by Jule McBride
Her voice, so full of accusation, hit him like a blow. “She’s my daughter, too,” he said as he braked for a light. He turned in the seat and looked at her just as her mouth dropped open in astonishment and one of her hands flew up to cover it.
“I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”
When she blinked, a tear fell, zigzagging a rivulet down her cheek. She slid next to him and pressed her face against his arm. “Aren’t you scared?”
“Yeah,” he said softly.
“How can you stay so calm?”
I have to be strong for you. “It’s my job,” he said.
And then Cyn began to sob, her fingers closing around his arm, as if she’d never let him go. He wished he were a better, smarter, tougher man. A man who could have kept her safe. Right now he would give his own life to place his daughter in her mother’s arms again.
Yeah, this was his job, he thought. And he’d been in this position many times. He’d been forced to watch and wait, listen and investigate. But the object he sought had never been his own flesh and blood. Or the child of the woman he now knew he loved.
* * *
“ANGELO MAY HAVE TAKEN Amanda?” Cyn asked shakily, for the umpteenth time, as Santa pulled the car to a curb in Spanish Harlem.
Santa wanted to say that in such cases even one’s best friend could be the culprit, but didn’t. He surveyed the old tenement walk-up and shook out his fingers; they ached from clutching the wheel. He and Cyn had made loops through Queens, the Bronx and Jersey before a call had come. The motorcycle was a messenger bike from Too Sweet. And it was assigned to Angelo Garcia. “How well do you know him?”
“Just to look at.”
Cyn’s fury was barely contained. Her reddened eyelids were still puffy, but her eyes had regained a steely expression. The woman was nothing if not a survivor. From the look of her, Santa knew he’d have to kill Garcia pretty quickly, otherwise Cyn would beat him to the punch. “I want you to stay in the car,” he said.
“No way,” she snapped, pushing open her door.
He got out, then surveyed her over the hood. “Doesn’t look like a great neighborhood,” he said, glancing around. Down the block was a burned-out building. Across the street, a wheelless car had clearly been stripped. Graffiti marred every vertical surface.
“And so you’re going to leave me in the car?” she shot back, almost sounding like her old self.
He circled the car and headed toward the steps. “C’mon—but stay behind me.”
The outer and lobby doors were both wide open. In the hallways, paint peeled from the walls. All the way up to the fourth floor Santa kept wishing he had his gun. If Garcia had Amanda—which Santa hoped he did—all hell could break loose.
“Stand back.” He paused at the apartment door and waited until Cyn was positioned behind him. Then he rang the bell.
After a moment a woman began calling questions through the door in rapid-fire Spanish. A twinge of pain touched Santa’s heart; it had been years since he’d heard a voice so like his mother’s. The woman was looking through the peephole and not seeing him.
“Delivery,” Santa called.
When the door swung open, an elderly woman peered up at him. She was dressed in black, wearing an apron, and her long silver hair was piled on her head. “Delivery?” she asked in English. “What delivery?”
“I’m looking for Angelo Garcia,” Santa said.
The woman’s face lit up in smiles. “Come in, come in,” she said, pulling Santa into the room. Cyn followed. Sounds of happy, chattering children floated down from the farthest reaches of the apartment. Just as the door closed, a twentyish man wearing running pants and a hooded sweatshirt strode into the room. He stopped in his tracks. “Ms. Sweet?”
With a sinking heart, Santa realized that the scene was all wrong. Amanda wasn’t here. The place smelled of ham and turkey and strong coffee. A tree was thoughtfully decorated with beautiful handmade ornaments. The head of a hiding child suddenly popped up from behind the sofa. Angelo Garcia was looking at them with watchful concern. To find so much homeyness in such a bad neighborhood reminded Santa of his own childhood and nearly broke his heart. These were people who struggled to love each other, and who did so, in spite of the odds against them.
“We’re trying to locate your messenger bike,” Cyn finally said. “It’s missing from the garage.”
Angelo’s lips parted in worry. “I parked it and turned in the key, like I always do.” He shrugged. “There are always more robberies around the holi—” His eyes narrowed. “You’ve been crying. What’s wrong?”
