About That Man (2 page)

“Sooner or later, they'll find Tommy's family,” Tucker warned, regarding her protectively.

“I don't know what makes you so certain of that,” she said. “There's been no sign of anyone so far, and you know how dogged Frances is when she's working a case.”

“That's exactly what makes me believe she'll eventually get results. When she does, you'll have to let him go.”

“And until then, he'll have me,” she insisted stubbornly, not wanting to consider what she would do when that day came.

“Where is he now?” Tucker asked.

“Upstairs.”

“Cleaning out your jewelry box, no doubt.”

She scowled. “Sleeping,” she contradicted.

“Wanna bet? If I prove otherwise, will you forget about this?”

Without responding one way or the other, Daisy marched to the stairs, then waved Tucker up ahead of her. “See for yourself, smarty-pants.”

Unfortunately, just as they reached the top of the stairs, Tommy bolted out of her bedroom, pockets bulging, Molly trailing along behind him in a way she never did with Daisy. Tucker snagged Tommy by the scruff of the
neck but kept his gaze on her. He plucked a favorite antique necklace out of the boy's pocket and dangled it in front of her. Great-grandmother's diamonds sparkled mockingly.

“I rest my case,” he said.

Daisy refused to let her brother see that she was even remotely shaken by the discovery. “Tommy,” she said sternly, “you know perfectly well that doesn't belong to you.”

“No, ma'am,” he said, his expression defiant. “But I was taking it anyway.”

Avoiding a lecture on the Golden Rule and the Ten Commandments, all of which they had studied thoroughly in Sunday school, she instead asked, “Why?”

“To buy me some food.”

Molly meowed plaintively, as if to lend her support to Tommy.

“There's plenty of food downstairs in the kitchen, if you're hungry,” Daisy said.

“That's now. Sooner or later you'll send me packing. I need to have the money for backup supplies. I figured I could pawn this stuff over in Colonial Beach or maybe even down in Richmond. Then I could head someplace brand-new where nobody would be on my case all the time or tell me how sorry they are that my mom is dead.”

She brushed aside Tucker's restraining hands and rested her own against the boy's cheek. “We've been over this. I will not send you packing,” she said very firmly. “However, nor will I tolerate you stealing from me. You're grounded until we can discuss this further. Go to your room.”

She wasn't sure who was most surprised by her pro
nouncement, Tommy or her brother. But Tucker had known her longer. He heaved a resigned sigh and stared at Tommy. “I'd get a move on, if I were you, son. My sister generally means what she says. Take it from someone who knows, don't mess with her.”

Relief washed over Tommy's face, though he was quick to duck his head to hide it. He started to scoot down the hall, but Tucker halted him with a sharp command.

“Aren't you forgetting something, son?”

Tommy's gaze rose to clash with his. “What?”

“Empty those pockets.”

Tommy dug his hands into his pockets with obvious reluctance, producing more of her jewelry. Most of the rest had more sentimental than monetary value, but its glitter clearly had appealed to Tommy.

Tucker took the baubles and handed them to Daisy. “Costume jewelry or not, I'd get this stuff into your safety deposit box if you ever expect to wear it again.”

Daisy met Tommy's gaze. “I don't think that will be necessary, do you, Tommy?”

He looked for a moment as if he might make some sort of defiant retort, but Daisy's gaze never wavered, and he finally wilted under the stern scrutiny. “No, ma'am.”

When he had gone, the cat on his heels, she turned a smile on her brother. “Satisfied?”

“Far from it, but I can see you're not going to listen to a word I say.”

She patted his cheek. “Smart man. And don't try sending Dad over here to raise the roof, either.”

“I won't have to send him. Once he hears about this, you'll have to bar the door to keep him out.”

“Well, he can rant and rave all he wants, but it won't
work. For once in my life I am going to do exactly what I want to do, what I know is right.”

Not that her declaration would stop her father from trying to interfere when he finally found out what she was up to. Despite the precautions she'd taken by warning Frances off, Daisy predicted it wouldn't take long.

