by Tami Hoag
Mitch Holt felt it, too. Chemistry. His gaze drifted to her mouth. The moment stretched into two.
“I thought you said you weren't one of them,” she murmured, mustering all defenses.
“One of who?”
“The gun-toting, flag-waving, Neanderthal rednecks who consider anything in a bra to be fair game for their I'm-God's-gift-to-women brand of charm.”
Mitch sat back and sighed, forcing the tension out of his shoulders. He could have argued, but there didn't seem to be any point in it at the moment.
“You're right,” he admitted grudgingly. “I let my testosterone run away with me there for a minute. Temporary hormone psychosis. Really, I'm enlightened enough to pretend I'm not attracted to you, if that's what you want.”
“Good. That's what I want.” Megan turned back to her meat loaf and discovered her appetite had gone south. “Because that's my number one rule: I don't date cops.”
“A wise policy.”
A matter of survival was what it was, but Megan kept that information to herself. She couldn't afford to be vulnerable in any way. Not in police work. The ranks were too heavily dominated by men who didn't want her there. Her gender was a strike against her. Her size was a strike against her. If she let her sexuality be used as a strike against her, she'd be out. That would be the end of her career, and her career was all she had.
“Yeah.” Mitch recovered his sense of humor as the madness receded. “There's a certain wisdom in not letting the people you work with see you naked.”
“The underwear was close enough,” Megan said dryly.
“But now you've got me at a disadvantage,” Mitch pointed out. “You've seen me in my underwear. It would be only fair for you to return the favor. Then we'd be even.”
“Forget it, Chief. I'll take all the advantages I can get.”
“Hmmm . . .”
Across the room he caught sight of one of his patrol officers winding his way awkwardly through the maze of tables, struggling to keep from conking some unsuspecting diner in the back of the head with the revolver strapped to his hip. He clomped up the steps, his eyes on Mitch.
“Hey, Chief, sorry to interrupt your dinner.” Lonnie Dietz pulled a stray chair up to the end of the booth and straddled it. “I thought you'd want to hear the update on that accident out on Old Cedar Road.”
“I'm Leo's replacement,” Megan said, offering her hand.
Dietz ignored the hand. His eyebrows disappeared beneath the black Moe Howard wig that crawled down over his forehead. He looked fifty and intolerant, lean everywhere but his beer belly. “I thought all the field agents were men.”
“They were,” she said sweetly. “Until me.”
“So what's the latest?” Mitch asked, forking up a mouthful of potatoes.
Dietz tore his gaze away from Megan and flipped through a notebook he pulled from his shirt pocket. “Two fatalities. Ethel Koontz was DOA at Hennepin County Medical Center—massive trauma to the head and chest. Ida Bergen passed away at Deer Lake Community—heart attack on her way in for treatment of minor injuries. Mrs. Marvel Steffen is critical but stable—she's at HCMC too. Clara Weghorn was treated and released. Mike Chamberlain—the kid who lost control—he's banged up but he's going to be okay. Pat Stevens took his statement and I've been over the scene.”
“And?”
“And it's like the kid said. The road was bare until just after that curve by Jeff Lexvold's place. There's a patch of glare ice about ten feet long, goes across both lanes of the road. This is where it gets odd,” Dietz confided, looking troubled. “I figure there's no reason for ice there, right? The weather's been good. God knows it hasn't been warm enough for anything to melt and run down the hill from Lexvold's. So I go have a look. You know Jeff and Millicent are gone to Corpus Christi for the winter, like always, so there's no one home. But it looks to me like someone snaked a garden hose down the driveway from the faucet on the front side of their house by the garage there.”
Mitch set his fork down and stared hard at his patrolman. “That's crazy. You're saying someone ran water across the road and made that ice slick on purpose?”
“Looks like. Kids playing around, I suppose.”
“They got two people killed.”
“Could have been worse,” Dietz pointed out. “There's some kind of music recital going on at the college tonight. Seems like more people use that back way onto the campus than the front. We could have had a real pileup.”