“We have to find your bike,” Santa said.
“What happened?” Angelo’s eyes shot between Santa and Cyn.
“We just—” Cyn’s voice caught, but she quickly steadied it. “Hoped you might know something.”
Angelo stared at them, with his hands on his hips. Then he started yelling in Spanish as he pulled a leather jacket from the closet. He shrugged into it, then dug a pair of sneakers from under the sofa.
He was just tying his laces, when the elderly woman—probably his grandmother, Santa thought—appeared again, now yelling at the top of her lungs and carrying two brown paper bags and a thermos. Santa remembered enough Spanish to get the gist. Without even knowing why they were looking, Angelo was ducking out of a family dinner to help. After some negotiation, the woman gave Angelo a set of car keys.
Realizing what was happening, Cyn said, “You don’t have to do this. I mean, we appreciate it, but—”
“It’s Christmas—” Angelo leaned and quickly kissed his grandmother. “And one look at you guys tells me this ain’t about a lost bike.”
At the door, the woman put her hand on Cyn’s sleeve and handed her a bag of food and the thermos. “Everything is okay? No?”
Santa watched as those infernal tears shimmered in Cyn’s eyes again. “I hope it will be,” she whispered.
* * *
“WANT TO SPLIT THE LAST of the coffee?” Cyn asked as she squinted blindly through the windshield. Nearly all the lights in all the houses in Paramus, New Jersey, had been extinguished, and Santa swerved in a wide arc on the curving road with only the Christmas lights to guide him. The many trees on one large lawn had been strung with tiny white lights, but the trees themselves were invisible in the darkness. Looking at those lights, strewn like diamonds tossed against the black sky, Cyn couldn’t help but feel as if Santa were driving through the air and above the chimney’s...right into the sky and the stars.
“Sure,” Santa finally whispered. “Coffee might be good.”
Cyn nodded, then glanced at the digital clock as she poured from the thermos Mrs. Garcia had given them. Hours had passed. Each minute of each one had felt like eternity. Her body ached from sitting at attention, the pain in her shoulders was nearly unbearable, and her head was throbbing.
“Here, Santa.” After he’d taken the cup, her fingers lingered on his sleeve for comfort. Then she found a foam cup and poured herself the dregs. She drank with one hand and kept the other on the car phone.
It was three in the morning. At nine it had been established that not even blowups of the photographs rendered anything useful. At ten, Santa had forced her to eat one of Mrs. Garcia’s sandwiches. At eleven, convinced the person they sought was from Too Sweet, they’d staked out Bob Bingley’s house. He’d arrived home in a cab, half-inebriated, with a tall redhead hanging from his arm like a stocking. Kidnapping had been the last thing on his mind. At midnight, it had officially become Christmas Eve. And at one, Analise had driven to Evan Morrissey’s house to discuss what was happening.
It had been decided that only Evan would be told. Bob, ever the party animal, had been too full of holiday cheer to be of use. Clayton Woods already felt guilty enough. And Santa and the Sweets couldn’t have cared less about how tomorrow’s widely publicized promotion should be handled. They just wanted to keep the story out of the press and find Amanda.
When the phone rang, Cyn snatched the receiver to her e
ar. “Yes?”
“I’m calling from a pay phone off the West Side Highway.”
She felt disappointment set in. “Angelo,” she said to Santa. Pulling the mouthpiece closer, she said, “I want to thank you for all your help.”
“No problem, but I’ve got to get my grandmother’s car back to her now. She’s working an early shift tomorrow....”
Cyn nodded as Angelo listed the territories he’d covered. He’d been down every street and alley in Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx and Staten Island.
“Thank you so much, Angelo,” she managed to say again before replacing the receiver. Somehow she swallowed the rest of her coffee. Just as she crumpled the cup, her bloodshot eyes met Santa’s.
For hours neither one of them had wanted to say it. The unspoken words had hung in the air. “We’ve got to go home,” Cyn whispered now. “We’ve got to sleep.”
