L.A.P.D. Special Investigations Series, Boxed Set: The Deceived, The Taken & The Silent (30 page)

A muscle cinched low in her belly. Damn. You’d think she was a teenager with a crush on the captain of the football team. Okay. She had to admit Rico Santini was a mighty appealing man—even if he was a cop. Cops and attorneys were always on opposite sides in the courtroom, and like fire and dry tinder, they were a combustible combination that rarely worked.

Looking for something to take her mind off the sexy detective who was only being nice because he wanted something from her, she began to write down things she remembered from when she’d stayed at Haven’s Gate.

She remembered Carla…what was her last name? Carla was one of the girls Macy had made friends with while they were at the shelter…and Macy had promised to keep in touch. Somehow that promise had been lost along the way, what with college, law school, a trip to Europe and then starting work at her father’s firm.

Carla…Carla Monroe, that was her name. She and Carla had commiserated over what they were about to do, wondering if there was any other way. But there wasn’t. The father of Macy’s baby was dead, and Carla was only fifteen, living with her single mother and seven siblings on welfare.

Acting the big sister, Macy had impressed on Carla the importance of finishing school, and she wondered now if Carla had taken it to heart. She noted the girl’s last name.

Macy also wrote out tidbits she remembered from Rico’s case file. Before she knew it, she had a pad full of notes and it was time to go home and change for dinner. Her mother and grandmother might go into cardiac arrest if she came in her sweats.

On the drive home, Macy decided on a pair of black dress pants and a lightweight black cowl-neck sweater. Perfect for the crisp spring evening. And to top it off, her best Manolos. Her one guilty pleasure. No matter what she wore, she always felt more confident in great shoes.

At her condo, Macy heard the phone as she was pulling the key from the door, but by the time she reached it, the message had clicked off. She glanced around for Hercules, forgetting he was at the vets overnight. It was the first time they’d been apart overnight since she’d brought him home three years ago, and she hadn’t realized how much she’d miss the little guy.

She set her briefcase on the couch, kicked off her shoes, and then retrieved a soft drink from the fridge. After a quick swig, she went back to the phone, punched the message button and dropped onto the couch to listen.

“Hi, Macy. It’s Rico. Detective Santini. When you get a minute, please give me a call. He rattled off the number, then said, “I’m going out for a while and it’ll be late when I return. So call tomorrow if you can. Thanks.”

She played the message again, enjoying the sensual quality of his voice. Call me, he’d said. But not tonight.

Of course not. What guy who looked like Rico would be sitting home on a Saturday night?

A tiny pinprick of envy needled her as she wondered what kind of women he dated. Then she wondered why she was even thinking of him…and more to the point, why she couldn’t stop.

When she thought about it, she knew why. In a way, Rico Santini reminded her a little of her first love. They even looked a little alike with dark hair, soft brown eyes and long, black eyelashes that most women would kill for. Both men owned any room they entered. Jesse because he looked very much the rebel, and even though it was far from the truth, the detective had that rebel look about him, too. But the one thing Rico possessed that Jesse never did was a true sense of self…the type of self-confidence that made heads turn.

And thinking about either man was an exercise in futility. Jesse was gone and the detective was off limits in every possible way. On the other hand, the thoughts of either man was more pleasant than thinking about the so-called family dinner that night.

An hour later, she was knocking at the front door of her parents’ home in Bel Air, her palms sweaty and her nerves tingling on the surface of her skin. She knocked one more time and then opened the oversize carved wood door, as was her custom. Never barge in, she’d been taught. Not even in the home where she’d grown up. Manners, manners, manners. Her mother ran a close race with Emily Post in all things etiquette.

“Swe-e-etheart,” her mother sang out as she floated toward Macy.

They hugged. Sarah gave Macy an air kiss on each cheek, then smoothed the front of her lavender silk shirt, which perfectly matched lavender silk pants. Svelte at sixty-two, with golden hair, perfectly coiffed, her mother wore little jewelry. Just the three-carat rock she wore on her left hand and matching stud earrings. Sarah had a natural beauty and didn’t need to wear much makeup, but Macy couldn’t recall every seeing her mother without it.

“Come in, dear. Your grandparents are in the library with your father.”

“Am I late?”

“Just a little. But don’t worry about it. We’re simply happy you’re here.”

They entered the library together and immediately, her grandmother was at her side. Her father and grandfather stood near the window talking. When they saw her, her grandfather started toward her. Her father didn’t budge.

She gave the older man a loving hug, then crossed the room to her father and hugged him, too, a perfunctory gesture.

“You look beautiful, young lady,” her grandfather said.

“Thanks, Gramps. You look pretty spiffy yourself.”

Her father looked good, too. He always did. At sixty-one, he was still a handsome man with silver hair and a golden tan that said he had time to spare for many vacations in the tropics. Tall and elegant, Wesley Capshaw was a Renaissance man…and when he entered a courtroom, he put everyone on notice.

