by Diana Palmer
“I’ve been shot a couple of times,” he mentioned, just to make sure she got the idea that a bash with a briefcase wasn’t going to do much damage.
“Poor old bullets,” she muttered.
His face went clean of all expression, but his chest convulsed a time or two.
She got out of the car and slammed the door. She walked around to the driver’s side and bent down. “I accept your apology.”
“I didn’t make any damned apology,” he shot right back.
“I’m sure you meant to. I expect you were raised to be a gentleman, it’s just that you’ve forgotten how.”
The sunglasses glittered. She moved back a little.
“Don’t you have anything to do? What the hell do they pay you for, and don’t tell me it’s for stand-up comedy.”
“Actually, I’m doing a brain-surgery-by-mail course,” she said pertly. “You’re first on my list of potential patients.”
“God forbid.” He slipped the car into gear.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Are you going to tell anyone about the brooch you found?”
“No,” he replied impatiently. “That brooch is my ace in the hole. I don’t want it publicized in case someone comes to claim the baby. I’ll mention it to selected people when it comes in useful.”
“Oh, I see,” she said at once. “You can rule out impostors. If they don’t know about the brooch, they’re not the baby’s mother.”
“Smart lady. Don’t mention it to anyone.”
“I wouldn’t think of it. You’ll let me know what you find out at the Kincaids’, won’t you?” she asked.
“Sure. But don’t expect miracles. I don’t think Dugin’s the father, and I don’t think we’re going to find the baby’s mother or any other relatives.”
“The baby is blond,” she said thoughtfully. “And so is Dugin.”
“A lot of men in this community are blond. Besides, have you forgotten that Dugin is engaged to Mary Jo Plummer? With a dish like that wearing his ring, he isn’t likely to be running around making other women pregnant.”
“And he could afford to send it away if it was his, or have it adopted,” she agreed. “Funny, though, isn’t it, for someone to leave a baby on his doorstep? What did his father say?”
“Jeremiah wasn’t there, according to Hensley. He’d been away and so Dugin called the law.”
“That isn’t like the Jeremiah Kincaid I know,” she mused. “It would be more in character for him to start yelling his head off and accusing Dugin of fathering it.”
“So I’ve heard.”
He didn’t say another word. Under that rough exterior, there had to be a heart somewhere. She kept thinking she might excavate it one day, but he was a hard case.
He gave her a curt nod, his mind already on the chore ahead. Dismissing her from his mind, he picked up the mike from his police radio and gave his position and his call letters and signed off. Without even a wave, he sped out of the parking lot.
She watched him until he was out of sight. She was feeling oddly vulnerable. There was a curious warm glow inside her as she went back into the office. She wished she understood her own reactions to the man. McCallum confused and delighted her. Of course, he also made her homicidal.
McCallum went out to the Kincaid ranch the next day, with the brooch in hand. He had some suspicions about that brooch, and it would be just as well to find out if anyone at the ranch recognized it.
When he drove up, the door was opened by Jeremiah himself. He was tall and silver haired, a handsome man in his late sixties. His son was nothing like him, in temperament or looks. Jeremiah had a face that a movie star would have envied.
“Come on in, McCallum, I’ve been expecting you,” Jeremiah said cordially. “Can I pour you a whiskey?”
Characteristically, the man thought everyone shared his own fondness for Old Grandad. McCallum, when he drank, which was rarely, liked the smoothness of scotch whiskey.
“No, thanks. I’m working,” McCallum replied.
“You cops.” Jeremiah shook his head and poured himself a drink. “Now,” he said, when they were seated on the elegant living room furniture, “how can I help you?”
McCallum pulled the brooch, in its plastic bag, out of his pocket and tossed it to the older man. Jeremiah stared at it for a long moment, one finger touching it lightly, reflectively. Then his head lifted.
“Nope,” he told McCallum without any expression. “Never saw this before. If it was something that belonged to anyone in this family, you’d better believe I’d recognize it,” he added.