For sixteen hours Santa had remained as he was now—hunched over the wheel, his eyes roving from one side of the windshield to the other. He loves her, Cyn thought. Why hadn’t she let him tell Amanda that he was her father? What if he doesn’t have the chance? “Don’t even think it,” Cyn said aloud.
“What?”
Cyn shook her head. “Sorry, I’m just—”
“Beat,” he finished.
“The police know what they’re doing,” Cyn said softly. “They’re looking, too. They’ll look all night.”
After a long moment, Santa stopped the car, backed into a driveway, then turned around. He headed toward Manhattan again. As he did so, sheer defeat crossed his features. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, but it made Cyn feel nearly as helpless as the fact that Amanda was gone. She slid next to him and rested her head against his shoulder. “Santa?”
“Hmm?”
Her mouth went dry and she swallowed around the lump in her throat. “No matter what happens,” she said. “I know how much you love her and...”
“And?”
“And I love you, Santa.”
He didn’t say anything, just swallowed once himself. Good and hard.
* * *
SANTA COULDN’T BEAR to enter the apartment. Amanda wasn’t there. Paxton was asleep in a reclining armchair, a plaid coverlet pulled over his suit. The phone was in his lap, and his hand still rested on the receiver. Analise was asleep on the sofa.
Cyn nodded toward the hallway. Before tonight, Santa couldn’t have imagined Cyn looking less than perfect. But she did. Her hair was stringy from where she’d raked her fingers through it all day, and her eyes were more red than green. Tension made her face look tight.
He’d never needed her more. He stopped beside his door, reached out and caught her hand. “Good night,” he whispered.
He didn’t know what her eyes said in return. That he was a fool, maybe. That tonight everything was different. That they were too old and too tired to play games. “I need you with me,” she said simply.
He pulled her close and hugged her, squeezing her tight. When he released her, he merely nodded.
In her room they didn’t turn on the light but fell across the bed. “I feel guilty sleeping,” she murmured in the darkness. “I don’t think I can.”
“You can,” he said softly. He sat and slipped her shoes from her feet. “Where is your nightgown?”
“My dress is fine.” Her voice was little more than a croak.
He rolled off the bed and headed for her chest of drawers.
“Second drawer,” she whispered. He found something flannel and warm. Behind him he could hear her undressing. “Here, Cyn.” He tugged her sleeves free, then folded the garment and laid it over the arm of a chair. Then he pulled her gown over her head. He mechanically stripped to his boxers, then slid beneath the covers and wrapped her in his arms. Her own circled around his neck. She settled on top of him, burying her face in his chest.
“I feel as if...”
Her voice trailed off and her breathing steadied, becoming even. Santa was sure she had fallen asleep. He needed her more tonight than he’d ever thought he could need anyone. Even though she lay on top of him, she was the only thing anchoring him to the world.
“If...” she began again.
“What, Cyn?” His palms rubbed over the warm flannel of her gown, molding to the contours of her back.
“If I go to sleep,” she murmured, “we won’t find her.”
“We’ll find her.” And they would. He would. He had to.
“Can you sleep?”
“Yeah,” he lied, knowing he couldn’t. “I think I can.”
“I’ve never felt so alone.” Her voice was so low he could barely hear it. Any second she really would drift off.
“You’re not alone,” he said. You’ll never have to be alone if you don’t want to be. “I’m here. Right beside you.”
She inched upward, and her lips sought his. He kissed her back slowly, feeling a comfort that transcended passion. Her lips said that bad things happened to good people, and that they were there for each other.
He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the kiss deepened, until that comfort only she could offer turned to passion. And yet, what he felt wasn’t so much her lips and tongue, or how her belly curved against his aroused body, but her trust, her love, and her ability to give.
She moved slowly on top of him in the darkness and lifted her gown, while his hands slipped beneath it and slowly glided over her breasts. As she slid his shorts down his thighs, her nipples grew taut against his palms.