Before Macy knew it, dinner was over and they were having coffee and dessert and she hadn’t had a single opportunity to talk with her father.

“Dad, do you remember Doctor Dixon?” she asked around a mouthful of tiramisu.

Her father’s head snapped up, his lips thin, and it took a second for him to respond. “Yes, of course.” He looked to Sarah and then Macy’s grandparents, and without further acknowledgment of her question, he said, “I think you should all know that Sarah and I plan to fly to Paris for our wedding anniversary next week.” He smiled with satisfaction and patted her mother’s hand.

“How wonderful,” Macy’s grandmother sang out. “And how romantic.” Marion Delacourt played the addled old lady far too often, but Macy knew her gran was as sharp as a fillet knife. “How many years is that, dear?” Marion asked her daughter.

“Thirty—” Sarah hesitated “—thirty-one.”

“That’s good since I’m already thirty,” Macy joked.

“Mind your manners, young lady,” Sarah reprimanded with a tight smile, as if nobody at the table knew that Macy’s parents had married because Sarah was pregnant. Which, she guessed, was part of the reason they hadn’t wanted Macy to keep her baby. They’d regretted their mistake and didn’t want their daughter to do the same. To make sure, they’d refused to help her if she kept the child.

At the reminder, Macy pushed to her feet. “Dad, can I talk to you in private for a minute?”

Wesley looked surprised, but he wasn’t going to refuse her request in front of guests. What’s in the family, stays in the family. The immediate family. If she’d heard it once, she’d heard it a thousand times.

Macy followed her father into the library and closed the door behind her, dreading any discussion with her father because the outcome was always the same. Bad. But this was something she needed to do — for her own peace of mind. “Do you remember telling me that Dr. Dixon delivered my baby as a favor to you?”

Wesley shrugged. “That was a long time ago. I’ve put it out of my mind.”

Sure. So had she until something came up to remind her, and it seemed something always came up. “I had no idea he delivered more babies at Haven’s Gate. I thought he was there just that once.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed and a frown creased his tanned forehead. “I really don’t want to discuss any of this. For God’s sake, Macy, that’s all in the past.”

He was shutting her down. It was what he did when he didn’t think a subject worthy of discussion. “Well, maybe for you, but it isn’t for me.” As the words came out, her hands began to shake. “There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think of the child I lost.”

Wesley let out a sharp breath. “Keep it down or your grandparents will hear you.”

“Well, you know what? I don’t give a damn if they know. I never did. In fact it might be better for all of us to acknowledge my so-called indiscretion than to pretend it never happened. I kept the secret for you, not for me, and now I want you to listen,” she said, talking fast so he couldn’t shut her down again. “I was working with a detective today on a case in which an infant was abducted five years ago — from Haven’s Gate.” She stopped, caught a quick breath, then went on. “Dr. Dixon delivered that baby, too.”

He gave her a blank stare. “So what?”

“I thought it a little strange since you told me he was delivering my baby as a favor to you. A one-time thing. That way we could be assured it would be kept confidential.”

He shrugged. “I don’t see the point. Apparently Dixon decided to continue working at the shelter after that. What does that have to do with anything?”

Before she had a chance to respond, he yanked open the door. “I don’t want to hear anything more about this. I’m not going to let you spoil your mother’s happiness tonight.”

Guilt. He was good at that, too. “You’re still ashamed of … of me. Aren’t you?”

“And you’re not?” He turned on his heel to leave, but on the way out he reiterated, “Leave well enough alone, Macy. Don’t bring this up again.”

Macy’s stomach sank. The walls seemed to close in on her. She tried to draw a full breath but felt as if her lungs had collapsed. She held on to the door and waited until she could breathe again. When she managed to regain her composure, she forced herself to put one foot in front of the other and, head high, walk back into the dining room.

She should have known nothing would come of talking to her father. Which made her all the more determined to get some answers.

He’d lied to her twelve years ago, and she was going to find out why.

CHAPTER FOUR

CARLA MONROE. CARLA MONROE. Macy thumbed through the phone book, scanning for her former roommate’s name. If she talked with Carla or even one of the other girls who’d stayed at Haven’s Gate back then, she might learn something.

Her friend would probably be married and the chances of finding her in the white pages weren’t good. Finished with the phone book, she turned to the computer in her home office and did an Internet search. Nothing there, either.

She could call Hank. Hank Bendetti, an old-time private investigator, was the person she hired when she needed someone to do background on a case and she couldn’t get information through normal channels. She was about to punch in his number when she remembered Carla’s mother’s name and went back to the phone book. Mary Monroe… There it was — along with four others of the same name and a dozen more with the initial M. She started at the top.

After six futile calls, she was ready to give up and call Hank when, after Macy explained who she was and who she was trying to find, the woman who’d answered said, “Yes, I have a daughter named Carla.”

