“It’s okay.” She placed her finger over his lips. “I don’t need all that, don’t even want it really. I am different, and I never imagined that I’d get married.” She tilted her head, smiling at him. “But now that we are, I think I’d like our wedding to be outside. We could stand beneath a canopy of stars on a beach looking out to the ocean.” A wistful, faraway look came to her eyes. “Endless possibilities in every direction.”
“Then we’ll wait for your ocean and stars,” Jay said. “I love you, Sarah.”
“I know.” She leaned forward, reaching out to him first, kissing him beneath the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Detective Brandt unwrapped another chocolate Santa and stuffed it in his mouth. He let it melt, enjoying the flavor as long as possible—it was the sixth and last one in the pack. Resting his hands on top of his protruding stomach, he leaned back in his chair and thought about Christmas dinner at his parents’ house. His mom would fix a turkey and a ham, potatoes, gravy, rolls . . . and her pies. Oh, her pies. The chocolate was all but forgotten as his mouth watered in anticipation of the first bite of his mother’s pecan tart. In less than an hour he’d be out of here and on his way.
The phone rang, jarring him from his pleasant vision of a table laden with food.
“Can’t leave us alone for even one day.” Grumbling, Brandt pulled himself out of his chair, went to the front counter, and reached for the central line, only to realize it was Detective Anderson’s phone ringing off the hook. Not my problem. Not gonna answer it, he thought, returning to his desk to toss the empty candy package in the trash.
The phone stopped ringing. Brandt sat down and took out a crossword puzzle.
Anderson’s phone rang again. Swearing under his breath, Brandt swiveled his chair around and used his feet to roll himself over to his colleague’s desk. He snagged the receiver on the fourth ring. “Summerfield Police Department.”
“Detective Anderson, please.”
“He won’t be in until noon,” Brandt said, remembering how he’d been only too happy to swap shifts with Kirk, who wanted to be with his kids Christmas morning. “Would you like to leave a message?”
There was a pause, then, “Is there another number I can reach him at?”
“He’s got a cell,” Brandt offered.
“I’ve tried that already. He’s not answering, and his home number isn’t listed.”
“Then you’ll have to leave a message,” Brandt suggested, irritated with the demanding voice on the other end. It’s Christmas, buddy, he wanted to say. Whatever has your knickers in a wad can wait a day or two.
“With whom am I speaking?”
“Detective Brandt. Anderson’s my partner most days.”
Another pause. “It’s imperative he get this message. Tell him his appointment is bumped up an hour. I’ll be at the Hancock Building at three o’clock instead of four.”
“Got it,” Brandt said, hanging up before the guy could breathe down his neck anymore. Rolling his chair back to his desk, he remembered the tin of cookies that had been delivered yesterday. He went to the front counter, searching until he found it hidden behind a stack of traffic school forms.
Shoving a pretzel-shaped cookie in his mouth, Brandt scrawled the message across the top of a legal pad, realizing he hadn’t even gotten the guy’s name or a return phone number. He glanced at the caller ID, but it was an unlisted number.
Oh, well. I’m sure Anderson knows what it’s about. He tore off the paper and set it down as the front bell jingled and Simmons came in, stamping snow off his shoes.
“Man, nobody got any time off today,” Brandt said.
“I’m covering for Anderson,” Simmons said. “Some family emergency came up. He promised to take my shift on New Year’s Eve.” He pulled the hat from his head, brushing snow from it. “It’s really coming down out there.”
“Great,” Brandt grumbled. “I’ve got a two-hour drive.” The image of his mom’s pie was starting to fade. He had no doubt his brothers would be more than happy to take his share if he was late.
“Why don’t you get out of here now?” Simmons suggested. “I’m a little early, and I think the chief’s even coming in today. I’m sure we can handle the turkey that explodes or the fight that breaks out between Aunt Millie and Cousin Ed.”
