DADDY WITH A BADGE

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  "Be the way I'd handle it." An appreciative gleam appeared in Petrov's hound dog eyes as a pretty, dark-eyed Asian-American airline employee slipped behind the counter. An instant later the P.A. system clicked on as she announced the plane's arrival. "You want to handle upstairs or down?"

  Case shot a telling look at his partner's gut. "Guess I'd better handle the tarmac, just in case Folsom rabbits."

  Petrov looked deeply offended. "I can still spot you two hoops one-on-one and clean your clock."

  Case snorted. "Fifty bucks says you can't."

  "Done."

  The small, two engine commuter opened and the steps lowered. Petrov hitched his trousers a little higher over his gut, then ambled over to flash the pretty agent a smile first and then an instant later, his ID.

  Case caught the startled look she sent his way. He tossed her his best "NYPD Blue" grin which he figured worked because she picked up the walkie-talkie and spoke a few words before accompanying Petrov to the door leading to the outside steps.

  "I'd appreciate it if you didn't frighten the passengers, detectives," she said as she punched out the access code on the keypad by the door.

  Case thought about the woman who'd died in a hail of bullets, bullets the prisoner on the plane might very well have fired, and turned cold as he pushed open the door.

  * * *

  With a huff of disgust Daniela tossed the classified ads into the wastebasket by Morgan Paxton's gorgeous rolltop desk and slumped back in the big leather chair. With the four hundred dollars Bruno was offering for the hatchback she had her choice of a twenty-five year old Pinto station wagon that "runs great," a Dodge Dart that "needs work" or a ten-year-old Kawasaki motorbike.

  She'd taken the bus to and from her office today and would do the same tomorrow. Lys had complained bitterly about taking the bus to school, and Danni couldn't really blame her. A trip that was a zippy twenty minutes by car required twice that on public transit. Besides, according to Lys, the bus smelled "gross" and the other passengers stared at her.

  Bottom-line, the Fabrizio family of two needed a car of their own. Ugly as it was, the hatchback was her best bet. Anything else was far above her means. Even cutting expenses to skeletal bones, she was barely keeping up with the basic monthly bills and the huge payments to the credit card companies. Now the hospital was dunning her for the balance due on Lyssa's last surgery. To their credit, they'd been more than patient, but it had been months since she'd sent them even a token amount.

  Could they actually turn her away when it came time to deliver? she wondered, putting down her pencil before slumping back in her chair. Maybe she'd better research home delivery.

  She could just see it, the ladies of the Brigade boiling water and spreading newspapers on Raine Paxton's gleaming Hepplewhite dining room table. To complete the picture Luke would be wearing his cowboy hat and jeans. The sweet man had refused to bill her, saying that he never charged professional colleagues. Except that she didn't see any way to exchange value for value. Both Maddy and Luke seemed supremely happy and emotionally healthy.

  "And you're stalling, Daniela," she muttered morosely.

  No matter how many ways she figured it, she was going to have to ask her father for another loan. Though it went against every scrap of independence she'd managed to cobble together as the lone female in two families of dominant males, it had to be done.

  Lyssa needed school clothes and orthodontia and a sense of security that had been badly shaken when they'd lost the only home she'd ever known. It galled her no end, but she couldn't see any other choice.

  The loathing she felt for Jonathan Sommerset was primal, a claws-and-teeth kind of hatred so visceral she could feel it vibrating in the walls of her stomach. She had never thought herself capable of violence, but she was perfectly willing to make an exception in his case. Hard on that thought came the image of the lethal gun Rafe wore on his hip as though it were a natural part of him.

  Had he killed with that monster gun? she wondered, fascinated despite her anger at the way he'd just disappeared without so much as a wave, let alone an explanation.

  Get a woman all stirred up, then just walk away. Not that she cared, she reminded herself with a fierce little mental nod. Rafe had said it himself. What had been between them was ancient history. Except she couldn't quite stop remembering how right it had felt to be in his arms again. For the first time in months she'd felt safe.

  Cherished. It would be so easy to believe that he really cared. That he had come back into her life to save her, just as he'd always done.

