Racing Against Time

by Marie Ferrarella

  And then his mind went on the alert.

  Damn it, what was he thinking, what was he doing? His baby was out there somewhere, needing him, and he was standing in his family room, with a video of Rachel flickering in the background, kissing the woman in charge of finding her.

  Like a shell-shocked soldier, Brent drew back, shaken and in disbelief over what had just happened. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  She knew what was coming, inexplicably privy to his thoughts. Callie placed her finger against his lips, stopping the flow of words.

  “Shh. There’s nothing to apologize for.” She took a breath to steady her own nerves and found that it really didn’t help. All she had was honesty. “This kiss was a long time in coming.” Her eyes held his, the memory of the dance they had once shared firmly in place for all time. Taking another breath, she turned back to the kitchen. “The omelet’s coming along. How do you feel about red peppers?”

  It took him a second to come around. He felt as if everything inside of him vibrated like a tuning fork. “What?”

  “In your omelet, how do you feel about red peppers?” Callie tried very hard to sound unaffected. As if she hadn’t just crossed over into another time zone entirely. As if that kiss hadn’t shaken something loose.

  His stomach was the least of his concerns. Crossing to the television set, Brent waved a dismissive hand at the question.

  “All right, I guess. Detective—” He wanted to regain ground, but you couldn’t call the woman you’d just kissed by some formal title the city had awarded her. Stopping the videotape, he closed the television set and tried again. “Callie—I had no business kissing you.”

  She offered him a tenuous smile, then turned away to the stove. “That had nothing to do with business. That was about one human being comforting another.”

  He blew out a breath. This one was steadier. “Is that what it was, you were comforting me?”

  She looked at him over her shoulder, an enigmatic smile playing along her lips. “I said human being, I didn’t say who was doing the comforting. Why don’t you go wash up? This’ll be ready soon.” She saw the smallest hint of a smile bloom on his face and then spread out. “What?”

  “The last time someone told me to wash up, I was eight. It was the maid,” he tagged on, delineating how different his home life had been from hers when he had been growing up.

  She grabbed at the innocuous topic with both hands, grateful for its appearance. “Then it’s high time you followed the rules of proper hygiene. By the time you finish, I should have your serving ready. Now go.” Callie waved him on with the edge of her spatula.

  When he’d returned from the bathroom, the omelet was waiting for him. Taking his seat, he knew he should have felt ill-at-ease or at least awkward in her presence because of the momentary lapse in his control.

  But he didn’t feel awkward, didn’t feel as if he was tottering on a cliff, about to make a fatal misstep. Instead, there was something about Callie Cavanaugh that put him at his ease, even after kissing her without any preamble. He’d felt it right from the start. At the fund-raiser. Felt the electricity crackling between them despite the fact that he had never seen her before. Despite the fact that he was struggling to keep his marriage alive and together.

  Electricity. The same kind that was crackling between them now, despite the dire situation that existed in his life.

  He took another forkful, allowing himself to savor the taste before asking, “So, what do we do now?”

  Callie had almost finished her own portion. Her stomach in an uproar, she’d sought to appease it even though she really wasn’t hungry. The cheese omelet seemed to settle it as much as it could be settled, given the circumstances.

  “About the case?” Afraid he was referring to what had just happened between them, she didn’t want to give him the opportunity to respond and jumped in with a reply. “We continue chasing down leads.” She’d checked in with Ramon Diaz, one of her men, for a progress report just before Brent had walked in. “There’s no shortage of those. At last count we’ve logged in something like eight thousand phone calls and there’s no end in sight.” She did her best to sound upbeat as she told him, “All the callers are certain they saw your little girl. And my team still hasn’t finished checking out those people on your list. There are several more names to go.”

  What if none of them had her? What if they all checked out clean? What then? He looked at her. “And after that?”

  Checking out the phone calls would keep them busy. But she was hoping they’d have their answer before that happened. “One step at a time, Brent, we take it one step at a time.”

  Impatient, restless, he pushed his plate away. “Time. Isn’t that what we’re running out of?” He gave voice to what had been haunting him with each passing hour. “I heard that if you don’t find a child within the first thirty-six hours…” Choked with emotion, his voice trailed off.

  “It’s not a hard-and-fast rule, Brent.” She slipped her hand over his. “We’re doing everything we can. Every available police officer has been put on this. Vacations have been canceled. Nobody’s taking any time off. We will find her.”

  The smile on his lips was so sad, it tore at her heart. “You must be getting tired of telling me that.”

  “I’ll say it as often as you want me to.” She gave his hand a firm squeeze and with it, a silent promise. “Because it’s true.”

  He nodded. He knew she meant what she said and he had to believe it was true. Resigned, trying to make the best of it, Brent drew the plate toward him and forced himself to take another bite of the omelet. Until he’d begun eating, he hadn’t realized that he was actually hungry. His stomach rallied around the offering, reminding him that it was still pinched.

  He felt her watching him and raised his eyes to hers. “This is good.”

