by Nora Roberts
“Right.”
“Had to take the pooch out again right before sunrise. You ever wonder why people have a dog if they’re going to have to drag their butt out of bed before dawn so it can water the petunias?”
“Yes, actually. I’ve been giving that specific arrangement a good deal of thought lately.”
Amusement glimmered. “Kid wants a puppy?”
“You’re an ace detective, Bull. Yes, she does.”
“Well. This particular dog’s doing what she needs to do, and that’s when Lulu’s mommy reports she saw Arnie…” Sykes flipped open his book, thumbed pages. “‘Strutting out of Mayleen Hathaway’s front door like the top rooster on the dunghill.’”
“Well, that clears him on this.”
“Too damn bad. But I could tell you he’s going to deserve this Mayleen, who has the breasts of a goddess, the brains of a peanut and the wrath of a wounded pitbull.” His smile was hard and brief. “I do believe she’s going to make his life a living hell for some time. Add his wife making it the same at home, and he’s not in a cozy spot right at the moment.”
“I’m feeling small enough, between you and me, to tell you that’s nice to hear.”
“I’m going to check with CS, see if they’ve got anything more on the victim’s car. Bastard shed a hair, they’re going to find it, Lieutenant.”
“Maybe you can do that on the way. I’ve got some avenues I’d like to explore. I could use you. Legwork first, then we’ll deal with the rest of the interviews and follow-ups by phone from here. I’ll explain on the way to the first.”
She picked up her bag, then set it back down when she spotted Sergeant Meeks striding into the squad room. “Give me a few minutes here first, will you, Detective?”
He glanced around, and his face hardened. “I’m happy to stand right here, wait till you’re ready to go.”
“No need. Just give me a minute.”
The look on his face said he’d do that, and he’d be watching the office while he did. Sykes and Meeks faced each other in the doorway like, Phoebe thought, a couple of tough mongrel dogs. Not so different in build, she noted, or in sensibility, she supposed, when it came to protecting their territories.
But so much different in approach.
Sykes spoke without taking his eyes off Meeks. “I’ll be right out at my desk, Lieutenant, when you’re ready.”
“Thank you, Detective. Sergeant?”
“Lieutenant.”
She kept the neutral expression on her face as Sergeant Meeks firmly shut her office door.
“Something I can do for you this morning?”
“You got hurt,” he began, “and my son lost his badge over it. His wife and his own son are upset and embarrassed.”
“I regret your daughter-in-law and grandson are troubled by the fact that your son put me in the hospital, Sergeant Meeks.” Her voice was Southern cream over cold steel. “My own family was, and is, considerably troubled by that event, too. Particularly my seven-year-old daughter.”
“The circumstances of your injuries aside, when you take on the badge, you take on the risks. A woman with a young child should consider that before going into law enforcement.”
“I see. And I see where your son picked up his opinion of women on the job. Was there something else, Sergeant, because regardless of your opinion of my choice of career, I have work to do.”
Nothing, not a flicker of the rage she knew had to be burning inside him, crossed his face. And there, Phoebe thought, was the control his son sadly lacked.
“You’re going to want to watch how you play this.”
“Is that another opinion, or is that a threat?”
“I don’t make threats,” Meeks said evenly. “You got some bruises, and they look healed up to me. But my son doesn’t have his badge or his reputation.”
“He’s not in jail either.”
“Is that what you want? Is that why you sent a man to his workplace to question him? You sent men to take him out of his house and haul him in for questioning in front of his family, his neighbors. You questioned his wife.”
“What I want is not relevant. His prior actions earned him the questioning, and he wouldn’t have been hauled out of his home in front of his family and his neighbors if he hadn’t taken a swing at Detective Sykes. Or didn’t you receive that portion of the report?” She angled her head. “Should I have a copy sent to you?”
