A Reason to Believe

by Diana Copland

  “I’m sorry.” Kiernan’s laugh evolved into a grin. “It’s just—you should see the look on your face. She’s a little kid, Matt. How scary can she be?”

  “She’s dead. That makes the whole thing pretty damned scary. Not everyone talks to dead people for a living.”

  “Point.” Kiernan’s smile remained in place. “And in answer to your question, no, I do not believe she is grounded to you.”

  “What makes you think so? I mean, I saw her. And then last night, I heard her in my bedroom.”

  “Because,” Kiernan said softly, “she isn’t here now.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Pretty sure. If she were here, I’d see her.”

  Matt felt foolish even as a wave of relief washed over him.

  “I think what’s going on, with her turning up at your home, is she wants to make sure you don’t forget about her.”

  An unwelcome vision of the child’s blue face, the tape around her head, flashed through Matt’s mind and he flinched. “As if I could.”

  Kiernan studied him, the smile fading. “You found her, didn’t you?”

  Matt’s eyes lifted. After a hesitation, he nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” Kiernan murmured. “No one should have to carry that image around in their head.”

  For some reason, the softly spoken words made Matt’s throat feel tight. “It’s my job.” His voice sounded gruff.

  Kiernan’s gaze remained steady. “In the same way talking to them, after, is mine.” He looked thoughtful. “You know, I’ve worked with police departments before on missing person cases.”

  “I’d heard.”

  “It’s really helpful if I can visit the scene of the crime. I can pick up a lot of information. Residual emotion, lingering attachment. I’d be willing to bet she would come through more clearly in her own home.”

  Matt studied the earnest face. “What makes you think so?”

  “Children almost always remain where they feel the safest. Even though the murder took place in the basement, Abby is going to linger close to home, near her parents, and her bedroom, her toys. It’s an environment where she feels the most comfortable.”

  Matt chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “I don’t know if I can swing it. How long are you going to be in town?”

  Kiernan sat back, his arms spreading along the back of the sofa. “We have tickets to leave for L.A. on Friday morning.”

  It was Wednesday night. He’d have to work fast. “If I’m able to find a way to get you inside of the Reynolds’ house, is there a time that would be better for you?”

  “Evening,” Kiernan answered promptly. “I’m done by three tomorrow, and I don’t have any more private sessions scheduled.”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.” Matt stood and Kiernan did as well. Once again, the difference in their statures made Matt feel large and clumsy. He thrust his hand toward the other man in an abrupt gesture. Kiernan took it with an amused lift of one brow.

  “Well, it’s been…interesting,” Matt offered awkwardly.

  Kiernan’s grin was irrepressible. “I’ll just bet.”

  “I’ll, um…be in touch.” Matt started to move toward the door, stopped and looked back. “How? Can I get in touch, I mean?” He felt himself blush, but Kiernan merely crossed to a desk and opened a drawer. He scribbled something quickly on a pad, tore the page off and came back, his hand extended.

  “Here. The number to my cell. I don’t put that one on my business card, but it’s the fastest way to get ahold of me.”

  “Thanks.” Matt folded the paper and slipped it into his back pocket. “I’ll call you, either way.”

  Kiernan’s eyes warmed. “I hope you will.”

  Matt stared into the wide blue eyes, fairly certain they were no longer talking about whether or not they could get into Abby Reynolds’ house. Unsure how that made him feel, he nodded and turned toward the door.

  “Oh, and Matt…”

  Matt glanced back. Kiernan was watching him with a half smile. “If you don’t want Abby hanging around your bedroom, tell her.”

  Matt frowned. “Tell her.”

  “Yes. Tell her she doesn’t belong in your bedroom, and she should go home. She’ll leave.” His smile widened, eyes shining. “Trust me.”

  Matt shook his head and left the suite. He had no intention of having a conversation with a ghost in his bedroom or anywhere else.

