Alisha shook her head. “She doesn’t know.”
The words, so loaded with meaning, tugged at Taylor’s heart. She wondered how often Alisha was relegated to her room, how many lonely hours the little girl spent inside those four desolate walls.
Across the table, Taylor heard someone mutter something that sounded suspiciously like “pervert.” She glanced up sharply, just in time to see Nicholas Baker duck his head to keep her from seeing him laugh.
Nicholas was a classic troublemaker. His antics in the classroom were always designed to attract as much attention as possible. He was just the opposite of Alisha. Precocious, and not a little obnoxious, his behavior kept him in constant trouble with Quentin Thorndike, the headmaster at Claymore. But in spite of his problems, Nicholas was a likable kid, and a little too clever at times for his own good.
Taylor got up and walked around the table. She placed both hands on Nicholas’s shoulders. “Let’s see what you’ve done.” She reached down and picked up his drawing. As usual, the macabre scene utilized as many mutilated body parts as Nicholas could crowd onto the paper.
The child had talent, no question, but the gruesome subject matter of his drawings had always been a source of concern for his teachers.
Taylor suspected his grisly art was yet another way of attracting attention. The other children loved the monsters and the poor helpless victims Nicholas created, and Taylor had to admit it was astonishing to see how very much the monsters and demons from Nicholas’s imagination took on the visages of the people around him.
The green-eyed, forked tongue demon in this picture bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Thorndike. Taylor smothered a smile as she studied the drawing.
Nicholas and the little boy next to him snickered uncontrollably, obviously awaiting with bated breath for their teacher’s reaction.
“Very creative, Nicholas,” Taylor complimented. “I’m impressed. If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep this.”
Nicholas stared at her agog. She could almost hear the wheels turning inside his head. That’s it? No yelling or screaming? No trip to Old Man Thorndike’s office? No detention after school? You’re not even going to call my parents?
Taylor hid another smile as she moved on to the next child. “Let’s start putting the supplies away, boys and girls, then get your backpacks ready to go home.”
DILLON STOOD in the doorway of the classroom, watching Taylor as she wandered from student to student. She was a natural with the kids, moving with an unconscious grace that was an art form in itself. She wore jeans and a white cotton shirt that managed, even though they were loose fitting, to convey the impression of feminine curves and long, sexy legs.
Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and all but a faint trace of pink lipstick had long since been eaten away. Dillon was struck by how sweet she looked. How unpretentious she seemed.
He watched as she knelt beside a little blond girl and tried to coax a smile from the child. He couldn’t help grinning at the way she handled the two little demons who nudged each other and made kissy faces behind her back.
One of the little boys, the more vocal of the two, spotted Dillon in the doorway and said, “Hey, who’s the geezer?”
Taylor turned and visibly started when she saw Dillon. She walked across the room toward him.
“That kid called me a geezer,” he complained when Taylor followed him out into the hallway.
She laughed. “Don’t take it personally. Anyone over twenty is a geezer to Nicholas.” Her fingers toyed with the thin gold chain around her neck. She looked nervous, and Dillon wondered if, like him, she was thinking about the kiss they had shared.
As for himself, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it all day. His gaze lingered on her lips, making him remember vividly the way they had felt beneath his.
“How soon can you get away from here?” he asked her.
Taylor glanced at her watch. “Fifteen more minutes. Can you wait?” When he nodded, she said, “Why don’t you sit at my desk? I need to make sure all the art supplies are put away, and then I have to walk the kids back to their homerooms.”
As he entered the room, the sights and smells filled Dillon with nostalgia. He stared back at the faces gazing at him in open curiosity. Had he once been this young? He must have, but for the life of him, he couldn’t seem to remember. The things he’d seen and done as a cop had aged him, made him sometimes feel far older than his years.
Maybe he was a geezer, he decided wryly.
By comparison, Taylor still seemed so young. So untouched, though he knew her life hadn’t been easy. Money hadn’t bought her happiness.
Thinking again how different their backgrounds had been, Dillon watched her kneel beside the little blond girl. After a moment or two, the child broke into a smile. Her whole face lit up, reminding Dillon of a sunburst after a rainstorm. He wondered what Taylor had said to cause such a transformation.
It was obvious all the kids adored Taylor, even the dark-haired little hellion. He was tugging on her arm now, demanding attention. The boy said something, then pointed to Dillon. Taylor glanced up, caught Dillon’s eyes and blushed, leaving Dillon to wonder just what the hell the kid had said to her.
After they’d all gathered up their belongings and exited the room in single file behind Taylor, the classroom fell into an almost eerie silence. Absently Dillon picked up the drawing Taylor had placed on her desk and studied it.
Absorbed in the gruesome scene, he didn’t hear her return until she said from the doorway, “That child has quite an imagination as I’m sure you can tell.”
“Who the hell are his parents? Ax murderers?”
“Actually, I believe he lives with his grandmother.”
Taylor had discovered Nicholas’s parents were out of the country when she’d called to ask why they hadn’t responded to the note she’d sent home with Nicholas, requesting to meet with them in person. So far, the grandmother had refused to come in and talk to her, but Taylor wasn’t giving up. She’d been known to make house calls. Unannounced.