“If he was provoked—”
“You make excuses for him all you like, as his father. But when you come into this office in uniform, you also represent this department. That’s somethingyou better remember. I notice you’re not complaining that I also sent a man to question your son’s married lover in order to verify his alibi for the time in question. Or wasn’t she on your list?”
She saw it hit, that one instant of surprise and disappointment. Then his eyes went flat. “The deal was struck, Lieutenant Mac Namara. If you keep harassing my son, I’ll take my complaints to the DA, to the chief of police and to the mayor.”
“You’re free to take your complaints to whomever you like, Sergeant.” The edge of her anger was a hot blade carving up her spine. “Before you do, I’m going to point out that rather than answer questions in his own home, or requesting that said questioning be done elsewhere, your son verbally harassed and threatened two of my officers, and assaulted one of them. I could see that his probation is rescinded and he do the time at Georgia State.”
She let that hang, let it steep. Then, placing the palms of her hands on her desk, leaned forward.
“And, oh yes, Sergeant Meeks, we’ll be honest. I can’t think of many things I’d like more. But for now? I’m going to suggest that instead of you coming in here and throwing your weight around my office, or trying to make me shiver with tossing around your fishing and golf buddies, you consider getting your son some professional help. Because you know what? That anger management? It doesn’t seem to be doing him much good.”
“If you think you’re going to lay this murder charge on him—”
“I do not think any such thing. He’s cleared of that. And by clearing him—a person known, without question, to have an unhealthy dislike of me—we can now focus on other leads and avenues in the matter of the murder of Roy Squire. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way to do just that.”
“You didn’t have to drag him out of his own home in cuffs.”
He sounded tired now, she noted. She felt the same damn way. Anger was energizing, but when it started to drip away with fatigue, it could easily form into bitterness.
“No, and he wouldn’t have been if he hadn’t called Detective Alberta a fucking cunt among other pleasantries, and taken a swing at Detective Sykes while threatening to beat him bloody. He swung at Alberta, too, and those officers were forced to subdue him.
“I believe your son is twenty-seven years old? I hope to God in twenty years’ time my daughter’s woman enough to stand up for herself, and doesn’t need her mama to do it for her.”
Phoebe wrenched open the door. “Don’t you come around here anymore to rattle your saber at me. You go right on to IAB, or the chief, the mayor or the damn governor of Georgia. But don’t you come here again to push your face into mine over your pathetic offspring.”
She swung out into the squad room. “Detective Sykes? Would you come with me now?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sykes pushed back from his desk, didn’t bother to disguise the snarky grin as he looked over at Sergeant Meeks. Then he strolled out in Phoebe’s wake.
She started with the oldest case first. She’d been Special Agent Mac Namara then. Still fresh from Quantico. She wouldn’t meet Roy for another few weeks, she remembered.
A pretty day, late fall, a breeze stirring the air.
Her hair had been longer then, hadn’t it? Yes, past her shoulders in those days, and she’d habitually pulled it back into a twist or knot because she’d thought it looked more official. More professional.
And be
cause it made her feel sexy at the end of the day to pull out the pins and let it fall free.
Ava was still in the suburbs. Carter in high school and gangly with a growth spurt. And Mama’s world shrunk down to a square of about six blocks, but no one talked about it then.
“Botched kidnapping. Woman walked out of a hospital nursery down in Biloxi with a newborn baby girl. Posed as a nurse. She brought the baby here, to Savannah, to pass it off as her own. This was a surprise to her husband, who believed she’d gone south to visit her sister for a few days. She told him that she’d found the baby, abandoned, that it was a sign from God, as she hadn’t been able to conceive in their eight years of marriage, despite spending several thousand dollars on fertility treatments.”
“He buy that?”
“He did not. But he loved her.”
She sat at a light. Over the hum of the car’s AC, she heard the clip-clop as a mounted cop turned into the park.