  But when he came out of the bathroom an hour later in his boxers, and the air in the room felt so thick and charged that gooseflesh immediately rose on his arms and chest, he changed his mind.

  “Abby?” he whispered.

  Silence answered him, but the drapes at the window moved slightly and he knew the window was closed. His heart rate increased.

  “Abby, I want you to know I haven’t forgotten about you, and I’m going to do everything I can to help you.” He paused, listening. There was nothing but silence, but he had never been more convinced he wasn’t alone. “But you need to go home now,” he went on carefully. “I need to sleep and, frankly, knowing you’re watching me freaks me out a little bit. So, I’d appreciate it if you would just…go on home. I’ll see you soon. I promise.”

  Almost instantly, the oppressive feeling in the air disappeared.

  Chapter Five

  It was snowing heavily when Matt entered the precinct the following morning, and he paused to stomp the clinging sludge from his boots. Shaking the damp flakes from his jacket, he ran a gloved hand over his tightly curling hair, and it clung wetly to the leather. He hated his hair. Brad had always smiled, telling him he looked like a profile on a Roman coin. Matt hadn’t particularly appreciated the comparison.

  He also wasn’t sure what his welcome would be like at the station. He didn’t know what Branson had told the other detectives, but thought it might be something along the lines of “Bennett’s lost his goddamned mind.”

  The usual buzz of activity greeted him as he opened the door, and the desk sergeant nodded at him as he passed. Doorways were still draped with tinsel garlands and walls were adorned with cardboard cutout poinsettias.

  One or two of the men present in the second floor squad room glanced up and acknowledged him, but there wasn’t any general show of welcome. He didn’t expect it. Those sorts of displays of camaraderie had ended after Brad’s funeral. The only person who actually made and held eye contact with him, and who lifted a hand in greeting, was Ed Partridge. A veteran of twenty-five years, he’d befriended Matt when he’d first made detective.

  “Hey, Matt,” he said warmly, leaning back in his chair.

  “Hey, Eddie.” Matt removed his gloves and shoved them into his pocket. “How’s it going?”

  The older man shrugged. “It’s going.” He sighed heavily and tossed a pencil onto his desk blotter. “Not much happening, really. Half the squad is out on personal time, and the rest of us are still tied up with the Reynolds case.”

  Matt leaned his hip on Ed’s desk, trying to keep the keen interest out of his expression. “Anything new?”

  Ed grimaced. “Not really. Just ADA Preston foaming at the mouth for an indictment. He’s in there reaming Branson right now.” He jerked his head toward the back of the room.

  The blinds on the wall of windows separating Branson’s office from the squad room were half-closed, but Matt could see a man in a dark suit stalking back and forth, gesturing with his hands. Branson was seated behind his desk, his face impassive but his jaw hard.

  “Why’s he after Branson?” Matt asked.

  “Thinks we aren’t moving fast enough. Apparently the media is all over the mayor, which means the mayor is all over the DA. You know how it is, shit runs downhill.”

  “Yeah.” Matt picked up Ed’s abandoned pencil and twirled it between hi
s thumb and index finger. “So,” he said at length, intentionally pitching his voice lower, “got anything concrete yet?”

  Ed glanced around the room casually. When he answered, his voice was lower, too. “Autopsy is back on the kid. It was—” he hesitated, chewing his lower lip, “—surprising.”

  “Surprising in what way?”

  “No sexual assault.”

  Their eyes met. “Really.” In most murders of children, especially ones presented like Abby Reynolds’, evidence of sexual abuse was almost always present. For it not to be meant the murder was about something else. Matt narrowed his eyes.

  “She was virtually untouched in that respect,” Ed went on quietly. “The blood on the nightgown was from a scrape on her knee, which apparently happened when she was dragged down the stairs.” He paused. “There was something else. There was Ketamine in her system.”

  Matt stiffened. “Someone drugged her first? Christ, do you suppose the perp planned to assault her and got interrupted?”