He kicked his shorts from his ankles, then pulled her fully on top of him. He shut his eyes, giving himself over to the sensations of her mouth on his. If their first kiss tonight had been of comfort only, this one was nearly feverish. Their tongues touched in an increasingly desperate desire to forget all that had happened.
Cyn moaned softly as her long legs opened and trailed down the sides of his thighs. His flattened palms curved around her waist and downward. Cupping her silken backside, he lifted her.
For just a heartbeat—when she touched him, to guide him inside her—his lips forgot how to kiss. As she sank slowly onto the length of him, he drew her closer and closer, inch by inch, until his arms tightly circled her waist.
He made love to her by barely moving. He nested inside the safe, warm haven she offered, until her breath became nothing more than catching sighs. He was sure he couldn’t wait for her, but then she exhaled a soft sound of surprise that wasn’t quite a moan, and rocked against him, over and over.
For the next minute all he could see was blackness. Then, in his mind, an arching stream of white-hot fire seemed to cut through the darkness. His muscles tensed until they were as hard and as rigid as steel. His hands gripped her backside and he drove her down on him, hard, as his hips thrust off the mattress to meet her. He exploded, feeling as if there could be no end to it. He so desperately wanted to savor this moment of forgetfulness.
“Oh, Cyn,” he whispered, running his hands over her back.
She shuddered against him and brushed a hand over his head. She’d meant to smooth his hair but she was too tired, and her palm merely dropped onto his forehead. He wished he’d said something in the car when she’d said she loved him. All he’d been able to think was that he’d nearly had his family—only to lose Amanda.
“Cyn?”
He was sure she was asleep now. He said it anyway. “I love you, too.”
Chapter Twelve
Saturday, December 24, 1994
“Just let her sleep,” Santa muttered softly. It was 10 a.m. He hadn’t slept at all until dawn. Now he was out of the shower and already in his trousers. As he buttoned the newly laundered shirt he’d brought in from the guest room, he watched Cyn’s shoulders rise and fall.
The sleeves of her gown were pushed to her elbows, and the spread was bunched around her waist. One of her feet peeked out at the foot of the bed. He could see only half her face; the other was pressed into her pillow. The tightness around her eyes had vanished, and her lips w
ere curled into a near smile. She looked so untroubled that Santa decided to let her sleep, at least until he’d called the police station and picked up the newspapers.
He tucked in his shirt, still watching her and wondering what would become of their relationship. Then he shrugged into his jacket and headed for the kitchen phone. In the living room, Analise and Paxton had barely moved. Nothing like a heavy sleep to cure us of reality, he thought, as he strode down the hallway. He wished he was the proverbial sandman, and that he could send them all to the land of dreams until he’d found Amanda.
He wasn’t hungry, but he grabbed a knife from a drawer and a piece of fruit from a basket on the kitchen table. He was halfway through both dialing and peeling before he realized he’d gotten himself a pear rather than an apple.
“Officer O’Malley,” he said when a receptionist came on the line. The man in charge of the case had the decency to answer on the first ring. Good. He’s been looking. “This is Anton Santa. Any news?”
“We’re still working on it. All we’ve got to go on is the bike, and it’s so small it could be anywhere.”
Santa wasn’t surprised. If there’d been a break in the case, the ringing phone would have awakened the house by now. “I’m going back to Too Sweet,” Santa said. “I’ll start interviewing employees again.”
“You’ll find a Detective Black over there.” O’Malley exhaled a cop’s world-weary sigh. “He’s been there all morning.”
“Thanks. We appreciate all you’re doing.”
“This kind of thing’s a real nightmare,” O’Malley returned. “A shame on the holidays. We’ll do everything we can to find the girl.”
“She’s my daughter,” Santa found himself saying.
“I thought you were the body—”
“Yes. And she’s my daughter.”
“I understand, sir,” O’Malley said gently, just before he hung up.
He didn’t have a clue, Santa thought, trashing the pear core and silently heading down the hall. Just as quietly, he opened the front door and shut it behind him. As he waited for the elevator, his mind replayed the thousand times he’d looked into someone’s eyes and said, “I understand.”