“He’d also seen the news reports on this stolen baby girl, and put it together. He tried to talk to his wife—Brenda Anne Falk, age thirty-four. She wouldn’t listen. Couldn’t he see how that baby had her eyes? He called her sister, whom she had never seen on that trip south, and her parents, who were frightened and concerned. Then, not knowing what else to do, he tried to take the baby away from her.”
Phoebe stopped in front of a tidy office building. And continued when Sykes joined her on the sidewalk. “She got her husband’s thirty-two revolver, pointed it at his head and told him to put her baby down, that it was time for her nap.”
“Off the tracks.”
“Well off.” Inside the building, Phoebe pushed the button on the elevator. “He was afraid the baby could be hurt, so he put her down, tried to reason with his wife, who proceeded to shoot him.”
“Off the tracks and over the cliff.”
“Yes. Fortunately, she hit the meat of his bicep for a through-and-through. She locked herself in with the baby, shoved the dresser in front of the door. He called the hotline number he’d seen on the TV bulletins. And shortly thereafter, I came on as negotiator.”
“The baby make it through?”
“Yes, the baby came out fine. Screaming—hungry by that time—but right as rain.” She could hear it, Phoebe realized, she could hear that baby crying in her head. “Brenda Anne Falk, however, did not make it through. After over two hours of negotiations, of believing I was getting through to her, she told me that she thought it was time she gave up after all. And by giving up, she meant putting that thirty-two to her temple and pulling the trigger.”
She stepped off the elevator, checked the names on the doors along the corridor, then opened the one markedcompass travel .
It was a small operation with two desks on opposite sides of the room and a long counter at the back. Stands held a bounty of brochures, while the walls were decorated with large posters of exotic locales.
She recognized Falk immediately, though his hair had thinned some, and there were glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He tapped keys on a computer, but Phoebe shook her head at the woman at the counter and stepped over to Falk’s desk.
“Excuse me, Mr. Falk?”
“That’s right. I’m happy to help you if you don’t mind waiting. Or Charlotte can help you now.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Falk, but I need to speak with you.” Phoebe palmed her badge so he could see it.
“Oh. Well, what…”
She saw it come, carving slowly through the puzzlement, that recognition, and the shock. And the shadow of old grief.
“I know you,” he said. “You were…you were talking to Brenda when she—”
“Yes, I was. I was with the FBI at that time. I’m Phoebe Mac Namara, Mr. Falk. I’m with the Savannah-Chatham Police Department. This is Detective Sykes.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Falk, is there somewhere private we can talk?”
He took his glasses off, set them on the desk. “Charlotte? Would you put the ‘Closed’ sign up and lock the door? Charlotte and I are engaged. I don’t need to be private from her. She knows everything about what happened with Brenda.”
Charlotte locked up, came immediately to Falk’s side. She was a pretty, sturdy-looking woman, and Phoebe judged her to be in her early forties. Her hand, with its simple, round-cut diamond ring, lay supportively on Falk’s shoulder.
“What’s this about?” she demanded.
“You’re getting married?”
“Two weeks from Friday.”
“Congratulations. Mr. Falk, I know you went through a very, very difficult time. You did the right thing, and I wasn’t able to help you.”
“I did the right thing?” His hand came up to squeeze Charlotte’s. “No, I didn’t.”
“Pete—”
“No, I didn’t,” he repeated. “I didn’t get help for Brenda. I knew how much she wanted a baby…I thought I knew,” he corrected. “But I didn’t get help for her. I didn’t see, didn’t want to see, didn’t look. We had a good life, didn’t we? That’s what I kept telling her. I bought her a kitten, like that was a substitute.”
“Oh, Pete, don’t—”
But he shook his head. “We were married eight years, and together nearly two before that, and I didn’t know what was inside her. That awful need. I didn’t see that what was inside her snapped. Going to her sister’s for a few days, well, hallelujah. That’s what I thought. She’d stop moping around one minute and rushing around the next. Shouldn’t I have seen something was broken in her?”