  “No idea. He might have just wanted to make the whole thing easier. Slip the kid Ketamine, and there’d be no struggle at all.”

  “Do they know how it got into her system?”

  “Powder, delivered orally.”

  “He fed it to her?”

  Ed’s lips formed a tight line. “Apparently.”

  “Doesn’t that indicate a level of trust?” Matt muttered. “So, someone she knows, then?”

  “Not necessarily. You threaten a six-year-old kid and tell them to eat or drink something, they’re going to do it. There were remnants of cookies in her stomach. Coroner thinks it was on the frosting.”

  Matt sighed. “I saw Branson on the tube last night. He looks exhausted.”

  “Media’s crawling all over him. I don’t like the bastard, but I wouldn’t want to be him this week.”

  “He did everything but say they’re looking at Marc Reynolds.”

  “You know the protocol. Eliminate the most obvious suspects first.”

  “Yeah, but are they eliminating him?”

  Ed rolled his eyes toward Branson’s office. “Some people,” he said, very softly, “seem more convinced of his involvement than others.”

  “Meaning Preston.” Matt looked back toward the enclosed office. The ADA was still pacing, and a raised voice could now be heard, even if what was actually being said could not. Ed shrugged, but his eyes spoke volumes. “Is there anything concrete linking the father?”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned. But you know how much weight that carries around here.”

  “Listen, Ed, I know I’m not officially on the case anymore. I’ve been put on administrative leave…”

  “Really?” Ed’s expression was carefully bland. “I thought you were on vacation.”

  Matt huffed. “Yeah, right. Vacation. Anyway. If I wanted to get into the house, is there a way I might be able to do it?”

  “You mean, the Reynolds house?” Ed leaned forward then, pulling a report over in front of him and pretending to read it. “Well, officially, since you’re no longer on the case, I’d have to say you couldn’t enter the premises under the auspices of being part of this office.” He glanced over his shoulder. “However, since the scene has been cleared and returned to the family, it’s up to them to decide who’s allowed admittance to their home.”

  “I should just knock on the door and ask them to let me in?”

  Ed’s lips pursed. “Well…I have it on pretty good authority Mrs. Reynolds was very unhappy you’d been removed from the case.”

  “It’s news to me.”

  “You didn’t think Branson was going to call and tell you? Morales told me the missus was extremely put out you were no longer involved.” He gave Matt a pointed look. “She told Branson it seemed to her you were the only one who actually cared her child had been murdered. I think if you knock on the door, she might invite you in for coffee.”

  Matt tossed Ed’s pencil onto the desk and reached into his pocket for his gloves. “Thanks, Ed. I owe you one.”

  “Yeah, so next time we’re out, buy me a beer.”

  “Will do.” Matt turned to walk away when he felt Ed’s hand touch his arm.

  “The evidence does not support the kid’s father having done this,” Ed muttered. “But the DA’s office is hot for an indictment, and he’s caught in the crosshairs. I don’t like defense attorneys either, but this isn’t right.”

  Matt pulled his gloves on briskly. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Good man.”

  Just as Matt was nodding, the door to Branson’s office burst open and Assistant District Attorney Garrett Preston strode into the squad room, his face flushed and his jaw hard.

  Matt didn’t like Preston, he never had. With his movie-star-handsome face and his thousand-dollar suits, he seemed too much like someone from central casting starring on a TV show. He also wasn’t subtle in his inferences that cops weren’t terribly bright, so there weren’t many on the force who liked working with him. Matt had never been assigned to a case Preston was prosecuting, but he’d heard stories.

  When he saw Matt, Preston stopped, his eyes narrowed. “You.” He pointed a finger as he approached. “Bennett, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered automatically.

  “You found the Reynolds kid’s body, didn’t you?”

  Matt swallowed when he saw the glare aimed in his direction from Captain Branson, who stood behind Preston with his hands in his pockets. He nodded warily.