“Have you questioned the neighbors?” Megan asked.
Dietz looked at her as if she were an eavesdropper butting in from the next booth. “There aren't any close by. Besides, Lexvolds, they've got all them overgrown spruce trees along the front of their place. You'd have to be right there to see anyone screwing around.”
“Well, Jesus,” Mitch muttered in disgust. “I'll have Natalie write up an appeal for the media tomorrow, asking for anyone with information to call in.”
Megan trespassed a second time into the conversation. “Was there any sign of a break-in?”
Dietz looked at her sideways, scowling. “No. Everything was locked up tight.” He turned back to his chief as he rose from his chair. “We got a DOT crew out to scrape and sand the slick spot. Hauled the cars in—one to Mike Finke's and one to Patterson's. That's it.”
“Good. Thanks, Lonnie.” Mitch watched the officer weave his way back through the tables, what little he'd eaten of his supper sitting like gravel in his stomach. “What the hell do kids think about, pulling shit like that?”
Megan considered the question rhetorical. The wheels of her brain turning, she stared at the Mickey Mouse figures on Mitch's tie until they started to swim in front of her eyes.
Mitch's gaze drifted to the restaurant entrance, where people were still coming in from the wide hall of the old warehouse-turned-mini-mall. Half a dozen people from the Snowdaze pageant committee were waiting to be seated. Here for after-practice pie and coffee. Hannah Garrison came in and pushed her way past them. Strange.
She looked harried. Her coat was open and hanging back off one shoulder. Her blond hair was a mess, curling ropes of it falling across her face as her eyes scanned the dining room with a wild look. She waded through the sea of chairs and faces, bumping into people, nearly colliding with Darlene Hallstrom. The hostess reached out to steady her, smiling, bemused. Hannah shoved her away and lunged ahead to the table where John Olsen and his girlfriend were lingering over coffee. Damn strange.
Mitch kept his eyes on her like a bird dog on point, pulling his napkin off his lap. He crumpled the heavy green cloth and dropped it blindly on the table.
“So where's the hose?” Megan muttered. She looked up as Mitch started to rise.
“Excuse me,” he mumbled, sliding out of the booth.
He couldn't hear the conversation going on at John Olsen's table. The din in the restaurant drowned out individual words. But he could see the expression on Hannah's face, the wild gestures of her long, graceful hands. He could see John's look of shocked surprise, watched him shake his head. Mitch descended the steps and strode toward the table. A fist of instinctive tension curled in his gut.
Hannah was one of the first people he had met when he and Jessie had moved to Deer Lake. Hannah and her husband, Paul Kirkwood, and their son had lived across the street then. Hannah, pregnant with her second child, had dropped by that first day on her way to work to welcome them to the neighborhood with a pan of brownies. She was one of the most capable, unflappable people he knew. Grace under fire personified. She ran the emergency room at Deer Lake Community Hospital with skill, volunteered for community causes, and still managed a house with a husband, son, and baby daughter. All with a dazzling smile and sweet good humor.
But Hannah didn't look cool or unruffled now. She looked on the brink of hysteria.
“What do you mean, you don't know?” she demanded, her voice loud and raw. She slammed a fist down on the table. John's girlfriend squealed and jumped up out of her chair as c
offee sloshed out of her cup and splashed across the tabletop.
“Dr. Garrison, calm down!” John Olsen pleaded, coming up out of his chair. He reached out for Hannah's arm. She jerked away from him, her eyes blazing.
“Calm down!” she shrieked. “I won't calm down!”
Everyone in the restaurant had stopped to watch. The air was electric with tension.
“Hannah?” Mitch said, approaching her side. “Is something wrong?”
Hannah wheeled at the sound of his voice. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet. Heat pressed in on her like an invisible blanket, burning her skin, choking her. Is something wrong? Everything was wrong. She could feel a hundred pair of eyes on her. She could feel the darkness creeping down from the rafters and in through the high, arched windows.