“I can’t tell you that, Mr. Falk.”
“Something was broken in her, and I never tried to fix it. She couldn’t live that way, couldn’t live with what was broken, knowing you were going to take the baby away.”
“Rough,” Sykes commented when they stepped out into the thick air.
“It’s a crappy thing to do, taking him back through that.”
“It’s a crappy thing to do, blowing some poor bastard to juice.” Sykes winced. “Sorry, Lieutenant, I forgot for a minute.”
“It’s all right. What’s your take on Falk?”
“He didn’t make you when you walked up to him, and our guy would. Maybe he’s a good actor, but it didn’t play for me. He’s got a nice woman, a decent business, what I’d say was a decent life. I don’t see him screwing it all for revenge.”
“Agreed.” She dug out her sunglasses. “Next on my list, geographically, is a casualty from a bank robbery. A spree—three men hit a couple of banks heading down from Atlanta, then tried for one here, where they ran into trouble. Radio car made their plates from an APB, called it in. There was gunplay in the initial phase, and a woman was hit. A few hours into negotiations I managed to talk them into letting us take her out. But it was too late. She was DOA before she made it to the hospital.”
“How’s that on you?”
“She died, and that’s enough.” She dug into her bag again when her phone rang. And frowned at the Unknown Caller display. “Phoebe Mac Namara.”
“Hi there, Phoebe.”
She signaled Sykes, who quickly stepped off to use his own phone to call in for a triangulation. “Who is this?”
“Your secret admirer, sweetheart. It sure was nice of Roy to have your cell phone logged into his. I wanted to check in, see how you were feeling. You looked upset when you left the station house this morning.”
Cupping the phone between her ear and shoulder, she dug in her bag for her notebook. “Aren’t you the bold one, coming around all those cops.”
Georgia cadence. Sounds satisfied, sarcastic.
“That doesn’t worry me. You know, Roy said you were a hell of a good lay.”
“You call me just to talk dirty, or do you have something to say?”
Sweetheart. Good lay. Intimidating the female.
“Just passing the time. Oh, you don’t want to waste yours trying to trace this. Isn’t it something, this age we live in, when you can walk into a place and buy some to
ss-away phone already loaded up with minutes? Didn’t see that pretty little girl of yours go into school this morning. Hope she’s not sick.”
Her pad shook in her hand, dropped onto the sidewalk. She had to bite back the rage, the absolutely blinding red flash of it. “Spying on little girls? That seems low for a clever man like you.”
Fighting to keep her voice cool, she squatted to pick up her book, and crouched there, continued writing notes.
Watching the house, the family. Wants me to know.
“Why don’t you and I get together and have a real conversation? Get down to the nitty.”
“We will, I promise you. We’ll have us a nice, long talk. You won’t know when or how or why until it happens.”
“Who was she? Did you love her? How’d she die?”
“We’ll talk about all that. You know, I could’ve taken out your boyfriend that night you had your romantic dinner on his boat. I had the shot. Maybe I’ll take it next time. Maybe I’ll give myself the green light on that. Bye, Phoebe.”
“He’s off,” Phoebe said to Sykes.
“Keep yours open, they’re going to try to triangulate off your signal.”
“Unregistered cell. He’ll have been moving while he was on with me. I could hear traffic. And he’ll have tossed the phone. He’s too smart not to ditch it.”
She looked around, down the street, across at a little strip of shops. He could be anywhere. He could’ve been driving right by while she was talking to him. How would she know?
Slowly, she straightened, then skimmed her notes. “I think he’s a cop.”
“What?”
“He’s smart, but he’s puffed up, too.”
“Smart and puffed up equals cop?”
“He needs to show he’s smarter and better.” She tapped her pen on her notebook. “He said he could’ve killed Duncan, taken him out, was how he put it, when we were having dinner on Duncan’s boat. I could’ve taken the shot, he said. And that he might give himself the green light next time.”