“Thanks.” Brandt didn’t need any more urging. Chief Morgan might be a little peeved when he came in, but with his daughter missing he’d been in a constant state of agitation anyway. Grabbing his coat from the back of his chair, Brandt held up a hand in farewell as he left.
Simmons peeled his coat off, poured a cup of stale coffee, and riffled through the cookie tin to see if there was anything good left. He picked up a ginger snap and bit into it, sprinkling crumbs across the counter. He brushed them away, noticing a piece of paper in the process. He glanced at the note in Brandt’s handwriting.
Hancock bld. 3:00, not 4
“Must be for the boss,” Simmons mused as he stuck the paper in Chief Morgan’s inbox.
* * *
Kirk turned in a slow circle, taking in his wrecked living room. The Christmas tree was overturned, the bookshelves emptied, papers and toys everywhere. Christa is going to freak out. He bent down, picking up a large piece of glass from a broken lamp. Foolish, he knew, when he ought to call in a team to collect evidence for fingerprints. But he wasn’t sure if that was a wise thing to do. Returning to the kitchen—the least damaged room, he’d discovered on his initial search—he poured himself a glass of milk from an unopened jug and sat down to think.
Christa and the boys were safe—for now—with his aunt in Worcester.
Jay and Sarah were on their way to meet DEA agent Judd Doyle, and then they would be safe.
But someone had come here for them, and that someone was likely associated with Chief Morgan. And if he knew . . . Kirk sighed, wondering if he’d already worked his last day for the Summerfield Police Department. For any police department. He was going to have to be very careful. But, as he’d told Jay and Sarah, there was no turning back now. A lot more than his career was at stake. The only thing to do was see this through.
Kirk got up and opened the cabinet beneath the sink. He pulled a pair of disposable gloves from a box by the dish drainer and took a plastic grocery bag from the recycle bin. He’d be his own evidence team. He’d send whatever he collected to Doyle. If the Summerfield police chief was corrupt, who was to say the chief in Cambridge wasn’t as well?
Starting in the bedroom Kirk cataloged everything he could think of that was missing, though surprisingly, it wasn’t much. He’d had the foresight to take his laptop and guns with him last night, and Jay and Sarah hadn’t left any evidence of their stay downstairs. It seemed the intruders’ motive had been to threaten instead of steal.
Kirk worked his way to the living room, filling the bag with broken things that had obviously been handled. Satisfied that he had about as much as he was going to get, he picked up the bag and turned to go out the front door.
As he touched the knob he paused, thinking something else was amiss. Turning back, he looked at the wall over the couch. A chill swept over him as he took in the collage of pictures.
The middle one of his family was gone.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Jay parked Kirk and Christa’s Jetta in front of a convenience store with a pay phone—the first they’d been able to find after driving around the city for close to an hour. He looked over at Sarah. “Kirk will shoot us himself if he finds out about this.”
“You understand why I have to at least talk to Trish,” Sarah said. “She’s the only girlfriend I’ve ever had. She encouraged me to go out with you, helped me get you out of jail, and now she needs a friend.” And she’s hurting because of me.
“She would understand if you didn’t call,” Jay said.
“I have to try,” Sarah insisted. “Because there won’t be any more chances after we’re in protective custo
dy.” She leaned close and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll just be outside for a few minutes, and I look nothing like that awful picture they keep showing on the news, so don’t worry.” She opened the door.
Jay grabbed her hand. “Be careful.”
“I will. I’ll be right over there.” She inclined her head toward the phone a few feet away, then got out of the car and walked to it. Shivering, she stared at the grimy receiver for several seconds before gathering the courage to pick it up and dial the number from the address book on Jay’s cell phone, which they hadn’t dared use.
Trish answered right away. Sarah suddenly found herself at a loss for words.
“How are you?” she asked. “How is Archer? We’ve been so worried.”
“Sarah? Where are you?” Trish asked. “If you’re with Jay, you’ve got to get away from him. You’ve got to go to the police.”