He tossed it back to McCallum and lifted his glass to his lips. “What else can I tell you?”
“Was there anything on the baby that wasn’t turned in when Sheriff Hensley came?” McCallum persisted.
“Not that I’m aware of,” the other man said pleasantly. “Of course, I wasn’t home at the time, you know. I didn’t find out what had happened until the baby had been taken away. Hell of a thing, isn’t it, for a mother to desert her child like that!”
“I didn’t say it was deserted by its mother,” McCallum replied slowly.
Jeremiah laughed, a little too loudly. “Well, it’s hardly likely that the baby’s father would have custody, is it? Even in these modern times, most men don’t know what to do with a baby!”
“Apparently, some men still don’t know how to prevent one, either.”
Jeremiah grunted. “Maybe so.” He glanced at the younger man. “It isn’t Dugin’s. I know there’s been talk, but I asked the boy straight out. He said that since he got engaged to Mary Jo last year, there hasn’t been any other woman.”
“And you believe him?”
Jeremiah cleared his throat. “Dugin’s sort of slow in that department. Takes a real woman to, uh, help him. That’s why he’s waited so late in life to marry. Mary Jo’s a sweet little thing, but she’s a firecracker, too. Caught her kissing him one afternoon out in the barn, and by God if they didn’t almost go at it right there, standing up, in front of the whole world! She’s something, isn’t she, for a children’s librarian.”
McCallum’s eyes were on the lean hands holding the glass of whiskey. They were restless, nervous. Jeremiah was edgy. He hid it well, but not with complete success.
“It sounds as though they’ll have a good marriage.”
“I think so. She’s close to his age, and they sure enjoy being together. Pity about your boss’s marriage,” he added with a shrug, “but his wife always was too brainy for a man like that. I mean, after all, a cop isn’t exactly an Ivy League boy.” He noticed the look on McCallum’s face and cleared his throat. “Sorry. No offense meant.”
“None taken,” Sterling replied. He got to his feet. “If you think of anything that might help us, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Sure, sure. Look, that crack I made about cops not having much education…”
“I took my baccalaureate degree in science while I was in the navy,” he told Jeremiah evenly. “The last few years before I mustered out, I worked in Naval Intelligence.”
Jeremiah was surprised. “With that sort of background, why are you working for the sheriff’s department?”
“Maybe I just like small towns. And I did grow up here.”
“But, man, you could starve on what you make in law enforcement!”
“Do you think so?” McCallum asked with a smile. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Kincaid.”
He shook hands with the man and left, thinking privately that he’d rather work for peanuts in law enforcement than live the sort of aimless existence that Jeremiah Kincaid did. The man might have silver hair, but he was a playboy of the first order. He was hardly ever at home, and Dugin certainly wasn’t up to the chore of taking care of a spread that size.
Speaking of Dugin…McCallum spotted him near the toolshed, talking to a younger man, and walked toward him.
Dugin shaded his eyes against the sun. He was tall and fair, in his forties, and he was mild-mannered
and unassuming. He’d always seemed younger than he was. Perhaps it was because his father had always overshadowed him. Dugin still lived at home and did most everything his father told him to. He smiled and held out his hand when McCallum reached him.
“Nice day, isn’t it?” Dugin asked. “What can I do for you, Deputy? And how’s the kid?”
“She’s fine. They’re placing her in care until the case comes up. Listen, do you know anything that you haven’t told the sheriff? Was there anything else with the baby that wasn’t turned in?”
Dugin thought for a minute and shook his head. “Not a thing. It isn’t my kid,” he added solemnly. “I hear there’s been some talk around Whitehorn about my being the father, but I’m telling you, I don’t know anything. I wouldn’t risk losing Mary Jo for any other woman, Deputy. Just between us,” he added wryly, “I wouldn’t have the energy.”