  Callie grinned. “Of course it’s good. I learned from the best.” She saw him about to lay down his fork again. “Less talking, more eating,” she urged.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He watched her sleep. When she had her hand tucked under her cheek like that, she looked just like Alice. His Alice used to sleep that way.

  He felt his heart swelling as he sat down beside her. The little girl looked dwarfed in the double bed. It was only temporary. When he got his bearings, he’d get her a better bed. Her own bed.

  Very gently he brushed away the hair that had fallen into her face. She stirred, and he immediately withdrew his hand, freezing his motion, his very breath. He didn’t want to risk waking her. It had taken her a while to drop off to sleep. But it was better than yesterday. Which had been better than the night before.

  She was getting used to him.

  He wondered how she would react to being called Alice. It was a far better name than Rachel.

  Alice.

  It suited her.

  Cocking his head, he continued to stare at her small, innocent face. If he tried real hard, he could almost believe that this was his Alice. She had the same blond hair, the same round face. She was even the same age as he remembered.

  His Alice.

  His mouth curved in a satisfied smile, seeing the humor in the situation. The judge taketh away and the judge giveth. Not willingly, of course, but that didn’t count. The only thing that counted was that he had his daughter back. Finally.

  The sound of the phone ringing bore into Brent’s brain, startling him awake. He was grabbing both sides of the armchair, braced, before he was fully conscious. He tried to focus.

  He couldn’t remember falling asleep after Callie had left. He’d sat down in the chair to try to think, and exhaustion had gotten the better of him. It fled now as he grabbed the telephone, hoping it was the kidnapper. “Hello?”

  There was no formality, no greeting, the female voice on the other end of the line went straight for the attack. “I just had two of Reno’s so-called ‘finest’ banging on my hotel room door like I was some common call girl. Why didn’t you tell me?”r />
  Jennifer. Nothing had changed, he thought, scrubbing his hand over his face, trying to pull together his senses. The sound of her voice, once so melodious to his ear, only grated on his nerves now. “I’ve been trying to reach you for the past three days.” He wanted to ask her where the hell she’d been for that time, but it really didn’t matter. Having Jennifer close by wouldn’t have helped to bring Rachel back.

  “Well, these two burly cops could certainly ‘reach’ me,” she huffed. “They told me some idiot named Detective Cavanaugh wants to see me for questioning. What the hell happened?”

  He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising at her tone, especially the way she spoke of Callie. But he wasn’t up to getting embroiled in another shouting match with Jennifer. He’d vowed the last time around that there would be no more, that he didn’t care enough about her to unleash his emotions again. But this wasn’t about her, it was about Rachel, and he could feel his control thinning.

  As succinctly as he could, he gave her the highlights of the past three days.

  “And there’s no other news?” she demanded.

  He couldn’t get a handle on whether she was actually genuinely concerned or she wanted to know what kind of clothes to wear for the occasion. Black for mourning, red for hope.

  How could he have ever fallen in love with someone so shallow, so transparent?

  “None.”

  He heard her huff in his ear again. “How could this have happened? What kind of nanny did you get for our daughter?”

  Our daughter. She’d never been that, not from the moment of conception. Rachel had always been his. He’d saved her life before she ever drew her first breath. And somehow, some way, he was going to save it again.

  Taking umbrage in defense of Delia, he snapped, “The best, Jennifer. The woman gave up her life trying to save Rachel.”

  Jennifer snorted disparagingly. “How do you know that?”

  He nearly lost it then. “She’s dead, Jennifer, that’s proof enough for me.”

  “I don’t have time to argue with you,” she announced. “I’ve got to pack. I’m getting the first plane to Aurora in the morning.”

  He glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven. Flights left almost every hour. In her situation he would have grabbed the first flight he could get on. Chartered a plane if he had to. But Jennifer liked to make entrances, and there would be more reporters around in the daytime. More people around to see the grieving mother disembark. He had no doubt that she was probably on the phone with someone from Gentry Magazine, making sure there would be a photographer alerted as to which flight she was arriving on. It had taken him four years to finally admit to himself that everything was always about her.

  “There’s nothing you can do, Jennifer.”

  There was indignation in her voice as she retorted, “I’m her mother. I should be there.”

  She didn’t sound very convincing, but maybe he was just feeling more jaded than usual. The hour was late and he didn’t feel like being charitable. He was operating on overload as it was.

  “Fine, suit yourself.”

  He could tell by her tone that it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. But the days of trying to appease her were long behind him.

  “I’ll call you in the morning with my flight number,” she informed him icily. “You can meet me.”

  He was right. She was angling for a photo op. “I’m going to be too busy trying to find Rachel, Jennifer. You can take a cab from the airport. On me.”

  She snapped at him, saying something disparaging about his lineage. He had no energy to take offense. More likely than not, there was probably a kernel of truth in it, he thought. He heard a loud bang on the other end before the line went dead.

  Brent shook his head as he replaced the receiver. To think that he had once given his heart to that woman. How could he feel so certain, so clear-headed on the bench and make such a terrible misjudgment in his personal life? It made a man doubt himself.

  But then, if he hadn’t married Jennifer, he would never have had Rachel in his life. And she, he reminded himself, was worth anything he had to go through.

