With Malice

by Rachel Lee

  Perfectly.

  She was a split instant from sorting out what that might mean when he started.

  "What is it?"

  "It's late and the girls haven't called. I should call them," he said.

  Later, she would ask herself what had snapped him out of the moment so abruptly. The time of night, perhaps. Or something more.

  They disengaged, and he climbed out of the pool, still naked, his body glistening in the starlight. She watched his back as he dialed the phone. Watched the tension grow in his muscles. Heard the gasp, just before his hand sank and the phone slipped from his fingers to land with a clatter on the table.

  "What?" she asked, already moving. Beside him now, looking into a face that, in the space of a minute, had gone from dreamy to numb. "Grant?"

  He didn't answer, and she picked up the phone. Dead silence, then the three-toned squeal of a dying line. She pushed the hang-up button, then hit redial. The phone rang. An answering machine picked up, a disembodied voice.

  "Art said you'd be calling. We have your girls. Don't call the cops—or else."

  20

  Karen released her white-knuckled grip on the receiver and put it back in the cradle. "I have to report this."

  Grant shifted from shock to frightening rage as if someone had flicked a switch. Instinctively she stepped back as his face contorted and he snarled, "No!"

  "Grant…"

  "No!" He stepped toward her, looming, and the finger he usually stabbed downward for emphasis now stabbed in her direction. "My girls are in danger! If you do anything to harm them, I'll make you regret it forever!"

  She told herself that his savagery wasn't personal, that he would have said the same to anyone, but the closeness of the past hour evaporated as if it had never been, and she felt she was standing alone, shivering and naked in a desert night. Without a word, she turned and gathered up her clothes, then dressed with swift, businesslike-movements.

  She wanted to believe that she hadn't been used, but it was hard to feel anything else at the moment. When she faced him again, he had pulled on his own slacks. The stars still fell overhead, an omen indeed.

  "I'm sorry," he said, his voice flat. "But you can't report this. You heard what the guy said. And I don't trust a bunch of cops I don't know to keep their mouths shut."

  She didn't say anything immediately, giving him time to absorb his shock and his fury, giving him time to start thinking again. She certainly didn't tell him that she was scared sick for two little girls she had never met, had only seen at a distance. Forty-eight hours. They had to find those girls in forty-eight hours or the chances diminished exponentially.

  The only ray of hope she could find in this was that they had been taken by people who wanted something. That meant they would have to contact Grant again, and each contact increased the likelihood that she could learn something useful.

  She watched him pace the patio, his steps at first rapid with anger and anxiety, then growing steadier and more determined as the news sank in and he began to think about options.

  Only then did she speak. "There are things that can be done without letting the kidnappers know the police are involved."

  He spun to look at her, but this time he didn't immediately jump on her.

  "Wiretaps and traces," she said. "We can do those without anyone knowing you've told us. We don't have to fill this house with officers. We don't have to inform anyone except a select group."

  "What select group?"

  "I'd like to inform my liaison here in D.C. You can trust him. And in Tampa…" She hesitated. Previn was her partner on the murder cases, but…something in her held back from wanting him to know this. On the other hand, with the College Hill shootings, there was no one else she could call on. Nor was there any escaping that this case was headline material, the kind of material some people wouldn't be able to keep their mouths shut about. "I'll get someone I trust in Tampa to check out Art Wallace's house for clues."

  "They may not have been taken from the house. Art was taking them to the doctor." A sudden look of horror passed across his face. "My God, do you know what that call means? It means they have Art and his daughters, too."

  There was no mistaking the look of guilt on his face, as if he were personally responsible for whatever was happening to Art and his daughters.

  "First," Karen said as sternly as she could manage, "none of this is your fault. I realize it's a totally human thing to blame oneself for things like this, but the simple fact is, you didn't make the kidnappers do any of this. They're solely responsible for their own actions. Secondly, if they left a message on Art's machine, they were at the house."

  "I didn't think of that. Shit." He pivoted sharply and began to pace again. "I don't know. I don't know. There are five lives in the balance. I don't want to put them at any more risk."

  "That depends on how you look at risk," she said. "Statistics say if we don't find them alive in forty-eight hours, we're…" She didn't complete the sentence. She didn't have the heart to actually say it.

  He swore again and ran his fingers through his wet hair, leaving it all spiky. "God, I don't know what to do!"

  "Wait for the next call. Meantime, I'm going to get my liaison here to put a trap and trace on your phone. We can keep that quiet, and if they call, we'll know where they are."

  After a moment, he nodded. "Okay. Okay. But nothing else until they call. I can't risk it, Karen. I can't."

  "I understand."

  Before he could change his mind, she reached for the phone and called Terry. He answered promptly, although in the background she could hear cheerful voices chatting and laughing.

  "Hey," he said when she identified herself. "What's up?"

  "I need your help," she said simply. "And I need it on the QT."

  There was no hesitation. "Where do you want to meet? And what do you need?"

  "Bring a wiretap and trace authorization for a victim to sign."

  "Okay…." There was curiosity in his voice.

