Racing Against Time

by Marie Ferrarella

  Andrew pretended to shake his head. “Ah, the sound of squabbling children, how could I have forgotten what that was like?”

  All but two of his children had moved out, but the apartment Clay had been subletting from an aspiring actor had suddenly been reclaimed by its owner when the latter returned from the east coast. That left Clay without a place to stay. Temporarily.

  Temporarily had already woven its way into two months without any visible signs of terminating. And Andrew, secretly, couldn’t have been happier even though he said nothing out loud to confirm it.

  “Hey, if you didn’t want them coming around, Dad, you’d stop leaving food out for them to find,” Lorrayne pointed out.

  “Respect your elders, Squirt,” Shaw told her just before he drank deeply of his third cup of leaded coffee.

  Rayne lifted her chin defensively, her blue-gray eyes narrowing beneath her bangs. “Just who are you calling Squirt?”

  Knowing that the only way to quiet this crowd was to arm herself with a handful of tranquilizer darts and use them effectively, Callie crossed into the living room to get away from the din before placing her call to the number registered on her beeper. A glance at the screen told her the transmission signal had returned.

  Holding one hand over her ear as she turned away from the breakfast noise, she quickly hit the keypad numbers with her thumb.

  “This is Cavanaugh,” she said the second she heard someone pick up on the other end. “You paged me?”

  “Better get down here, Callie.”

  She recognized the voice. It belonged to the man she’d been partnered with until recently. Seth Adams. The man had made detective five years before she had and had resented being “saddled” with her. He’d thought nepotism had placed her where she was. He’d soon learned that it was aptitude that had gotten her her badge, nothing more, nothing less. Still, they blended together like oil and water. The captain agreed that a separation was in order.

  “What’s up?” she wanted to know.

  “We’ve got a dead woman on the sidewalk. Looks like she was struck and thrown by a car.”

  She waited for something more to follow. When it didn’t, she asked, “Hit-and-run?”

  “Absolutely.”

  It didn’t make sense to her. “Vehicular manslaughter. How’s that my territory?”

  Callie dealt with the living, not the dead. Specifically, with searching for missing persons. It was a department that was near and dear to her father’s heart. Fifteen years ago, her mother had gotten into her car and driven away. She never came back. The car was eventually found submerged in a lake twenty miles north of Aurora, but no amount of searching had ever turned up her body.

  Her father never gave up the hope that someday Rose Cavanaugh would come walking back into the house she’d stormed out of in the wake of an argument her father never stopped blaming himself for. In some small way, Callie felt that by working in missing persons she kept up her father’s hope that her mother was still alive.

  “She wasn’t alone, Callie. From all appearances, the woman had a little girl with her. The first cop on the scene went through the dead woman’s wallet. Delia Anne Culhane. Judge Brenton Montgomery’s housekeeper.” He paused for a moment, letting the words sink in. “The missing kid is his daughter.”

  A knot came out of nowhere and tightened itself in the pit of her stomach as she recognized the name.

  “I’ll be right there.” Hanging up, Callie turned around. Her father was standing just shy of the threshold, watching her. He couldn’t have gotten very much from her side of the conversation, she thought. She debated saying something to him. He knew Montgomery better than she did. Another time, she decided. “I’ve got to get going.”

  It was then that she noticed her father was holding a brown paper bag in his hand. Full if the bulge in the middle was any indication.

  He held it out to her. “Packed you a lunch.” He smiled, the character lines about his eyes crinkling. “In case you get hungry one of these days.”

  She knew he meant well, but she wasn’t thirteen anymore, being sent off to school. “Dad—”

  Taking her hand, he closed her fingers around the top of the bag. “Humor me. I’ve been both mother and father to this bunch for fifteen years.” His smile took twenty years off his age. “These parental urges get hard to fight sometimes.”

  As always, she retreated from the line of skirmish. She’d learned long ago to pick her fights, and this wasn’t worth more than a few words. She grinned at him, nodding at the bag. “Will I like it?”

  The expression on Andrew’s face was incredulous, as if he couldn’t believe she had to ask. “Is the pope Catholic?”

  “Last I checked.” She paused to kiss his cheek. “Thanks, Dad.” The words had nothing to do with the lunch he’d tucked into her hand, and everything to do with the care he’d spent raising her right.

  Embarrassed, Andrew waved her on her way. “Go. They’re waiting on you.” He guessed at the caller. “Tell Adams I said hello.”

  Callie stopped. She hadn’t told him who was on the phone. “How is it you know everything?”

  He gave her a crooked grin. “I’m old. I’m supposed to know everything. I’ve got it in writing. Now get going before the crime scene gets contaminated.”

  If it hasn’t already been, she thought. Nodding, Callie hurried out the door she’d used less than ten minutes ago.

  An hour and a half later, Callie paused outside the closed doors of the courtroom. Gathering courage and the right words.

  There were no right words. Not for this.

  The corridor on the second floor was mostly empty. Courts were in session behind the black double doors that lined both sides of the long hallway. If she listened intently, she could swear that she could almost hear various lives being altered.