  Old tapes, she reminded herself firmly. She of all people should know how tenacious they could be. Helping patients first understand and then deal with the lingering affects of past programming was what therapy was all about.

  She would just have to do the same thing for herself.

  She drew a long shaky breath. Starting now, she told herself as she reached for the phone to call her father.

  * * *

  Case dumped sugar into his coffee, stirring it with his index finger before carrying it back to his desk where Cardoza waited, kicking back in the battered wooden chair.

  His face set in grim lines, he sipped coffee from a cracked mug Case had scared up after discovering they were out of disposable cups again. The Fed's good-looking preppy partner was downstairs with Petrov, dealing with the paperwork involved in booking a federal prisoner.

  Cardoza had hoped to find the Beretta nine-millimeter used to kill the MacGregor woman when he'd searched the house in Bellingham. Instead, the man had been clean. All they'd found was a Nevada driver's license and a couple of credit cards in his own name. Nothing incriminating at all.

  "He's a smooth one, Folsom," Case said as he settled on his own side of the desk. "Even had the booking sergeant preening like a candidate for Homecoming Queen and she's as tough as an old saddle."

  Cardoza took a sip, then rocked back a few more inches and balanced the mug on his belt buckle. "Any way you can keep the press off this?"

  Case took a sip. Colored water, he thought in disgust. Feldman must have pulled coffee duty again. "I'll do my best, but this is prime stuff." He ran his finger around the rim of his mug, anticipating the stories aloud. "A beautiful, bright shrink who should know better gets suckered by smooth-talking con man who walks away with everything but the clothes on her back. Sex, glamour, a connection to a prominent Oregon family, it's got it all." He compressed his lips then sighed. "Sorry, can't see the press backing off on this one."

  Cardoza's face hardened. "Yeah, why should they give a damn if they hold an innocent woman up to public ridicule, maybe even destroy her career just to sell papers or grab air time? Not to mention what the notoriety might do to an innocent twelve-year-old who's still dealing with the loss of her dad."

  Case shared the man's disgust. He'd had his face splashed across the TV screen a time or two. The last time had nearly gotten him killed. "Any idea where Folsom's got his money stashed?"

  "No. The wife claimed they were in Canada on a second honeymoon. Drove across so there's no airline record. RCMP is running a check on the banks and brokerage houses in case he slipped away from the little woman to open an account, but I'm not holding my breath."

  Case nodded. "Guy that savvy has to have a couple of aliases at least." He leaned back and propped his feet on the corner everyone knew to keep free for just that purpose. Helped him to think, he claimed. Mostly he did it because the squad's spit-and-polish captain hated it. Hated him, too, though Case had enough citations in his service jacket to make him off limits.

  "What about the woman in Bellingham? You got any idea if she was involved?"

  "Doesn't appear to be." Cardoza took a sip and to his credit managed not to grimace. "Damn near fainted when I flashed the warrant in her face."

  Case lifted his tie, smoothed it over his chest. "Wish I could have seen Folsom's face when you whipped back the shower curtain and stuck the Glock in his belly."

  Cardoza's m
outh slanted. "Have to admit it was one of those rare moments that make a cop's day."

  Case hadn't expected to like the guy, but he did. He had all the moves of an arrogant government hard-ass, all right, and enough chilled steel in those green eyes to freeze the meanest street tough in his tracks. But Case would bet heavy there was more heart inside that linebacker chest than the man wanted anyone to know.

  Case had spent half his life hiding his own softer side, so he recognized the signs. From the way Cardoza had turned the conversation to the subject of Daniela Fabrizio's well-being almost as soon as they'd shoved Folsom into the back of the vehicle, he was also pretty sure the Fed felt more for the lady than a cop's natural empathy. Case had been there and knew how tempting it could be to take that fatal step past the professional to the personal.

  "When are you planning to head back east?"

  "Probably after the arraignment tomorrow—unless the judge grants bail." He finished his coffee, then let the chair drop to four legs as he set the mug on the desk.