“So who is he?” Dillon asked.
“His name is Nicholas Baker.” Taylor began to straighten the already tidy supplies.
“You know what his problem is, don’t you?”
Taylor glanced up. “I have my suspicions, but I’d like to hear what you think.”
Dillon shrugged. “It’s pretty simple. Claymore Academy is a ritzy private school that caters to kids from privileged backgrounds. Judging by the clothes the kid had on, he comes from a working-class family. God only knows how they managed to get him admitted here. He feels inferior to the other kids, but he’ll be damned if he lets anyone know it.”
Taylor put away a stray crayon, then looked up. “I’m impressed. And you deduced all that in just fifteen minutes?”
“More or less.” Dillon shrugged again. “I guess I have the advantage of having been there, done that. I know exactly what it’s like to feel you don’t belong. It makes you do things…you wouldn’t ordinarily do.”
What was he trying to tell her? Taylor wondered. Was he trying to explain why he’d left ten years ago without telling her? Had his own insecurities driven him away?
Taylor found it difficult to believe. Although she knew better than anyone how hard it had been for Dillon to accept the disparity of their backgrounds, he wasn’t the kind of man to run away from his problems.
And yet he had left town. That fact remained indisputable.
“So what’s the story with the little girl?” Dillon said, as if to change the subject.
“Her name is Alisha Westcott. She’s Dr. Westcott’s daughter.”
He raised a brow but didn’t comment.
“I’m afraid the child’s badly neglected,” Taylor said. “I just hope it’s nothing worse.”
“You mean abused?”
“I don’t know.” Taylor bit her lip as she gazed in earnest at Dillon. Then she said, “When I see these unhappy children…when I thi
nk about all the years we’ve missed with our child…I sometimes can’t help feeling resentful. These parents are throwing away such a precious, precious gift.”
Dillon knew exactly what she meant. He’d always felt sorry for the kid down the hall in his building for having to spend so much time alone, but now Dillon found himself feeling anger toward the kid’s mother. How could she just ignore her responsibilities like that? How could she not want to spend time with a good kid like Casey?
“Why don’t you tell me what happened at the station today?” Taylor was saying. “Is the investigation into Brad’s death going to be reopened?”
“No.”
She stared at him incredulously. “No? But…what about the car that almost hit me last night? And the phone call I got this morning? The woman said Brad was murdered. Did you tell them that?”
“I told them everything,” Dillon said wearily. “But without any new evidence, hard evidence, the investigation won’t be reactivated. There are too many other cases on the books and not enough investigators to go around.”
“So Brad’s murderer just walks free?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It’s pretty clear,” Taylor said bitterly. “Unless you have an alternative.”
He paused for a moment, then glanced up at her. “I guess it’s up to us now. If you’re still willing to help me, that is.”
“I’ll do anything,” she said simply.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Look, it’s not going to be easy. Everything we do will have to be done unofficially, without sanctioning by the department. That means we won’t have access to information we could otherwise demand, nor will people feel they have to cooperate with us.”
Taylor thought for a moment. “What will this mean for you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you couldn’t interfere in another officer’s case. If you investigate Brad’s death as well as the Westcott Clinic, won’t that have repercussions for you in the department?”
He glanced away. “Don’t worry about it. I can handle the department.”
But Taylor had to worry. She was the one who had dragged Dillon into all this. She hated to think he might be putting his career on the line for her.
But what else could she do? Once, she’d tried to do the noble thing. She’d tried to put Dillon’s future ahead of her own needs, but this time the stakes were too high. If they had to sacrifice both their careers in order to learn the truth, Taylor would do so and gladly. Because all that mattered was finding her child.
Hers and Dillon’s.
She gazed up at him. An awareness passed between them, and Taylor felt herself tremble at his nearness. “She said our child is close, Dillon. Closer than we realize. That must mean he’s still in Memphis.”
“He or she. You can’t be sure the baby was a boy. If they lied about the baby dying, then they could have lied about the sex. We can’t be sure of anything at this point.”
A girl, Taylor thought. Her child might have been a little girl.
A vision of blond hair and blue eyes flashed across her mind. Alisha Westcott was nine years old. The same age as Taylor’s child. Dr. Westcott had delivered her baby. What if…
She put a trembling hand to her forehead. She had to stop this. Dillon was right. She couldn’t afford to dwell on fantasies. She had to be realistic. To think that Alisha Westcott could be their child was utterly ridiculous. Too much of a coincidence. Too much to hope for.
“What is it?” Dillon asked in concern.
“Nothing.” Taylor shook her head, dispelling the images. “I was just remembering what else the woman told me. She said to check the records. It’s all in the records.”
“Then I guess it’s time to pay the Westcott Clinic a little visit,” Dillon said grimly.
Chapter Ten
The Westcott Clinic, a two-story, pink-brick building with dozens of diamond-paned windows glinting in the afternoon sunlight, sat back from the main road on several acres of tree-shaded lawn.
A small, indiscreet sign placed in the brick wall that surrounded the wooded grounds announced the name of the facility, and a curving driveway led to a paved parking area in front of the building.