McCallum chuckled. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Keep in touch with us about the case, will you?” Dugin asked. “Even though it’s not my child, I’d still like to know how things come out.”
“Sure.”
McCallum walked slowly back to his patrol car, wondering all the way why the baby had been left here, and with Dugin. There had to be a clue. He should have shown that cameo to Dugin, but if Jeremiah didn’t recognize it, there was little point in showing it to his son. As Jeremiah had suggested, if it were a family heirloom, he would have recognized it immediately.
It was a lazy day, after that. McCallum was drinking coffee in the Hip Hop Café with his mind only vaguely on baby Jennifer and her missing parents. He was aware of faint interest from some of the other diners when his portable walkie-talkie made static as it picked up a call. Even though most people in Whitehorn knew him, he still drew some curiosity from tourists passing through. He was a good-looking man with a solid, muscular physique that wasn’t overdone or exaggerated. He looked powerful, especially with the gun in its holster visible under his lightweight summer jacket.
The call that came over the radio made him scowl. He’d had enough of Jessica Larson the day before, but here she was after him again. Apparently there was a domestic disturbance at the Colson home, where a young boy lived with his father and grandmother.
Sterling went out to the car to answer the call, muttering all the way and as he sat down and jerked up the mike.
“Why is Miss Larson going?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, K-236,” the dispatcher drawled, using his call letters instead of his name. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you on an open channel.”
“I’ll see that you get a Christmas present for being such a good boy,” McCallum drawled back.
There was an unidentified laugh as McCallum hung up and drove to the small cottagelike Colson house on a dirt road just out of town.
He got there before Jessica did. If there was a fight going on here, it wasn’t anything obvious. Terrance Colson was sitting on the porch cleaning his rifle while his mother fed her chickens out back in the fenced-in compound. The boy, Keith, was nowhere in sight. Terrance was red-faced and seemed to have trouble holding the rifle still.
“Afternoon, McCallum!” Terrance called pleasantly. “What can I do for you?”
McCallum walked up on the porch, shook hands with the man and sat down on one of the chairs. “We had a report, but it must have been some crank,” he said, looking around.
“Report of what?” Terrance asked curiously.
Before McCallum could answer, Jessica came driving up in her rickety yellow truck. She shut it off, but it kept running for a few seconds, knocking like crazy. That fan belt sounded as if it were still slipping, too. He’d noticed it the night at the bus station.
She got out, almost dropping her shoulder bag in the dirt, and approached the house. McCallum wondered just how many of those shapeless suits she owned. This one was green, and just as unnoticeable as the others. Her hair was up in a bun again. She looked the soul of business.
“Well, hello, Miss Larson,” Terrance called. “We seem to be having a party today!”
She stopped at the steps and glanced around, frowning. “We had a call at the office…” she faltered for a moment “…about a terrible fight going on out here. I was requested to come and talk to you.”
Terrance looked around pointedly, calling her attention to the peaceful surroundings. “What fight?”
She sighed. “An unnecessary call, I suppose,” she said with a smile. “I’m sorry. But as I’m here already, do you think I might talk to Keith for a minute? He told his counselor at school that he’d like to talk to me when I had time.”
Terrance stared at her without blinking. “Funny, he never said anything to me about it. And he’s not here right now. He’s out fishing.”
“Do you think I could find him?” she asked persistently.
“He goes way back in the woods,” he said quickly. “It’s not a good time. He came home in a real bad mood. Best to leave him alone until he cools down.”
She shrugged. “As you wish. But do tell him that I’ll be glad to listen any time he wants to talk about those school problems.” She didn’t add that she wondered why he couldn’t tell them to the counselor, who was a good psychologist.
“I’ll tell him,” Terrance said curtly.
“Good day then.” She smiled at Terrance, nodded at McCallum and went to climb back into her truck.
McCallum said his own goodbye, wondering why Mrs. Colson never came out of the chicken pen to say hello the whole time he was there. And Terrance’s expression had hardened when he’d mentioned the boy. Odd.