“That’s the last place I can go.”
“Please,” Trish insisted. “I’m worried for you.”
“Don’t be. I’m fine. And—”
“You’re with a dangerous addict,” Trish said. “Jay’s not the person we all thought he was. Who knows what he’ll do. Tell me where you are, and I’ll call the police.”
“No,” Sarah said forcefully. “You’re wrong about him. Jay didn’t shoot Archer. He was with me that night. Someone attacked us, and he was shot. We’re in the city on our way to meet with a DEA agent who’s going to help us.”
“I know what I saw,” Trish said. “Get out of there. Please,” she begged.
Sarah turned, half facing Jay, who was waiting in the car. She could read the anxiety on what little of his face—most was covered by a scarf and hat—she could see. “And I know Jay,” she said. “You’re wrong, Trish. We’ll prove it. We’ll find out who really hurt Archer.” Trusting her heart once more, Sarah hung up the phone and returned to the car.
* * *
Jay and Sarah looked up as they approached the Hancock Tower, a 790-foot architectural wonder. Behind them, Trinity Church reflected in the mirrored glass. Sarah stared at the image longingly, wishing they were headed that direction instead. What little peace she’d felt had been shattered since her phone call to Trish an hour earlier.
If Trish really believed it was Jay who shot Archer, and she testified in court, there was no way Jay wouldn’t be found guilty, with both evidence—his prints had been matched to those on the discarded weapon—and testimony against him. Sarah hoped Kirk’s friend from the DEA would work on clearing Jay’s name as well as keeping them safe.
They stopped at the front of the building and gained entrance with the access card Kirk had given them this afternoon. He’d slipped away from his aunt’s Christmas party in Worcester last night long enough to meet with his friend and get detailed instructions and the codes to get into the building.
Walking through the spacious and strangely empty lobby, Jay and Sarah headed for the elevators. While waiting, Sarah glanced at the pots overflowing with poinsettias and the lavish Christmas garlands strung everywhere. Feeling a swell of sadness in her throat, she swallowed, trying not to think of her father alone today, the piano in their home silent, the space beneath the tree bare. Did he get a tree? Will he be at home next year, or will he be in jail? Could he really be involved in something so awful?
Jay looked at her with concern, but she pasted a brave smile on her face and stepped onto the elevator. A minute later they stepped off on the fourth floor, heading to an office used occasionally by the area’s DEA Mobile Enforcement Teams.
Sarah felt herself becoming numb as they walked down the hall. She knew that what she said to Detective Doyle today might someday lead to her testifying against her father in court. She wasn’t sure she could do that—wasn’t sure she could do this.
They stopped in front of suite 411, but it was locked, a note taped to the door. Jay opened it and read aloud.
“Change of plans. Please go to the 60th floor. Suite 6017. D. Doyle.”
Jay shrugged. “At least we’ll get to enjoy the view.”
“Sure,” Sarah said, certain there was no part of this she’d enjoy. As magical as Christmas Eve had been, today felt nothing like Christmas. She and Jay had eaten cold cereal in a stranger’s kitchen. They’d watched television and tried to talk about wedding plans, but it was evident that both their minds were on today’s meeting and what would follow.
Sarah grabbed Jay’s arm as they stepped off the elevator a second time. “I feel queasy.” She lifted a hand to her head while the room spun.
Jay put his arm around her. “Make sure you don’t look outside then.” He waited a minute, giving her time to regain her equilibrium before they started toward suite 6017. This time the door was ajar and they walked right in. Jay helped Sarah to a chair then went to stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Wow.” He gave a low whistle. “Who would’ve guessed the DEA had such nice digs? No wonder taxes are so high.”
Still feeling ill, Sarah lifted her head, taking in the rich, wood walls, the plush carpet, and expensive furniture.
“I’ve always wanted to come here,” Jay said. “I think there’s an observation deck on this floor, too. But it’s been closed to the public since September 11th. Too bad it takes having a meeting with a DEA agent to get in.”
