We’re not sure,” Michelle said. “We’re trying to find out now. We do know that she’s in serious danger, and that you can help. I’m prepared to pay five hundred dollars to anyone—everyone—who gives me information that helps us locate and help April and her daughter.” She held up a hand. “When I find out that the information is correct. If it isn’t, I’ll know that, too. I’ll be sharing that with Valerie Keeland, and I’m sure you girls need your jobs. I don’t recommend that you lie to me. But if April’s talked to you since she left? Share that with me, please, for her sake. My daughter will take notes.” She waved a regal hand at Beth. “Keep track of who it came from, please, Elizabeth, so they get their money. So. Girls. Tell me. Who’s spoken to April since she left town?” She paused and looked the four women over. “We can’t help her unless you help us first.” She zeroed right in on the blonde like a hypnotist choosing his “volunteer,” or an attorney choosing her juror. Selecting the susceptible. “Caroline.” The blonde jumped in her seat. “You know something. Tell me what it is. Help me help your friend.”