And now was money the reason his daughter had been snatched?
What other conclusion could there be? “Then you do think she’s been kidnapped.” It wasn’t a question, it was a resigned statement.
Callie surprised him by shaking her head. “It’s far too early in the game to make a call, Jud—Brent,” she said. “But it’s always wise to keep all the options open. I’m still hoping your daughter just ran off. She witnessed a traumatic scene this morning. Anyone would have run off.”
Another shaft went through his heart. That Rachel had gone through something like that by herself, without having him there to shield her, broke his heart. Rachel was just a baby. Babies were supposed to feel secure, to know nothing but simple, happy times, not see someone they loved killed right before their eyes.
“She shouldn’t have seen that.”
Callie heard the accusation in his voice and instinctively knew he was blaming himself. That wasn’t going to help either him or his daughter. “It’s a very hard world, Brent. We can’t protect our children forever.”
He looked at her. “You have children?”
“No. I was speaking figuratively.” She had to get going. Callie opened the door behind her. “Go home, Brent. Someone will be there to talk with you shortly—”
“You,” Brent said firmly. He’d heard via the grapevine that she was an outstanding detective, very much a credit to her father and her family name. All the Cavanaughs were. He wanted, needed, the best right now. “I want you to be the one to come to the house and tell me what’s happening.”
She was about to protest that she was going to be out in the field, but then stopped herself. She could stretch a minute here, borrow a quarter of an hour there and somehow find the time. He deserved that kind of consideration. Everyone going through what he was going through did.
Besides, the most odious part of this investigation was still ahead of them. Like it or not, she was going to have to question Brent to make sure that he hadn’t choreographed his own daughter’s abduction for some macabre reason of his own. Of all the things she had to do while working a missing child case, she hated this part most of all. Hated pointing a veiled finger at a parent while their heart was already splintered in a thousand pieces over what might have happened to their child.
These were the rules, she reminded herself. If they were going to make any headway, she had to follow the rules. It was all any of them had. And in times of turmoil, rules were what held them together when everything around them demanded that they fall apart. Rules and order had been what had kept her going after Kyle had been taken from her. Following rules, keeping to a schedule.
Placing one foot in front of the other until somehow, paths from here to there were made.
She was still placing one foot in front of the other, Callie thought. But now she was a little more clear on where she was going. And the place beneath her feet felt a little more like solid ground, a little less like clouds.
She nodded in response to his request. Or maybe it wasn’t so much of a request as a mandate. Not that she could blame him.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He looked at her. It would have to do. “Send in my aide on your way out, will you? He’s probably right outside, trying to hear what’s going on.”
She nodded, offering him an encouraging smile as she left the chambers.
A little more than an hour later, Callie was driving up the long hill that led to Brent Montgomery’s home. She’d left the photograph of the bright-eyed, smiling blond child with Greg Harris, the computer operative they had on loan from the PR division of the police department. Greg’s instructions were to print several thousand copies of Rachel Montgomery’s photograph, along with a short description as to her vitals and what was presumably her last known location. Bristol and Oak, where Delia Culhane had been struck down by the vehicle.
The intersection outside of the upscale development was a busy one. While Bristol itself wasn’t Aurora’s main thoroughfare, each end of it led onto a freeway. Someone had to have seen something, Callie argued with herself. They just had to get the word out as quickly as possible and hope that one of Aurora’s good citizens stepped up. Fast.
This was definitely not a tract house, Callie thought as she pulled up the circular driveway. With its stone facade, the house where Brent and his daughter lived reminded her of a medieval castle. The place where she had grown up could have easily fit into the building twice.
Maybe two and a half times, she mused, getting out of her car. She couldn’t begin to imagine what someone with just one child could do with all that space. It seemed cold and removed to her. Perfect for a museum. In her father’s house, they were always tripping over each other, but somehow that seemed cozier.
Her heels clicked on the gray-and-white cobblestones as she hurried up the walk to the door.
The doorbell had hardly peeled once before the massive door was being opened. Brent was in the doorway, the tiny spark of hope in his eyes extinguishing the moment he looked at her face.
The structure should have dwarfed him, but it didn’t. He seemed to be a perfect match for his surroundings. Powerful, commanding a feeling of awe and respect.
And massive sympathy, she thought, looking into his eyes. Dark blue, they seemed endlessly deep with pain. And she had nothing to tell him that would change that. Yet.
“The technicians will be coming soon,” she told him as she entered.
“Technicians?”
“To wire the phones.” A place like this had to have a battalion of telephones. She turned to look at him. “In case there is a ransom call.” She could see what he was thinking, that the kidnapper would know to hang up before the call could be traced. “Not every criminal has a genius IQ. That only happens in the movies. Most kidnappers are greedy, and their greed causes them to slip up. When they do, we’ll be right there.” He closed the door behind her. For a moment the silence embraced her, bringing with it a huge sadness. She struggled against the urge to offer empty platitudes. “How are you holding up?”