But other than those two things—and the sight of several women well along in their pregnancies strolling the grounds and reclining in lounge chairs under the giant pecan trees—the place might have been a very luxurious private home.
Brick steps led up to a wide covered porch with white wicker furniture and clay pots spilling over with scarlet geraniums. A ceiling fan whirled sluggishly overhead, barely stirring the warm, humid air.
Not exactly your typical hospital, Dillon thought as he opened the front door and stepped through.
A woman stood behind a counter talking on the phone. When she caught Dillon’s eye, she smiled and held up one finger, indicating she’d be with him in a moment.
Dillon used the opportunity to look around, resisting the urge to let out a whistle. The lobby was large and airy, with plenty of sunlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Framed paintings lined the pale pink walls, while statues and sculptures of varying subjects and sizes were strategically arranged on marble pedestals. Lacy ferns hung in front of the windows and huge crystal bowls of pink and white gladiolas adorned counters and tabletops.
“May I help you?” The receptionist had concluded her conversation and was smiling at him from across the counter.
“I’d like to speak to the administrator.”
A brief frown touched the woman’s brows. “What is this in regard to?”
He showed her his badge and ID. “I’m Sergeant Reeves, Memphis P.D.”
“Oh, dear.” The woman’s hand fluttered to her throat. She looked just flustered enough to cooperate without asking too many questions. “I’ll see if she’s in.”
Within moments Dillon was ushered into Allison St. James’s outer office. The secretary offered him coffee, which he declined, and then she went back to her work.
Absently Dillon picked up a magazine entitled Expectations. The pregnant model on the cover looked a little like Taylor. Blond hair, flawless complexion, blue eyes. The woman smiled radiantly for the camera and her eyes sparkled with joy.
Dillon wondered what Taylor had looked like when she was pregnant. Had she been radiant? Joyful?
Or had the haunted look he glimpsed in her eyes now been there even then? Had she been frightened to face her pregnancy alone? Was that why she’d married Robinson?
Who are you trying to kid?
Taylor had told him that she’d once loved Brad. There was no reason to assume she’d married him for any other reason.
No matter how much Dillon might want to believe otherwise.
“Sergeant Reeves? You may go in now.”
Dillon laid aside the magazine and got up. The secretary opened the door of the inner office for him and he walked through.
Allison St. James, the administrator of the Westcott Clinic, was a surprise. She was younger than Dillon had expected, probably no more than thirty-two or thirty-three, and very petite. In her gray fitted business suit, with her dark hair swept back in a bun and tortoise-rim glasses perched on her nose, she reminded Dillon of a child playing dress up.
But there was nothing childish—or subtle—about the perusal she gave him when he walked into her office and sat down. She gave him a deliberate once-over, no doubt calculating his age, marital status and probably his net worth. He saw her gaze linger on his ringless hand, and when she looked up, interest sizzled in her brown eyes.
She leaned an elbow on her desk. “So…Sergeant, what is this little visit in regard to?”
“Dr. Brad Robinson’s death.”
“I understood his death was a suicide.”
“It’s still under investigation,” Dillon said. “I’m sure you’ll want to do everything you can to cooperate.”
Unlike the r
eceptionist outside, Allison St. James didn’t look in the least flustered by the prospect of having the police on the premises. She sat back in her chair and smiled coyly. “Of course I’ll cooperate. I take my civic duty very seriously.”
She was openly flirting with him, and Dillon wasn’t above using it to his advantage. He let his gaze linger approvingly on the smooth column of her throat and the faint shadow of cleavage exposed by the deep V of her suit jacket.
A knowing look came into her eyes as he deliberately lifted his gaze to meet hers. She cleared her throat, then reached up and removed the tortoise-rim glasses, absently twirling them in her hand. Her eyes never left Dillon’s.
“What exactly do you want?” A subtle huskiness invaded her voice, and her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips.
Dillon smiled. “I’d like to get a look at the patient records. Dr. Robinson’s wife was admitted here nine years ago. She had a baby in June of that year. I need to know who else was a patient at the time Mrs. Robinson gave birth. Are the records kept here?”
Allison smiled. “Of course. We have an elaborate record-keeping system. Dr. Westcott is a stickler for detail, and he insists that all the clinic files be kept on the premises and readily available, should he or one of the other doctors need to consult. However, those records are confidential. I can’t let anyone down there without a court order. Not even you, Sergeant Reeves.”
“Call me Dillon.”
“I’d like to help you…Dillon, I really would, but my hands are tied.” She shrugged regrettably. “No one is allowed down in the file room without signing in and out. I couldn’t let you in even if I wanted to.”
“How well do you know Dr. Westcott?”
Wariness crept into her eyes. “As chief of staff and chairman of the board of directors, he’s my immediate supervisor. I answer directly to him.”
“How long have you worked for him?”
“Less than a year.”
“What about your predecessor?”
“He was here for about a year and a half, I believe.”
“Do you know why he left?”
“Irreconcilable differences. Dr. Westcott is not the easiest person to work for. He’s very demanding.”
Amanda Stevens Bestseller Collection: Stranger In Paradise/A Baby's Cry Page 31