“I don’t suppose he’ll give us the tour when we’re finished,” Sarah said. She still couldn’t quite believe he was meeting with them at all. This thing with her dad had to be pretty serious—pretty bad—for the agent to want to meet on Christmas day.
Jay left the windows and sat beside her. He took her hand in his, looking down at their intertwined fingers. She followed his gaze to the pearl ring. It shone in the light from the window behind them. Remembering the magic of last night, she couldn’t help but smile. She bent her head close to his.
“I feel so weird about this,” she confessed. “Part of me is deliriously happy, but—”
“The part that has to do with that ring, right?” Jay asked.
She nodded and squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Yes. But how can I feel so happy when, any minute now, I’m probably going to find out my dad has been a drug trafficker for years—and that he used me to do his dirty work?”
“You don’t know anything for sure yet,” Jay reminded her. “There may be a really good explanation.”
“Maybe,” she said, doubtful.
“Be happy,” he whispered as the door at the end of the room opened. “Grab onto it, and don’t let go.” He stood, pulling Sarah up behind him.
“Detective Doyle?” Jay asked the older, bearded man approaching them.
Sarah felt her uneasiness return. What she was going to tell him, and what he might tell her, had the potential to change her life irrevocably.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, pumping Jay’s hand up and down. He turned to Sarah. “Miss Morgan.”
His steel-gray eyes sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. He’s the good guy, she reminded herself. There’s nothing to worry about if I tell the truth.
“Won’t you come into the office?” He held his hand out, indicating the room he’d just come from.
Jay and Sarah preceded him into the simple but well-appointed suite. They sat in the two chairs opposite the desk as he shut the door behind them.
He pulled out a tape recorder. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked, showing it to Sarah.
“Of course not.” She slipped her hands under her legs.
He turned the recorder on and set it at the edge of the desk. “I heard from Detective—” He hesitated, shuffling through the papers in front of him.
“Anderson,” Sarah supplied.
“Yes. Thanks. Detective Anderson tells me you have information you’d like to share.”
I thought you had some questions you wanted to ask. And why didn’t you remember Kirk’s last name? I thought he said you were friends. “Yes.” She glanced at Jay, who was looking as uncomfortable as she was starting to fe
el. “We’re hoping you can help us.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” Elbows on the desk, he laced his fingers together, waiting.
Not going to make this easy, are you? Sarah thought. She’d hoped that working with the DEA would be like working with Kirk. But already she could tell her hope had been in vain. Something about Detective Doyle set her immediately on edge. And it wasn’t just that he came off as cold and unfeeling. She wasn’t going to get any sympathy for having been duped by her father. In fact, if Kirk’s suspicions proved correct, she’d probably be lucky to keep herself out of jail. But still, Detective Doyle represented the law. He shouldn’t seem so . . . scary.
“My father is Grant Morgan, the chief of police for Summerfield.”
“How long?” Detective Doyle asked.
“We’ve been in Summerfield as long as I can remember,” Sarah said. “We moved there when I was five—shortly after my mother’s death. Though he hasn’t always been chief.”
“Your mother died?”
“When I was five,” Sarah repeated. Jay scooted his chair closer and draped his arm across the back of Sarah’s chair in a supportive gesture. “She committed suicide.”
“That’s too bad,” the detective said without a trace of emotion in his voice.
Sarah liked him less by the minute. She decided to plunge ahead and tell him everything as fast as she could so they could get out of here and get to wherever they were being sent.
“My mother overdosed, and since then my father has always been fanatical about fighting the war against drugs. Two years ago, he insisted I join him. Nearly every week since then I’ve been involved in the Summerfield undercover drug task force.”
“So that’s what he told you.” A slight smile curved Detective Doyle’s lips but vanished quickly. “Except that there is no drug task force. Both Summerfield and Cambridge have always seemed content to let the drug problems slide.”
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