She was caught in a nightmare. Wide awake. Like being buried alive. The thoughts and impressions zoomed across her brain, too many, too fast. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God!
“Hannah?” Mitch murmured, gently sliding his fingers over her shoulder. He eased a little closer. “Honey, talk to me. What's wrong?”
Hannah stared at him, at the concern in his eyes. He moved closer. What's wrong? Something inside her burst and the words came rushing out, screaming out.
“I can't find my son!”
CHAPTER 4
* * *
DAY 1
8:26 P.M. 19°
What do you mean, you can't find Josh?” Mitch asked calmly.
Hannah sat in the manager's chair, shaking uncontrollably, tears leaking from her big blue eyes. Mitch dug a clean handkerchief out of his hip pocket and offered it to her. She took it automatically but made no effort to use it, crumpling it in her hand like a wad of paper.
“I m-mean I c-can't find him,” she stammered. She couldn't find Josh and no one seemed to grasp what she was trying to tell them, as if the words coming out of her mouth were nonsense. “Y-you have to help m-me. Please, Mitch!”
She started to come up out of the chair, but Mitch pressed her back down. “I'll do everything I can, Hannah, but you have to calm down—”
“Calm down!” she shouted, gripping the arms of the chair. “I can't believe this!”
“Hannah—”
“My God, you've got a daughter, you should understand! You of all people—”
“Hannah!” he barked sharply. She flinched and blinked at him. “You know I'll help, but you have to calm down and start at the beginning.”
Megan watched the scene from her position by the door. The office was a claustrophobic cube of dark, cheap paneling. Certificates from the chamber of commerce and various civic groups decorated the walls in plastic frames that hung at slightly drunken angles. Nothing about the filing cabinets or battered old metal desk suggested the success or the quaint charm of the restaurant. The woman—Hannah—slumped down in the chair, squeezing her eyes shut, pressing a hand over her mouth as she fought to compose herself.
Even in her current state—crying, hair disheveled—she was a strikingly attractive woman. Tall, slim, with features that belonged on the pages of a magazine. Mitch positioned himself directly in front of her, back against the desk, but leaning forward, his concentration completely on Hannah, waiting, patient, intent. Without saying anything, he reached out and offered her his hand. She took it and squeezed hard, like someone in extreme pain.
Megan watched him with admiration and a little envy. Dealing with victims had never been her strong suit. For her, reaching out to someone in pain meant taking on some of that pain herself. She had always found it smarter, safer, to keep some emotional distance. Objectivity, she called it. Mitch Holt, however, didn't hesitate to reach out.
“I was supposed to pick him up from hockey practice,” Hannah began in little more than a whisper, as if she were about to confess a terrible sin. “I was leaving the hospital, but then we had an emergency come in and I couldn't get away on time. I had someone call the rink to tell him I'd be a little late. Then one of the patients went into cardiac arrest and—”
And I lost the patient and now I've lost my son. The sense of failure and guilt pressed down on her, and she had to stop and wait until it seemed bearable again. She tightened her hold on Mitch's big, warm hand. The sensation only built and intensified until it pushed the dreaded words from her mouth.
“I forgot. I forgot he was waiting.”
A fresh wave of tears washed down her cheeks and fell like raindrops onto the lap of her long wool skirt. She doubled over, wanting to curl into a ball while the emotions tore at her. Mitch leaned closer and stroked her hair, trying to offer some comfort. The cop in him remained calm, waiting for facts, reciting the likely explanations. Deeper inside, the parent in him experienced a sharp stab of instinctive fear.
“When I g-got to the rink he w-was g-gone.”
“Well, honey, Paul probably picked him up—”
“No. Wednesday is my night.”
“Did you call Paul to check?”
“I tried, but he wasn't in the office.”
“Then Josh probably got a ride with one of the other kids. He's probably at some buddy's house—”
“No. I called everyone I could think of. I checked at the sitter's—Sue Bartz. I thought maybe he would be there waiting for me to come pick up Lily, but Sue hadn't seen him.” And Lily was still there waiting for her mother, probably wondering why Mama had come and gone without her. “I checked at home, just in case he decided to walk. I called the other hockey moms. I drove back to the rink. I drove back to the hospital. I can't find him.”