  “Why haven’t you been working this case for the last few days? This is the most important case we have.” He turned to glare at Branson. “All hands on deck, Captain. I would think I shouldn’t have to tell you.”

  Branson returned his glare, his lips so tight there was a white line around them. “Detective Bennett is out on personal time, sir.”

  “Personal time?” Preston turned his eyes back to Matt. “What could be more important than catching the killer of this little girl?”

  Matt started to speak, but Branson beat him to it.

  “Family tragedy, sir.”

  Matt looked at his superior officer but bit his tongue and held his silence.

  “Oh.” Some of the fire seemed to drain out of Preston. He glanced once more at Matt, as if unsure whether or not he wanted details. Apparently deciding he didn’t, he said “Sorry” and stalked around him to punch the elevator button. “I want the evidence gathering wrapped up in the next two days,” he added without turning. “This needs to go before the grand jury by New Year’s.”

  The doors to the elevator slid open and Preston disappeared from view. Branson turned on his heel and stormed back to his office, slamming the door so hard the glass shook within the frame.

  “A plethora of assholes,” Ed murmured.

  Matt sent him a small, grim smile before he ignored the elevator and headed for the stairs.

  Once in the Bronco, Matt called the number Kiernan had scrawled on a piece of hotel stationery, and was surprised when the man answered on the second ring. “Are you still interested in going to the little girl’s house?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Kiernan answered without hesitation. “We should be done here by four. Is that all right?”

  “That should be perfect.”

  What he neglected to tell him was that he didn’t plan to call ahead for permission. He didn’t want to invade the Reynolds’ home, but he was convinced if he told them why he was coming they’d be denied access. If he just showed up with Kiernan…well, he might be denied anyway, but it would give them less chance to think about it. He wasn’t overly proud of the impulse, but he was curious to get Kiernan in the house and to see what he could come up with.

  * * *

  “Shit.”

  When Matt pulled
up outside the gates of the Reynolds’ spacious home, there was a small crowd gathered. Two news vans were parked in front of the house and a small contingent of people dressed in heavy coats, hats and gloves lingered near the driveway.

  “Problem?”

  He glanced in the rearview mirror at Aidan Fitzpatrick. “Just media,” Matt answered. “I should have figured they’d have the place staked out.” Kiernan was studying the crowd on the street with interest. “You might want to duck down, just until we get into the driveway. I doubt you’d like to see your face on the evening news.”

  Kiernan gave him a cheeky grin as he unfastened his seat belt and slid down into the well in front of the seat. He was wearing worn jeans, scruffy red high-top sneakers and a faded hoodie over a shirt that read I Know Karate…and Like Two Other Japanese Words. He was very appealing, and Matt had to force himself not to stare.

  “Sometimes it’s an advantage to be compact,” he quipped.

  Matt fought a grin. Kiernan looked like a kid playing hide-and-seek.

  Matt slowed near the driveway, where two uniforms were blocking the gated entrance to the house. He didn’t want to identify himself in order to get through, but it was probably the only way. Sighing, he lifted his hips enough to reach into his back pocket for his wallet. As he was extracting his shield, a car approached from the other side of the gate, heading out, and the two cops standing in the driveway stepped aside deferentially.

  A Mercedes SLK Class, a roadster, brand spanking new with a liquid silver paint job and sleek lines screaming expensive, idled as the gates opened. He wasn’t much of a car guy, but he knew this particular model started out at 53k. Owned by a lawyer, no doubt, he thought with a twist of his lips. The gates swung open and the car inched past, the windows tinted so dark the identity of the driver was hidden. Matt hoped it was Marc Reynolds driving the expensive car. It might be easier to get in the door if the attorney wasn’t at home. His hopes were bolstered when the media suddenly stirred into a minor frenzy on either side of the drive, cameras raised, flashbulbs popping, reporters surging forward and shouting questions at the car.

  Matt saw his chance and pulled through the gates,