  "Bring it to you-know-who's house. And make sure you're not followed. Do you need the address?"

  There was the briefest silence. "No, I got it. Give me twenty or thirty. I'm a long way out."

  "Thanks, Terry."

  The click of the phone being hung up answered her.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later Grant was still pacing like a lion that had scented prey. Karen reached for the phone and redialed Art's number. If the kidnappers were nearby, they might have changed the message, which would tell her a whole lot.

  But no, it was still the same chilling, flat message it had been. She would have to keep checking.

  Folding her hands, she waited with the long experience of a cop accustomed to stakeouts. Experience didn't make her any less tense, however, not over this case. Her heart was beating nervously, and her stomach quivered. Four young girls and a father at the mercy of someone ruthless was a nightmare she could barely force herself to contemplate.

  "They'll call," Grant said, but it sounded almost like a question.

  "I'm sure they will. There's no point to this otherwise."

  He nodded. "I thought so, but…"

  "But waiting is hell."

  He gave a short nod and kept pacing.

  The spring night was growing chilly, but he still hadn't put on a shirt. Her own clothes were damp from her body, and none too comfortable. "Let's wait inside. It's getting cold out here."

  "Sure." He led the way indoors to the living room, spacious enough that he could continue pacing. Then, as if he realized how it would look if Terry arrived while he was shirtless, he disappeared for a few minutes and returned wearing a polo shirt. Karen doubted it would fool a cop of Terry's skill; they both reeked of chlorine from the pool.

  Terry rolled in about fifteen minutes later, driving a beat-up old Toyota that looked out of place against the curb in this neighborhood. But as nearly as she could tell, as she watched from the slit window by the front door, no one had follo
wed him.

  He confirmed it when she opened the door for him.

  "Nobody interested in me," he said. "What's up?" He followed her through the foyer into the living room.

  Grant immediately offered his hand, acting automatically in the midst of his upset. "Grant Lawrence," he said.

  "Terry Tyson, and I've heard all the jokes."

  Grant managed a faint smile. "I'm sure you have."

  "Okay," Terry said. "What's going on?"

  Karen spoke, sparing Grant the necessity. "The senator's daughters have been kidnapped, along with a neighbor and his two daughters."

  "Jesus H. Christ." Terry shook his head and looked to the heavens.

  "At least I'm assuming the neighbor and his daughters have also been taken," Karen said. "The message on the man's answering machine is from the kidnapper. That leaves the assumption that the man and his daughters are also gone."

  Terry nodded. "What do they want?"

  "They didn't say. They just said not to call the police or else."

  "They always say that," Terry remarked with the air of one who'd seen this before. "And the best thing to do is ignore them."

  "No," said Grant flatly. "I absolutely do not want my house or the houses down there crawling with cops. I refuse to take the risk."

  Terry looked at Karen. "Can I have a private word with you?"

  Grant pointed across the foyer. "My study's over there. Help yourself."

  Karen hesitated, afraid to leave him alone, he seemed so much on edge, but needing to get things going with Terry. It wasn't like she could do anything on her own here in Washington.

  Terry firmly closed the study door behind them and folded his arms. "I'm not going to ask what you two were doing before I got here, but I've got a pretty damn good idea."

  Karen managed not to flush.

  "Regardless, I want to know if you're out of your mind. You can't expect to deal with this kidnapping without getting both our departments involved, if not the Feds."

  "I asked you to get the authorization for wiretaps and traces, didn't I?"

  "Yeah, but why do I get the feeling you haven't been pushing him to allow more? What I want to know is, are you too emotionally involved to handle this? Because if you are, I know a few good detectives who can fill in."

  Karen bridled. "The only thing I'm emotionally involved with is getting four young girls back alive."

  "Yeah. Right. Okay. Look, I said I could bend a rule or two, but there are limits. I'm not going to have five deaths hanging on me. So let me ask you this. Are you a better homicide cop now than you were when you took the job?"

  "Sure," Karen said, not sure where he was leading.

  "So am I. I've been doing this job for a long time. I know the streets. I live them. I know where to start kicking rocks. That's what experience is for."

  Karen nodded. "Right. Your point?"

  He looked at her. "How many kidnappings have you worked?"

  Of course, she thought. "None."

  "Neither have I. Why? In my department, we call the FBI in on every kidnapping, even if there's no evidence that the kidnapper has crossed a state line. They have experts in this. They have the experience. And you can stand there with those cold eyes and stare me down for the rest of the night, but you know I'm right. The best chance those kids have is if we bring in the Feds. They deserve no less, whatever the senator says."

  "Right," she said. And he was right, no question. "You're right. But it's his call."

  "Then make him make the right call, Karen. For his kids' sake."

  There weren't really any options. However used she might have felt at that moment, however unsure she might have been about Grant's intentions, one thing was sure. His kids were innocent. Art and his children were innocent.

  "Do you know any Feds?" she asked.

  He chuckled. "I live in Washington. If a cat gets stuck in a tree, we have to fight the FBI for jurisdiction to get it down."

  "Okay, do you know any good Feds?"

  "I know one."