  "Hey, Randolph, call for you on line two," Hal Vincente shouted across the squad room.

  "Might be the prosecutor who caught the case," he said as he dropped his feet in order to reach for the receiver. As soon as he heard the voice on the other end, he knew they'd gotten lucky.

  Felicia Hall-Jones had a lilting Jamaican accent, the tenacity of a bulldog and a take-no-prisoners mentality. After exchanging the usual banter, Case opened the case folder and ran down the details of the arrest. "He's standing on his rights, used his one phone call to contact an attorney."

  "And who might that be, sugar?"

  "Addison Tandy." Case saw Cardoza's gaze sharpen. The portly, flamboyant San Francisco defense attorney was as well known for his love of the camera as his willingness to go to virtually any lengths outside blatant malfeasance to win an acquittal.

  "Whoo-ee, now that does make things interesting, doesn't it?" Felicia exclaimed in her distinctive sing-song voice.

  "My money's on you, counselor."

  "Take it to the bank, sugar," she replied before making arrangements to meet Case and the Feds outside court ten minutes early to review his probable cause testimony.

  As he leaned back again, Case allowed himself a cocky grin. "We drew the A-team this go round. A tough-as-nails lady prosecutor named Felicia Hall-Jones. Has the best conviction record in the district."

  "What about bail?"

  "Says she intends to ask the judge to deny." Cardoza flexed his shoulders before tossing a sealed evidence bag onto the blotter. Cardoza's initials and those of a Bellingham PD evidence clerk were scrawled across the yellow sealing tape.

  Case picked it up and examined the contents. "Nice ring. Where'd you find it?"

  "On the alleged Mrs. Folsom's finger. According to a neighbor, it was a reconciliation present. Since it matched the description of the ring in your crime report, I vouchered it for evidence."

  Case held the bag to the light and watched the emerald flash green fire. He felt a pang of regret that he would never be able to give his sweet Prue a classy thing like this. "Bet the lady screamed bloody murder, right?"

  "Oh yeah." Cardoza's mouth flattened. "Daniela will need to ID it, so I figured I'd take it by her place tonight—unless you have a problem with that."

  "No problem. As a matter of fact, if you're ready to go now, I'll give you a lift."

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  "First thing tomorrow your brothers and I will drive one of the rigs up to Portland and pack up your things. We'll have you and Lyssa back where you belong by dinnertime."

  Eduardo Mancini was prone to outbursts of emotion and his voice reflected every nuance. At the moment Danni heard eagerness and a paternal command mixed with a hint of Sicilian arrogance. "I'll have Rosaria make your favorite arroz con pollo."

  Clamping the phone against her shoulder, Danni dumped linguini noodles into the boiling water and adjusted the flame. Her father had been unavailable when she'd called earlier. He'd returned her call just as she'd started dinner. As soon as she explained her reason for calling he'd immediately launched into all the reasons why she and Lyssa belonged at home with him so that he could take care of his "girls."

  "We've been all over this before, Papa. Several times, in fact. I'm not moving back to the vineyard. Not only do I have my practice and my friends here in Portland, but it would be terribly traumatic for Lyssa to leave her school and her friends."

  "You're barely making ends meet, cara. That's no life for you." His tone both dismissed her arguments and rebuked her for making them. Danni had heard it all before—too many times. And not just from him. Her father-in-law had been lobbying for her return to the valley since Mark's funeral.

  "These particular circumstances are only temporary, Papa, just until the police find Jonathan and recover my money."

  "Police, bah! How long have they been looking for that crook? Three months, that's how long. And not one solid lead."

  "The Secret Service is … are…" She stopped, considered, then shrugged. "Well, whichever it is, they're looking for him now, too."

  "You mean those bozos in sunglasses who guard the president? What do they have to do with Jonathan?" She heard the scowl in her father's booming tenor and winced.

  "It's a long story, Papa. I'll explain when we come for your birthday."

  "But that's a month away, cara. Come for dinner this weekend. I'll invite Eddie and Pamela and their girls."