He’d been raised to keep a stiff upper lip when it came to the public. There was to be no hint of scandal, no implication that everything wasn’t perfect. He was a Montgomery, and perforce, everything was perfect. Or so the facade went. Inbred instincts brought the immediate response of “fine” to his lips, and then he paused. He took his responsibility as judge solemnly to heart. That meant he couldn’t lie.
“I’m not.”
She was surprised by his honesty. Most men pretended they could handle any situation that came their way, whether they could or not. That put in him a very small, rare class.
“This will all be in the past soon enough, Judge—Brent.” She corrected herself again when she saw him look at her sharply. Belatedly she realized what he would read into her words.
“Did you find out anything?”
“Not yet.” Guilt washed over Callie. She hadn’t meant to mislead him, only to offer hope. “The CSI team on the scene is working on identifying the kind of car the man who killed your housekeeper was driving.”
Most of the vehicles that frequented the road fell into four or five categories, popular models of economical foreign cars. “How’s that going to help find my daughter?”
She knew how frustrating this had to be for him. They were crawling when he wanted to be running. “Every piece of the puzzle is necessary in order to create the total picture.” She gave him something positive to work with. “In the meantime, we have beat cops going door to door with your daughter’s photograph. If she’s in the area, willingly or unwillingly,” Callie emphasized, “we will find her.”
She believed what she was saying, he thought. But he knew the odds. He couldn’t have been a judge in the criminal system if he didn’t. “And if she’s not in the area?”
“We will still find her.”
She looked around the immediate area. The foyer led into a spacious living room that seemed much larger for its
restraint in furnishings. There were no antiques, no museum pieces gracing walls or tables. This was a house that belonged to a man who felt no need to prove anything to anyone. A man who was confident in his own skin. It would take a lot to rattle him. And he had been rattled. Badly. It was time to share her theories with him.
“You know, there is a chance that someone might have been stalking your housekeeper and that this was strictly about her. Did Ms. Culhane have any boyfriends, odd friends…?” Her voice trailed off, letting him fill in the blanks.
Brent took no time to think. He didn’t have to. “Not that I know of.”
The housekeeper wouldn’t have been the first one to have a secret life her employer didn’t know about. “What did she do on her days off?”
It was hard not to pace about the room. Brent could feel the pressure building up inside of him, searching for release.
“Stayed here most of the time. She really cared about Rachel.” He wasn’t giving the woman her due, he thought. In his concern about his daughter’s safety, Delia had become a footnote. “Delia was a great help when Rachel’s mother left. I don’t know what I would have done if she hadn’t been here.”
She noticed the way he structured the sentence, referring to the woman as Rachel’s mother rather than his wife or ex-wife. Jennifer Montgomery must have hurt him a great deal, Callie thought, for Brent to have iced over his heart this way.
“Were you and Ms. Culhane—close?”
“She didn’t like being called Ms.” His mouth curved slightly as he remembered the speech Delia had given him. “Thought that sounded too vague. She was unmarried by choice and she had no problem with the world knowing it.” He could see the detective was still waiting for an answer to her question. “If by ‘close’ you mean did we sometimes have lengthy talks about what we thought was best for Rachel, yes.” His eyes darkened slightly at what he knew was the implication. “If you mean anything else, no.”
Callie pressed on. “You didn’t take her out to dinner or—”
Brent cut her short. “Once each year for her birthday. With Rachel,” he added, his voice stony, cold. “And there is no ‘or,’ Detective. Delia Culhane was my housekeeper and Rachel’s nanny. And a very, very good woman.” He took offense for the woman who could no longer speak for herself. “She doesn’t deserve the kind of thoughts you’re having.”
“I’m not having any thoughts, Judge.” Callie used his title deliberately, to drive home the point that she was being professional, nothing more, nothing less. “I’m doing my job. The more information I have, the better I can do it.”
“Well, unless there’s some deep, dark secret I didn’t know about, my daughter’s kidnapping,” the term stung his tongue but he couldn’t continue to pretend that it was anything else, “doesn’t have anything to do with Delia beyond the obvious. That she died trying to protect my daughter.”
Callie knew that was what he wanted to think, but she didn’t have the luxury of allowing him to believe that without questioning the woman’s integrity further. “Miss Culhane wouldn’t have tried to take Rachel on her own, would she?”
He glared at her. “The woman is dead, Callie.”
This was the first time he’d used her name, and she paused for a long moment to gather her thoughts.
Callie took a breath. “Yes, but maybe she orchestrated the kidnapping in order to get money—or revenge—” She still couldn’t rule that out. Perhaps the woman felt she had received some slight or had some grievance against him. Even if it was imaginary, it still needed to be checked out. “And it backfired.” There was no honor among thieves, there were only thieves. “Her partner decided that he couldn’t share the money with her.”
Brent was adamant as he shook his head. “She’d been with me since Rachel was a year old. Look, Callie, it’s my job to read people. Delia Culhane didn’t have a mean or mercenary bone in her body. She was entirely selfless.”