  Discretion would still matter. "Can you trust him?"

  He smiled. "Let's say that if my cat were stuck in a tree, I'd call her."

  * * *

  While they were in the study, Grant tried to calm himself. He willed his muscles to relax, as he did before major public appearances, but again and again the tension crept back in. And he realized just how much he missed Abby.

  Always, before, he would have turned to her when the girls were in trouble. She would have known what to do first. It would have been something simple, something that would have given him an initial focus in the first moments until the shock passed and he could wrap his mind around the problem. He loved his parents, and they loved him. But this was not their forte. They would be as shocked as he was, and in those first moments, they, too, would have turned to Abby for direction.

  But Abby was gone.

  Who was left? Jerry. The political version of Abby. This was personal, not political, but Jerry was all he had. He picked up the phone and dialed.

  "What's up?" Jerry asked.

  "Someone's kidnapped my girls," Grant said simply.

  "I'll be there in twenty minutes. Is the lady cop still there?"

  "Yes. And she's brought in her local liaison. She wants me to call the FBI."

  "Do it," Jerry said. "She's good, but they're better at this. And they can lean harder on the press."

  "Jerry…"

  "I'll be there in twenty minutes. We'll talk about it then."

  Jerry rang off without saying another word. Grant was just replacing the receiver when Karen and her partner emerged from the study.

  "I called Jerry," he said in response to the question they were doubtless about to ask. "He'll be here in a few minutes."

  Terry simply nodded. Karen spoke. "We've hashed it out, and you have to call in the FBI."

  "Jerry said the same thing."

  "They're the experts, Senator," Terry said.

  "Your girls deserve the best," Karen added. "And Terry has a contact in the Bureau. He says she's good. And trustworthy."

  He nodded. It was the right thing to do, but at this point he felt as if his life had been taken over by law enforcement. Adding another cop would only add to the feeling. And it wouldn't be just one more cop. The FBI would bring in an entire team. He would have someone with a badge grunting approval when he went to the bathroom.

  He knew these considerations were childish. His girls had to come first. But he didn't have to like it. And he didn't have to surrender control of his life to yet another person he didn't trust. He looked at Karen.

  "I want you in charge of the task force."

  "Grant," she said, slowly, measuring every word, "I don't know if I'm the right person to—"

  "I trust you," he said. He turned to the black man with the impassive face. "Detective Tyson, I'm sure you're very good, but I don't know you. And I don't know this woman from the FBI. I know Detective Sweeney. I trust her judgment. These are my girls. I can't just…"

  "You're right," Terry said, much to Grant's surprise. And Karen's, to judge by the look on her face. "She's been working this case for weeks. And I'll bet my badge that this is related to the rest of it. The kids were taken in Tampa, correct?"

  "Yes," Karen said.

  "So until we know it's an interstate case, you have primary jurisdiction. You should be point on this. It…simplifies things."

  Karen nodded slowly, as if dissecting the subtext in his words. It took Grant a moment longer, but he caught on. Apparently this cop knew more than Grant realized and was a decent guy to boot.

  "So it's settled," Grant said.

  Karen's eyes were distant for a moment. "Okay, then I need to call my lieutenant. And my partner. I'm betting this is the same perp who killed Abby, Senator. The whole pattern of events, the murder, the car accident, now this, it speaks of a concerted attack on you. If we catch the kidnapper, I bet we'll have our killer. So the kidnapping is top priority. I need som
eone to work the crime scene there. Senator, we'll use your study as a command post. How many telephone lines do you have?"

  "Three," he said. At this point, it almost hurt to hear her call him Senator. "Home office, fax and my private line."

  "That'll do for now," Karen said. "If we need more, we'll get them. Or the FBI will have secure cell phones. I'll need recent photos of your daughters. We'll make a half-dozen copies for starters."

  "We can't go public…." Grant began.

  "I'm not planning to," Karen said. "But kids attract attention. Witnesses will recognize the kids, even if they barely notice the perp."

  "She's right," Terry said. "And, Senator, in terms of discretion, it would help if you weren't in the photos."

  "Understood," Grant said. "I'll go find pictures."

  It was a place to start.

  * * *

  While Terry called his FBI contact, Karen dialed Simpson's number. She explained the situation with as few words as she could manage. If he was reading between the lines, he didn't give any indication.

  "Who do you want on it?" he asked.

  "Who's available?"

  He ran off a list of the best detectives, most of whom, she knew, had until that moment been committed solely to the College Hill task force. Kidnapped kids, apparently, ranked higher than murdered nannies. Once again she fought down the impulse to anger. It wouldn't solve anything and would only make more problems.

  "I'll stick with Previn," she said.

  She heard a grunt of surprise. Yes, Previn was still the least experienced detective in the squad. Two of the detectives on Simpson's list had even worked a high-profile kidnapping three years ago. But they'd developed a taste for seeing themselves on TV, and she needed discretion. Not only during the investigation, but afterwards. She didn't want to end up as fodder for reality shows.

  "Previn will keep his mouth shut. There's been enough of a feeding frenzy already. Too much, if you ask me."