He climbed into the patrol car and gave his call sign and location, announcing that he was back in service again. He followed after Jessica’s sluggish truck and wondered if she was going to make it back into town.
When she parked her car at the office, he drove in behind her. The squealing of her fan belt was louder than ever. She really would have to do something about it when she had time.
“Your fan belt is loose,” he told her firmly. “It’s going to break one day and you’ll be stranded.”
“I know. I’m not totally stupid.”
He got out of the car and walked with her to the office, not making a comment back, as he usually did. He seemed deep in thought. “Something funny’s going on out at that place,” he said suddenly. “Old Mrs. Colson hiding out with the chickens, Keith nowhere in sight, Terrance cleaning his gun, but without any gun oil….”
“You have a very suspicious mind,” she accused gently. “For heaven’s sake, do you always go looking for trouble? I’m delighted that there wasn’t anything to it. I know the family, and they’re good people. It’s Keith who gives them fits. He’s been into one bout of trouble after another at school since he was in the fifth grade. He’s a junior now, and still getting into fights and breaking rules. He was picked up with another boy for shoplifting, although Keith swore he was innocent and the officers involved believed him. I’ve been trying to help the family as much as possible. Terrance lost his job at the manufacturing company that shut down last fall, and Milly is trying to make a little money by taking in ironing and doing alterations for the dry cleaners. The Colsons are hurting, but they’re too proud to let me help much.”
He frowned thoughtfully. “Isn’t that the way of it?” he asked quietly. “The people who need help most never ask for it. On the other hand, plenty who don’t deserve it get it.”
She glowered up at him. “You’re so cynical, McCallum! Don’t you believe anybody can be basically good?”
“No.”
She laughed and shook her head. “I give up. You’re a hopeless case.”
“I’m in law enforcement,” he pointed out. “What we see doesn’t lead us to look for the best in people.”
“Neither does what I see, but I still try to believe in basic goodness,” she replied.
He looked down at her for a long moment, letting his eyes linger on her soft mouth and straight nose before they lifted
to catch her eyes.
“No, you don’t,” he said abruptly. “How can you still believe? What happens is that you just close your eyes to the ugliness. That’s what most people do. They don’t want to know that human beings can do such hideous things. Murder and robbery and beatings are so unthinkable that people pretend it can’t occur. Then some terrible crime happens to them personally, and they have to believe it.”
“You don’t close your eyes to it,” she said earnestly. “In fact, you look for it everywhere, even when you have to dig to find it. You have to try to rise above the ugliness.”
His eyes darkened. He turned away. “I work for a living,” he said lazily. “I haven’t got time to stand around here socializing with you. Get that fan belt seen to.”
She looked after him. “My goodness, do I really need a big, strong man to tell me how to take care of myself?”
“Yes.”
He got into his car, leaving her aghast, and drove off.
Five
For several days, McCallum scoured the area for any clues as to the identity of the baby called Jennifer. He checked at every clinic and doctor’s office in the area, as well as the local hospital and those in the surrounding counties. But every child’s parents were accounted for. There were no leftover babies at any of the medical facilities. Which meant that the baby had probably been born at home, and a midwife had attended the birth. There were plenty of old women in the community who knew how to deliver a baby, and McCallum knew that he could spend years searching for the right person. Prospects looked dismal.
He was just leaving the office for lunch when Jessica Larson walked up to him on the street.
“I need to get your opinion on something,” she said, and without preamble, caught his big, lean hand in hers and began to drag him off toward a parked car nearby.
“Now, hold it,” he growled, hating and loving the feel of her soft hand in his.
“Don’t grumble,” she chided. “It won’t hurt a bit. I just want you to talk to these young people for me before they make a big mistake.” She paused at the beat-up old Chevy, where two teenagers sat guiltily in the front seat. They didn’t look old enough to be out of school.