Callie blew out a breath as she took in his information. Whether or not he was right still had to be determined, but for the moment she could pretend to believe him.
“All right, for the time being let’s pretend that she was pure as the driven snow. Still, I need to look through her things, just as a formality.” He wasn’t fooled, she thought. “Would you mind showing me her room?”
With conscious effort he strove to take the edge off his temper. He knew she was just doing her job. “No, I wouldn’t mind, but you’re going entirely in the wrong direction.” He looked at her. “Just as you will with your next tack.”
God, but he was tall, she thought. And decidedly masculine. Even more than he’d been that night they danced. He seemed to draw the very air out of the room. “My next tack?”
This time he allowed himself the slightest hint of a smile. Because the very thought was hopelessly ludicrous. “Where you rule me out as a suspect.”
He was going to make it easy for her. She was grateful for that. “Personally I don’t see you as a suspect.”
He wondered if she was patronizing him, then decided that she wasn’t. Still he wanted his question answered. “And you’re basing this on what? On our dancing together once?”
She hadn’t expected him to oppose her on this, much less bring up that incident. She was equally surprised that he even remembered dancing with her. But she remembered.
Funny how some things just stuck in your mind. She’d thought back to that evening, that dance, more than once. She couldn’t even say why, because she had never allowed her thoughts free rein when it came to that memory. He’d been married and she wasn’t the type to be with a married man in any way that wasn’t completely public.
“On your reputation,” she replied tersely. “And on the fact that you know my father. Dad’s a damn good judge of character.” She smiled at him. “And he always liked you.”
He went at it like the lawyer he’d once been. “Hearsay.”
“All right, then, on my gut instinct.”
Again Brent overruled her. “Not admissible in court.”
She looked at him. “You want me to question you like a suspect?”
He knew this had to be done and he wanted it over with as fast as possible. “I want you to rule me out as a suspect. Officially.”
“All right, then.” She took a deep breath and began asking him questions as they walked to the rear of the main floor and his late housekeeper’s room.
Chapter 4
“I want my daddy. Where’s my daddy?”
Rachel wiggled against the restraints that had been added to her seatbelt. It was like the time Tommy Edwards threw ropes around her when he was playing Spider-Man. He told her they were webs, but they weren’t.
She could hardly move.
Outside the rear passenger window, scenery she’d never seen before whizzed by. She screwed her eyes shut tight for a second, determined not to cry. Crying was for babies, and she wasn’t a baby. She was a big girl. Delia always told her so.
The thought of her nanny, lying on the road where cars could hit her if she didn’t get up brought a tight, scratchy feeling to her throat, making it feel as if it was going to close up.
Rachel struggled against that, too. She had to be brave. Brave until her daddy came for her. She knew he would.
She wanted to have his arms around her now, making her feel safe. Why wasn’t he coming?
Where was he?
Sucking in air, she looked through the closed window and screamed “Dad-dee!” as loud as she could. But there was no one to hear her anymore. There were no people here. Just her and this man who had grabbed her, pulling her into his funny-looking car.
Delia had tried to grab her back, screaming for help, but he’d pushed her away. And then, when she’d tried to pull open the door, he’d made the car spin around. There was a big “Whap” and she heard Delia scream once. When she’d struggled to look out the window, Delia was lying down. She’d tried to call to her, but the man had pulled her back, holding her by the arm and squeez
ing. Hard. Squeezing until she promised not to cry out.
She’d promised, but he’d held on to her anyway, driving with just one hand. He held her like that until they were someplace she’d never seen before. Then he’d tied her up and put her in the back seat.
She wanted her daddy.
He looked at her in his rearview mirror. She was a spunky little kid.
Like his Alice was.
The thought of his daughter brought a fresh salvo of pain to the middle of his chest, stoking the red-hot fire in his belly. He hadn’t seen Alice in five years, didn’t even have any idea where she was now. That bitch had taken her away, the one who had promised to stick by him. For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. Just not during a jail sentence.
He pressed his lips together, forcing his mind forward. He’d lost Alice. For now. But he’d found another. This was going to be his Alice now. The goddamned judge owed him that.
Hell, Montgomery owed him a lot more, but this would do. For starters.
“You can call for your daddy all you want,” he told the little girl mildly. He took care to keep his voice low, nonthreatening. He didn’t want to scare her. He wanted her happy. And to love him. Just like Alice had. “But it won’t do you any good. He gave you to me. Said you were mine now.”
Something funny was happening in her tummy. It felt like ants running up and down inside. Red-hot ants. She’d felt like this when she’d watched that movie on TV, the one about witches. Until Delia had turned it off.
Rachel began breathing hard, frightened. Telling herself that her daddy wouldn’t do that to her. He’d never give her away. He loved her.
But he hadn’t kissed her goodbye today. He’d left without even talking to her.
She could feel tears stinging the corners of her eyes and stuck out her lower lip. “That’s not true.”
He liked the fire he saw. She was like him, never giving up. Good. “Yes, it is. He doesn’t have time for you anymore. He’s too busy being a judge.”
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