  And behind this particular set of doors some family’s life was being rearranged by a man known to be both just and fair. And not easily swayed by pretense. A dark, sober man who brooked no nonsense, stood for no lies. And had had his share of grief.

  And she was going to add to it.

  Callie let out a long breath, then took in another, centering herself. She’d just left the scene of the accident.

  The scene of the crime, she amended grimly.

  The judge’s housekeeper, a woman in her late thirties, still pretty, still with so much life ahead of her, had died instantly, according to the coroner’s preliminary findings. And, despite the fact that the hit-and-run had occurred on the corner of a well-traveled street, there had been no witnesses to see what had happened. At least none who had come forward so far.

  But it was still early.

  Because there were no witnesses, there would have been no reason to suspect that the dead woman, who had been in the judge’s employ for just over four years, hadn’t been alone.

  If it wasn’t for the pink backpack found twenty feet from the body.

  Rachel Montgomery’s backpack.

  A backpack but no Rachel Montgomery.

  And it was up to her to tell this to the judge. To tell him that the peaceful world he’d left just a short while ago was no more. His housekeeper was gone and quite possibly so was his daughter.

  Staring at the black door closest to her, Callie squared her shoulders. This kind of thing was never easy. Adams had said he was willing to go see the judge and tell him what had happened, but she’d vetoed that. He’d looked at her in surprise when she had volunteered to be the one to break the news to Montgomery. But there was a reason for that.

  She knew the judge. Once upon a time, they’d had a brief connection. Before life with all its details had gotten in the way.

  Into the valley of death rode the 600, she thought as she pushed open the door. Her path was immediately blocked by a tall man in dark livery. He looked like a solid wall of muscle and he wasn’t about to go anywhere.

  “Can’t go in there,” the bailiff warned. “Court’s in session.” He motioned for her to rem
ove herself voluntarily. Or he would do it for her.

  In her head Callie was aware of some giant time-piece, ticking the minutes away. Ticking away the minutes of Rachel Montgomery’s life.

  She had her identification out in less time than it took to think about it. Callie held it up to the bailiff, who stared at it with a note of skepticism in his eyes.

  “I realize it’s in session,” she said as patiently as she could, “but Judge Montgomery is going to want to hear this.”

  Still the man was not about to go anywhere. Or let her go, either. “Tell me, Detective. I’ll tell him.”

  “It’s about his housekeeper. And his daughter,” she added, unwilling to reveal anything further. If she’d wanted a third party to take care of this, she would have phoned the courthouse and brutally left a message.

  Just as she uttered the word daughter, Brent raised his penetrating blue eyes away from the face of the youthful offender before him and looked toward the back of the room.

  Right at her.

  Chapter 2

  He knew her.

  Brent looked at the woman in the light-gray suit who’d just walked into his courtroom. Recognition set in instantly. In the space of one extraordinary moment, the entire scenario returned to him in total. From beginning to end.

  He’d been at a charity fund-raiser, one of those boring things he was obligated to attend. He hadn’t been appointed a judge yet, but there were whispers, rumors. And he knew he couldn’t displease the gods in charge even though he would much rather have been home, dressed in his oldest clothes, standing over his daughter’s crib, watching her breathe.

  It seemed like little enough to ask, to stand in awe and watch a miracle breathe.

  Besides, he and Jennifer were riding the cusp of another one of their eternal disagreements and he hadn’t felt like putting on his public face, the one that appeared unperturbed by anything. He hated glad-handing, hated being anything but genuine.

  But there was the pending judgeship to consider, and Jennifer would have given him no peace if he’d declined the invitation to the event. So he’d accepted and made the best of it. Making small talk with even smaller people.

  His wife was off somewhere in the huge ballroom, politicking. Rubbing elbows and who-knew-what-else with men she thought might further her life and his career. Or maybe just her life.

  He remembered feeling completely cut off from everyone and everything, and longing just to go home.

  And then he’d seen her.

  Surrounded by men who bore vague resemblances to her, leaving him to guess, to hope, that they might be family rather than ardent admirers. As if that could possibly matter to him in his position. He was hopelessly married.

  That had been the word for it. Hopelessly. Because there seemed to be little hope that his marriage could transform into what he’d first thought it might become. Happy. Fulfilling. Tranquilizing.

  A surge of all three feelings, plus a host of a great many more shot through him the first time he looked in her direction. In the direction of the most exquisite creature he’d ever seen.

  Her hair wasn’t pulled back the way it was now, in a thick braid the color of wheat the instant it first ripened. It had been loose about her bare shoulders then, sweeping along them with every movement she made. Creating havoc in his gut as he found himself wanting to do the same with his fingers.

  She was wearing something light and gauzy and blue. It seemed to be held against her body by magic. Certainly not gravity, which should have been on his side and sent the garment pooling down to her strappy, high-heeled sandals.

  He remembered there was music. The first he’d become aware of that night, even though the band had been playing all evening and would continue to do so for the remainder of the event.

  He wasn’t quite sure how he came to find himself standing in front of her, or where he unearthed the courage to introduce himself to her. He didn’t normally do things like that. He was given to hanging back and observing. It was both his failing and his strength. Standing on the perimeter of life where he felt he could do the most good. Impartially.