“Do you have a picture of your son?” Megan asked.
“His school picture. It's not the best—he needed a haircut, but there wasn't time.” Hannah pulled her purse up onto her lap. Her hands shook as she dug through the leather bag for her wallet. “He brought the slip home from school and I made a note, but then time just got away from me and I—forgot.”
She whispered the last word as she opened to the photograph of Josh. I forgot. Such a simple, harmless excuse. Forgot about his picture. Forgot about his haircut. Forgot him. Her hand trembled so badly, she could barely manage to slip the photograph from the plastic window. She offered it to the dark-haired woman, realizing belatedly that she had no idea who she was.
“I'm sorry,” she murmured, dredging up ingrained manners and a fragile smile. “Have we met?”
Mitch sat back against the edge of the desk again. “This is Agent O'Malley with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Megan, this is Dr. Hannah Garrison, head of the emergency room in our community hospital. One of the best doctors ever to wield a stethoscope,” he added with a ghost of his grin. “We're very lucky to have her.”
Megan studied the photograph, her mind on business, not social niceties. A boy of eight or nine dressed in a Cub Scout uniform stared out at her with a big gap-toothed grin. He had a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. His hair was an unruly mop of sandy brown curls. His blue eyes were brimming with life and mischief.
“Is he normally a pretty responsible boy?” she asked. “Does he know to call you if he's going to be late or to get permission to go to a friend's house?”
Hannah nodded. “Josh is very levelheaded.”
“What did he wear to school today?”
Hannah rubbed a hand across her forehead, struggling to think back to morning. It seemed as much a dream as the last few hours, long ago and foggy. Lily crying at the indignity of being confined to her high chair. Josh skating around the kitchen floor in his stocking feet. Permission slip needed signing for a field trip to the Science Museum. Homework done? Spelling words memorized? A call from the hospital. French toast burning on the stove. Paul storming around the kitchen, snapping at Josh, complaining about the shirts that needed ironing.
“Um—jeans. A blue sweater. Snow boots. A ski jacket—bright blue with bright yellow and bright green trim. Um . . . his Vikings stocking cap—it's yellow with a patch sewn on. Paul wouldn't let him wear a purple one with that wild coat. He
said it would look like Josh was dressed by color-blind Gypsies. I couldn't see the harm; he's only eight years old. . . .”
Megan handed the photograph back and looked up at Mitch. “I'll call it in right away.” Her mind was already on the possibilities and the steps they should take in accordance with those possibilities. “Get the bulletin to your people, the sheriff's department, the highway patrol—”
Hannah looked stricken. “You don't think—”
“No,” Mitch interceded smoothly. “No, honey, of course not. It's just standard procedure. We'll put out a bulletin to all the guys on patrol, so if they see Josh they'll know to pick him up and bring him home.
“Excuse us for just a minute,” he said, holding up a finger. He turned his back to Hannah and gave Megan a furious look. “I need to give Agent O'Malley a few instructions.”
He clamped a hand on her shoulder and herded her unceremoniously out the door and into the narrow, dimly lit hall. A round-headed man in a tweed blazer and chinos gave them a dirty look and stuck a finger in his free ear as he tried to have a conversation on a pay phone outside the men's room door. Mitch hit the phone's plunger with two fingers, cutting off the conversation and drawing an indignant “Hey!” from the caller.
“Excuse us,” Mitch growled, flashing his badge. “Police business.”
He shouldered the man away from the phone and sent him hustling down the hall with a scowl that had scattered petty drug pushers and hookers from the meanest streets in Miami. Then he turned the same scowl on Megan.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she snapped, jumping on the offensive, knowing it was her best defense.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” Mitch barked, keeping his voice low. “What the hell is wrong with you—scaring the poor woman—”