  The front doorbell chimed then, and she shot a look at the clock. At the same time she heard Lys's sneakers pounding down the stairs. "I'll get it, Mom," she shouted, her young voice distressingly eager. Every time her daughter heard the doorbell or the phone, she raced to answer. According to her therapist, Lyssa still held out hope that Jonathan was going to return.

  Danni's heart went out to her, but she couldn't quite bear to destroy her last fragile hope. Not until it was necessary. "Someone just came to the door, Papa. I'd better go." She waited, then steeled herself. "About the thousand dollars … I need to call the mechanic as soon as possible."

  There was a pause, then a defeated sigh. "Do you still have the same account number at Portland National?"

  "Yes, the same." She heard the rumble of a deep voice coming from the living room and frowned.

  "I'll have the bank transfer the money first thing tomorrow."

  "I'll pay you back, Papa, I swear."

  "Don't be silly, cara. You know I want to help you all I can. You're the one who keeps refusing."

  They were heading down a familiar path, one that would only lead to frustration for them both. "I really have to go, Papa. Hi to everyone there. I love you."

  * * *

  Peanut size with delicate features, masses of black hair pulled up in a bouncy ponytail and big brown eyes, Lyssa looked so much like Danni at twelve that for an instant Rafe's heart had stopped.

  "Is your mom around?" he asked, watching the eagerness in her eyes fade into suspicion.

  "What do you want with her?" she demanded, arching her back in order to look up at him.

  "Just to talk to her for a few minutes. Tell her it's Rafe, okay?" A movement to his left caught his eye and he stiffened.

  "Rafe! I … wasn't expecting you." Danni came toward him, padding barefoot along the bright hall runner.

  Emotion slammed into him like a fist. Part relief that the ghostly pallor was gone. Part worry about how she was going to take the news of Folsom's arrest.

  Mostly, though, he thought how touchably soft she looked in a loose-fitting man-tailored shirt the color of raspberries and little white shorts that covered her fanny, but only just. His gaze skimmed the sleek thighs and trim calves, and his mouth went dry. "Would you believe I was in the neighborhood?"

  "Probably not," she said, her lips curving. He couldn't quite get a read on her mood, and that made him edgy.

  "Mom, do you know this guy?" her daughter asked suspiciously.

  "
Yes, Rafe is an old friend," Danni said, slipping an arm around her daughter's brave little shoulders to give her a reassuring hug. The two were nearly equal in height but Lyssa's body still carried the softness of childhood, while Danni's was ripely voluptuous.

  "Honey, dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. Why don't you wash up now, okay?"

  "Are you sure you don't want me to hang around?" she asked, shifting her darkly suspicious gaze from his face to her mom's. "You know, just in case you get dizzy again or … whatever?"

  "I'll be fine, sweetie, but thank you for being so considerate. Right now, I need to speak with Rafe alone, if you don't mind."

  "Okay, but I'll be upstairs if you need me." As fierce as a little commando, Lyssa shot him a warning look before heading up the stairs. Both amused and oddly proud, he watched her take each step slowly. The amusement fled when he realized she was limping very badly. What was it Jarrod had said? That she'd nearly lost her leg?

  Danni caught the direction of his gaze and frowned. "We'll talk in the kitchen."

  Before waiting for an answer, she turned and led the way. The view from the rear was even more mouthwatering, he decided as he allowed himself a long, lingering look. Tired as he was, his body responded instantly.

  The kitchen was full of rich smells and had a homey feeling that had been missing the night he'd made coffee. Then it had felt cold and empty. Now, with the rays of the setting sun just skimming the tops of the potted herbs in the window over the sink and pasta bubbling on the stove, it felt welcoming, somehow. The bleached pine table was set for two, with colorful china and pretty place mats. The part of him that remembered noisy family dinners and teasing laughter over rice and beans ached.

  "I'm not sure I should even talk to you, considering the way you just disappeared," she said as she walked directly to the stove and picked up a wooden spoon to stir the pasta boiling in a large kettle.

  Feeling awkward and out of place, he leaned his backside against one of the counters and crossed his arms. "Yes, well, about that—"