  Maybe he’d come forward because he recognized the man standing to the woman’s left. Andrew Cavanaugh, the retired police chief of Aurora. Her father, he was to learn later. The others were her brothers and cousins.

  Whatever the reason that had prompted him to shed his cloak of silence, he was suddenly standing before her. Introducing himself and asking her if she would like to dance. Something else he didn’t do willingly, even though he’d been instructed in the fine art of dancing only recently. Jennifer had insisted on it. So he wouldn’t embarrass her, she’d said.

  He had no desire to embarrass Jennifer. Had no thoughts of his wife whatsoever. For the space of a score of heartbeats, she was completely excised from his brain, if not his life.

  He vividly remembered the way Callie Cavanaugh’s smile had gone straight to his head as she’d raised her eyes to his and accepted the hand he held out. Remembered how low her voice was, like fine, hundred-year-old brandy being reverently poured into a crystal glass. Low and sexy.

  Remembered, too, the electricity, the tension, the indescribable feeling of lightness that came over him as he held her in his arms and danced.

  One small dance, a simple exchange of words, and a connection was made that felt as if it had been forged out of steel in the beginning of time.

  Before.

  He’d looked down into her eyes and gotten lost.

  But he had a child and a position and a wife—who intruded into the moment the instant the music faded away. Like an avenging hawk, jealous that her cast-off had attracted someone else’s attention, Jennifer had swooped down from wherever it was that she had been roosting to reclaim what was hers.

  And he was obliged to let her.

  Even though his eyes followed Callie as she moved from the floor.

  He had no idea what they called it. A connection, chemistry, kismet. Some term invented by inert poets who had nothing better to do than to bury people in rhetoric. He couldn’t put a label to it himself. All he knew was that he’d felt something nameless. Something wonderful. Something he’d never felt before. Or since. Something that whispered into his ear “If only” long after the dance, the fund-raiser itself, was over.

  If only…

  But the timing then had been all wrong.

  As it was now.

  Brent roused himself, realizing that he’d paused and that his secretary and his aide were both unabashedly staring at him.

  “Court is in session.” He shot an accusing look at the bailiff in the rear of the room. The latter raised his hands helplessly.

  Callie circumvented the man, her attention on Brent. God, but he had only gotten better looking since she’d seen him. The next moment, she upbraided herself. How could she even think something like that? She was here to give him awful news, not appraise his appearance.

  “Excuse me, Your Honor.” She took another step toward him, only to find herself in a dance now with the bailiff who tried to get in front of her. “I need a word with you.”

  Brent hated disruptions. “Can’t it wait, Officer Cavanaugh?”

  “Detective Cavanaugh,” Callie automatically corrected, wishing what she had to say could be put off. “And no, I’m afraid it really can’t.”

  Brent looked to his left, to his aide, Edwin Cambridge, who in turn looked pained as he stared down at the calendar he had drawn himself to accommodate the judge’s cases. Precision was Edwin’s passion. He felt it a matter of honor to have things running smoothly in the court.

  The man sighed, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of his head.

  “There’ll be a slight recess,” Brent announced to the two opposing lawyers, who looked at him with exasperation. The plaintiff was seated to the far left of the center. The man, barely in his twenties, looked greatly relieved at the interruption, like someone who had been granted a stay from the governor just before the switch was th
rown.

  Brent beckoned Callie forward. He wondered if she’d ever married that detective he’d heard she was engaged to and what had brought her into his courtroom today. Had there been a bomb threat? Should they be evacuating? After the events that had rocked the country very recently, nothing seemed impossible anymore.

  “Make this quick, Detective Cavanaugh,” he demanded, suppressing the urge to ask her how she’d been since that evening. “I have a very full schedule today.”

  “You have a full schedule every day,” Edwin informed him.

  Brent chose to ignore the man. It seemed simpler that way than to engage in a dialogue with him. Edwin liked getting in the last word.

  “You might want to reschedule your cases,” Callie suggested tactfully as she followed Brent to his chambers.

  Brent closed the door behind her, locking Edwin out, much to the latter’s displeasure, then turned around. The judge crossed his arms, looking for all the world like an angel of darkness to her.

  “All right, Detective, I’m waiting. And this had better be good,” he warned her, although a part of him didn’t believe that she would just waltz into his courtroom without a damn good reason.

  Callie took a breath. “Actually, it’s not. It’s bad.” Her eyes met his. There was no easy way to do this, no way to prepare someone for the words she was about to say. There wasn’t even a way to prepare herself to say them. They felt like molten lead in her mouth, and even while she wanted nothing more than to expel them, she knew the damage they would do the second they were out. “Very bad.”

  Something seized his gut, tightening it so that for a moment he stopped breathing. A prayer materialized out of nowhere as he hoped that, for whatever reason, the woman he’d once held in his arms and danced with was overstating the matter.

  “I didn’t realize that you have a flare for the dramatic.”

  If only. If only this wasn’t more than she thought it was and the little girl was somewhere, safe but frightened, hiding. Ready to be found.