  He reached for the remote he’d dropped on the coffee table earlier and turned on the TV. This time he deliberately hit the video play button.

  “Why aren’t you home, in bed?”

  Poring over the notes in her pad, Callie was oblivious to her surroundings. At the sound of his voice, she looked up in time to see her father walking toward her in the darkened squad room.

  Most of the others on the task force had long since left for the night, exhausted by their efforts.

  They were all exhausted, she thought. But there was no time to take a breather. She’d breathe after Rachel was recovered.

  She’d been here for the past four hours, after leaving Brent’s house. The look on his face would have made going home and to bed impossible.

  She’d had one piece of good news since she’d come in. The Reno police had called to say that Jennifer Montgomery had been located and was coming into the precinct sometime after eight.

  Probably closer to noon if she knew her socialites, Callie thought.

  She pushed back a little from her desk to look up at her father. “What are you doing here, Dad? Come to give me some expert advise?”

  His eyes washed over her. They didn’t like what they saw. She looked tired with a capital T. “Yes, don’t kill the goose that lays the golden egg.”

  She scrubbed her hands over her face and leaned back in her chair. It squeaked. “Maybe it’s the hour, but I didn’t quite get that.”

  “Then I’ll make it simple for you.” Hand on the top of her chair, he leaned over until his face was level with hers. “Go home, Callie Rose. Go home and get some rest or you won’t be any good to anyone.”

  She laughed, shaking her head. “This from a man who used to pull double shifts.”

  His expression told her she’d just underscored his point. “Exactly. I know of what I speak.”

  She leaned her head back to relieve the tension and heard her neck crack softly. She felt as if she’d been sitting there close to forever. But if Jennifer was coming in, she wanted to be ready for her. No one had to tell her that the woman was going to require kid-glove handling.

  Callie smiled as she looked up at her father. “Did you come in specifically to harass me?”

  He straightened. Closer to sixty than fifty, he still had the posture of a police academy cadet. “It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it.” He grew serious. “I called your apartment, but you didn’t answer. I figured you were here. Working too hard.” Protectiveness stirred within him. “You’re not going to help the judge find his daughter by falling on your face.”

  “I’m not falling on my face,” she protested good-naturedly, knowing he meant well. “I’m a Cavanaugh. We’re indestructible.”

  He couldn’t help laughing. “And who’s been feeding you that line of bull?”

  She leaned her chin on her upturned palm and fluttered her lashes at him. “You. All my life.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I never said you were indestructible.”

  “No,” she agreed. “You said you were. I just figured I had your genes. Ergo, if A equals B and B equals C, then A equals C.”

  Andrew snorted, waving a hand at her reasoning. “I don’t know anything about any ‘ergo’ and you know damn well that I was never any good at solving math problems.” That had always been Rose’s field of expertise. That was why he’d handed over the bank book and other matters of finance to her. Losing her had shaken up everything in his life down to the smallest detail.

  “No, only crimes,” Callie said cheerfully, affection resonating in her voice. Pride joined it as she added, “Best record in the business.”

  “Except where it counted.” As far as he was concerned, his wife’s case was still open, still unsolved. He’d solved hundreds of cases during his days on the force, and yet the one that mattered most to him, he’d never been
able to close to his satisfaction.

  He refused to believe, like his brothers and the other members of the force had, that Rose was dead. You couldn’t kill anyone with that much life in them, you just couldn’t.

  Pushing the topic out of his mind for the moment, Andrew crossed over to the bulletin board. There was a great deal of writing on it now, not to mention photographs and scraps of information. The map that was adjacent to it had a myriad of white pushpins in it, each designating another Rachel sighting.

  Which were real?

  There was sympathy in his eyes as he turned to look at his daughter. He knew exactly what Brent had to be going through. Knew every jagged inch of the shard-covered path. “So, how’s it going?”

  She rose and came up to stand beside him. “We’re not making any headway.”

  He nodded at the information. His voice was almost too innocent as he asked, “Do you think you might make some in the next couple of hours?”

  “No.” And then she stopped and laughed at herself. “Fell right into that one, didn’t I?”

  There was pleasure in his laugh. “Don’t feel bad. I’m craftier than you are.”

  She wasn’t about to concede without at least a pretense of a fight. “I’m just tired.”

  Andrew nodded. “My point exactly. Come home, Callie,” he urged softly. “Get a good night’s sleep. Maybe you’ll come up with something tomorrow.”

  He was lying, but she needed to hear that. Needed to pretend that it was true. “You think so?”

  Andrew inclined his head, his eyes softening as he looked at her. “Hope, Callie.” He slipped his arm around her shoulder, gently prodding her toward the exit. “That’s all any of us ever has. Hope.”

  She let herself be led. “You’re a stubborn old man, you know that?”

  “So I’ve been told.” He flipped off the light switch, leaving only the emergency lights on. “Can I expect you for breakfast tomorrow?’

  They were walking toward the elevator. She almost gave in to the impulse to lean her head against his shoulder, the way she used to when she was younger and needed to feel his strength.