Trinity Harbor was a small town. Cedar Hill, the Spencer family home for generations, was the biggest Black Angus cattle operation in the entire Northern Neck of Virginia. Her neighbors would probably fight for the chance to be the first to tell Robert “King” Spencer that his sensible spinster daughter had just taken in a stray troublemaker.

The story would be even juicier if anyone found out Tommy had already tried to steal her jewelry and her car. She was pretty sure she could keep a lid on the attempted car theft, but Tucker might not be so discreet about the jewelry. In fact, since that necklace had been in her father's family for generations, he might feel obliged to tell their father that it had come very close to heading for a pawnshop.

And then, she concluded with a resigned sigh, this little squabble with Tucker was going to seem like a romp in the park.

W
ashington, D.C., detective Walker Ames had just finished investigating his fifth drive-by shooting in a month. This had been worse than most—a five-year-old girl who'd done nothing more than sit on her front stoop playing with her doll on a pleasant spring evening. She'd caught a stray bullet meant for a gang member who'd been walking past her run-down apartment building in southeast Washington. The intended victim hadn't even stopped to see if he could help.

This kind of incident was not the reason Walker had become a policeman. He'd wanted to make a difference in people's lives, not just clean up after the tragedies. Innocent babies dying, grandmothers shot without a second glance, kids on school buses killed over a pair of sneakers…there was something seriously wrong with the world when a cop had to spend his days working crimes like that. His stomach churned with acid just thinking about it.

He'd been at it for fifteen frustrating years now, and not a day went by anymore when he didn't wish he'd chosen another profession. Unfortunately, law enforcement was the only one he cared about, and he happened to be good
at it. His arrest-conviction ratio was the best in the department, because he refused to give up until he had the right suspect in custody. Few of his cases were ever relegated to some cold case file left for others to solve years from now.

“You get a line on those punks that did it?” his boss asked when he spotted Walker crossing the squad room and heading straight for the industrial strength coffee.

“Half a dozen people on the street at the time of the incident,” Walker told Andy Thorensen, the caring, compassionate chief of detectives who'd also been his best friend since he'd joined the department. Andy was fifteen years older and going gray, but pushing papers hadn't dimmed his street smarts or his indignation over crime.

“Four people claim they never saw a thing,” Walker added as he poured a cup of coffee and took a sip. “The two who admit they did aren't talking. The girl's mother is too upset to question. I'll go back when things have settled down and try again. Maybe when it sinks in that it was a five-year-old who got caught in the cross fire, their vision will improve.”

His boss gestured toward his office, then waited till Walker was seated before asking, “What about the guy the bullet was meant for?”

“Vanished. He has to live in the neighborhood, though. We'll find him. I'm not letting go of this one, Andy.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes, battling exhaustion and the sting of tears. He tried not to let these things get to him, but that was impossible. He had kids of his own, boys he thought about every single time he had to handle a case like this. He might not be raising them since his divorce, but they were never far from his thoughts.

To buy himself a minute, he gazed out the window and finished his coffee, then said, “You should have seen the kid, Andy. She was just a baby, still clutching her doll. Somebody's going down for this, if I have to drag every gang member in D.C. in here for questioning.”

Andy Thorensen nodded, his expression sympathetic. “Stay objective. That's one of the first things they teach you in the police academy. I'd like to see one of those classroom cops stay objective when they find a kid's blood splattered all over the sidewalk in front of her own house. It never gets any easier, does it?”

“I don't think it's supposed to,” Walker said. “If we get used to it, we're as bad as they are.”

“Let me know if you need any help. We're short-staffed, but I'll see what I can do to free up some additional units,” Andy promised. “There's going to be a hue and cry all over town until we close this one.”

Walker didn't care about the headlines or the calls from the mayor's office. He'd stay on it because that little girl deserved justice. He didn't envy Andy's need to balance justice with politics. He just respected his friend's ability to take the heat while letting his men do the job they were paid to do.

“I'll try not to leave you on the hot seat too long,” he promised.

“You can't know how much I appreciate that,” Andy said wryly. “By the way, before I forget, you had a call earlier, some woman by the name of Jackson. When she heard you were out, she demanded to speak to me.” He grinned. “Tough lady. Seems to have something on her mind.”

Walker shook his head. “Don't know her.”

Andy fished the message out of a pile of papers on his desk. “Says she's with Social Services down in Trinity Harbor, Virginia.”

“Never heard of it.”

“I've been there. It's a great little town on the Potomac a couple of hours from here. The sweetest crabs you'll ever taste. Victorian houses. A bunch of little froufrou shops. You know, the kind women love. Antiques, crafts, all that artsy crap. Gail was in heaven. She wants me to buy a place down there so we can spend weekends and summers away from D.C. Says she could support us by opening a shop of her own.” He sighed. “To tell you the truth, after a day like today, it's beginning to sound real good to me.”

“You'd be bored to tears in a week,” Walker predicted.

Andy grinned. “Maybe less, but I'm willing to give it a try. Give the woman a call. She said it was important.”

“Whatever,” Walker said, tucking the message into his pocket. Strangers took a back seat to the immediacy of this investigation.

Two hours later, the message was still in his pocket, untouched, when the phone on his desk rang.

“Ames.”

“Walker Ames?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

“That's me.”

“This is Frances Jackson. I left you a message several hours ago,” she said, a note of censure in her voice.

Andy might have found her tough attitude amusing, but prissy women like this always got Walker's back up. “So you did,” he agreed, tilting his chair back on two legs as he prepared to enjoy himself a little. On a day like this, any amusement, however slight, was welcome.

“Then you did get the message?” she asked.

“I did.”

“I believe I mentioned it was important. Didn't your boss explain that?”

“He did.”

“Then why haven't you returned the call?” she asked impatiently.

“I've had some important things of my own to deal with.”

“Such as?”

“A dead five-year-old, shot right through the chest.”

Her dismayed gasp gave him a certain measure of satisfaction. “Okay, then,” he said, ready to end his little diversion and get back to work. He wanted to hit the streets again before dark. It was destined to be another fourteen-hour day. “You've got me now. What's on your mind?”

“Are you related to Elizabeth Jean Flanagan?”

Oh, hell, he thought, as the front legs of the chair hit the floor with a thud. What had Beth gone and done now? His baby sister had always been troubled. She had taken off at sixteen with a worthless piece of trash named Ryan Flanagan, who'd eventually gotten around to marrying her, gotten her pregnant two years later, then dumped her on a highway somewhere outside of Vegas when he concluded the responsibility for a kid was more than he'd bargained for.

That was the last Walker had heard from her, ten, maybe twelve years ago. She'd called him in tears, saying she couldn't live without that jerk. Walker had badly wanted to tell her she was better off without him, but he'd managed to keep his opinion to himself.

Instead, he had overnighted her some money for a ticket back to D.C., but she'd never shown up. Nor had she ever
called again. He'd tried every way he knew how to trace her, but if she was working, it was for cash. There wasn't a Social Security number in the system, probably thanks to the gypsy lifestyle she'd led with Flanagan. The man had thought the government was evil and that the less it knew about him, the better. Some of that must have rubbed off on Beth. She didn't own a car and hadn't registered for a driver's license. There was no trail of credit card debt he could follow. He'd been stymied. He didn't even know if she'd had the baby or gotten an abortion the way she'd been talking about doing.

“Detective Ames?”

The woman's testy voice snapped him back to the present. “What about my sister?”

“Then she
is
your sister?”

“You wouldn't be calling unless you knew that,” he said tightly.

“Not with certainty,” she said. “I discovered the names of Beth's parents through her birth certificate. Then I ran into a dead end finding them.”

“They died several years ago.”

“That explains it, then. At any rate, I checked at the hospital where Beth was born and discovered that an older brother had been born to the same parents, one Walker David Ames.”

“Maybe you should be the detective, Ms. Jackson.”

“I'm just persistent,” she said. “Besides, once I finally had your name, you were much easier to locate.”

No one went to that much trouble without a really good reason. Walker was beginning to get the uneasy sense that he should have taken a page out of Flanagan's book and maintained a lower profile.

“And now you've found me,” he congratulated her. “Why?”

“When was the last time you heard from your sister?”

“Years ago.”

“Are you her closest relative?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I'm sorry,” she said, sounding suddenly sympathetic. “I really am.”

“Sorry about what? What the hell is going on?”

“Your sister is dead.”

Once the blunt words were spoken, he realized he should have expected it. He'd been on the other end of enough calls like this to know exactly how they went, but Beth? Dead? It just didn't compute. For all of her reckless ways, he couldn't imagine her dead. She'd been beautiful and full of life before she'd gotten mixed up with Flanagan.

“How?” he asked in a choked voice, fearing the worst. In his line of work, homicide and drug overdoses came to mind quicker than anything else.

“She caught the flu a few weeks ago. She didn't get to a hospital until it was too late. It turned into pneumonia, and the antibiotics didn't work. There was nothing else the doctors could do. We've been trying to locate her family ever since.” She paused, then corrected herself. “I mean the rest of her family.”

The implications of her remark made his blood run cold. “Don't tell me she was still with that scum Flanagan.”

“No, he died before she ever came to Trinity Harbor. A motorcycle crash, I believe. But there is the boy. Her son. Your
nephew,
” she stressed in a way that suggested she had specific expectations.

“What are you telling me, Ms. Jackson?”

“I think you'd better come to Trinity Harbor, Detective. You and I need to talk.”

“About what?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“There's a little boy here who is desperately in need of a family. Unless there's someone you haven't mentioned, it appears you're all he's got.”

Walker's heart thudded dully as he considered that. If it was true—and there was little question that it was—then the kid was in one sorry mess. According to his ex-wife, he was a lousy father and a worse husband. He had no reason to dispute her. He was a workaholic, always had been. His family had taken a back seat. He regretted it now, but he doubted if he could do things any differently.

“Ms. Jackson, there must be—”

“What? Another solution? Do you have one in mind?”

Walker's spirits sank. He was it. Heaven help the kid. “I'll be there,” he said without enthusiasm.

“When?”

“When I can get there, Ms. Jackson. I'm in the middle of a homicide investigation.”

“And given the state of things in Washington, I'm sure there will be another one after that and one after that,” she said, her tone wry. “Meantime, your nephew needs you now.”

Walker sighed at the accuracy of her assessment. “I hear you. I'm off on Thursday. Is that soon enough to suit you?”

“I imagine it will have to be, Detective Ames.”

“Damn straight,” Walker muttered in one last display of defiance as he hung up.

Why did he have this sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach that solving a few homicides was going to be a piece of cake compared to the turn his life was about to take?

 

Daisy had fully expected to be confronted by her father before that first day was out, but when that day passed and the one after without a visit, she thought maybe he was going to keep his nose out of her plan to keep Tommy. Not for a single minute did she believe he might not know what was going on.

Not only did her father stay away, so did everyone else, aside from Tucker, who'd been poking his nose in on a regular basis, most likely to count the silver behind her back.

At any rate, after the better part of a week she was beginning to believe that everything was going to work out just as she'd intended. Tommy was settling in. He was back in school and behaving himself, according to his teacher. He was still eating her out of house and home, but she assumed that was to be expected from a growing boy who'd gotten it into his head that his next meal might be in doubt. Daisy hadn't cooked so much in years. Nor had she ever enjoyed it more.

Even now, the kitchen was filled with the scent of chocolate chip cookies baking. Tommy had already grabbed a handful and headed outside, swearing that his homework was done as he grabbed his cap and let the screen door slam behind him. Molly meowed indignantly at the disruptive sound, but Daisy just smiled. One of these days she'd get around to breaking him of the habit, but for now she liked the way he was filling her too-quiet house with noise.

When the doorbell rang, she froze. For a second, she consoled herself with the fact that her brothers or her father would have knocked once and walked right in. So would most of the neighbors, for that matter. Unfortunately, that left one possibility, and it wasn't a good one. The chiming of the bell meant someone was paying a formal visit and that usually meant trouble.