“Oh, thank heaven,” Macy said and explained she and Carla were friends several years ago and she wanted to get in touch, but had lost Carla’s phone number. It was true. She’d had Carla’s number before, but didn’t know what she’d done with it.

“Oh, I remember you, Miss Capshaw. Carla talked about you all the time. Said you helped her a lot.”

Macy felt even worse for letting time and circumstance keep her from maintaining the friendship, but she couldn’t change that now. “I’d like to get in touch with her. Could you please have her call me … or give me her number?”

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Monroe rattled on about how Carla was married now and had three children and couldn’t be happier. Then she gave Macy Carla’s number and said goodbye.

Though glad to hear her friend was doing well, Macy felt a twinge of envy. There was a time when she wanted more than anything to have a family of her own, but four years ago, that door had been closed forever.

After talking to Mrs. Monroe, Macy called Carla. No answer, so she left a brief message and her number. She hoped Carla would call, but couldn’t blame her if she didn’t.

Macy went into the kitchen, prepared some tea and went back to her office. Work would take her mind off what was quickly becoming an obsession. She pulled up her e-mail and found several messages from her admin assistant and plowed through them, making notes in her Day-Timer of court dates, due dates for briefs, and then she read some case law that she’d asked Cheryl to find. A half hour later, the phone rang. Macy snatched it up. “Hello.”

A woman’s small voice said, “Hi, Macy. This is Carla.”

As reluctant as Macy had been to call Carla, she was more than happy that she had. In seconds, the years slipped away and they were as comfortable with each other as if they’d never been apart. “Your mom says you’re doing fantastic,” Macy said. “Instead of talking on the phone, why don’t we get together? It would be so much fun and a lot easier to catch up on each other’s lives.

There was hesitation on Carla’s end, but Macy persisted. “Any time you want. Anywhere you want. I can pick you up, take you to lunch or—”

“It’s…it’s hard for me to get a sitter,” Carla said. “But I take the kids to the park sometimes in the morning and maybe you could meet us there one day. We can talk while the rug rats play.”

“Sure. I’d like that. Whenever you want.”

Carla suggested the next week, but Macy didn’t want to wait that long. “I’d love for it to be sooner if we could.”

Again, Carla hesitated, then said, “I have some time this afternoon when the kids are napping. Could you come here?”

“Of course I will. I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me, too,” Carla said, but Macy didn’t hear conviction in her voice. And after giving Macy her address, Carla added, “It’s not the best neighborhood, but we’re planning to move soon.”

“I’m coming to see you, Carla. Not your house.”

“Okay,” Carla’s voice rose as if pleased at the response.

Macy asked for the address and they agreed on a time. Now all she had to do was decide what she was going to ask Carla and yet not bring up unhappy memories. Her friend had wanted desperately to keep her child. They’d both wanted that.

Two hours later, Macy was cruising the streets in one of the older L.A. neighborhoods. While some older parts of the city had been designated historic, the area she was looking for hadn’t made the grade.

She located the address, an apartment, and then parked in the back as Carla suggested. A group of teens were hanging out around a tricked out car in the parking lot of the building, which reminded Macy of the projects where she had visited one of her pro bono clients. One guy said, “Nice ride,” when she got out of her car. Her stomach skittered. Unsure what the appropriate response should be, she simply smiled, said “Thanks,” and went inside, sure she’d have no tires or radio when she came out.

Inside, she was greeted by dingy walls and the sweet, telltale odor of marijuana filling the hallways. No elevator, either. She could see why Carla was reluctant to have visitors over.

She walked up the two flights, found apartment 234 and knocked softly so she didn’t wake her friend’s children.

The door parted a crack and a pair of brown eyes peered out. The door shut again. She heard a chain slide, a click, and then Carla—as pretty as ever—was standing there and Macy felt as if she’d been flung back in time.

Both she and Carla reached out at the same time to hug each other.

“It’s so good to see you,” Carla said, her dimples making dents in cheeks that were still girlishly plump.

“You, too,” Macy said.

Carla motioned for Macy to come in and then locked and bolted the door. “Can’t be too careful around here.”

After a few awkward moments, they launched into conversation, their rapport as easy as if the years hadn’t come between them. They looked at several photo books of Carla’s family, laughed at some of the silly things children do, and then caught up on where they were in their personal lives.

“My mom told me you’re a lawyer now, and I know your life must be really busy,” Carla said, looking lovingly at the photographs of her children. “But having children is one of God’s greatest gifts. I hope you’re blessed with that happiness someday.”

Macy swallowed. She’d hoped for that, too. Once. But her fate was sealed when her gynecologist confirmed that it would be impossible to conceive again. The disappointment had cut deep. But like other things she couldn’t change, she’d grieved and then made a personal decision to devote her life to helping children however she could.

“I have a…female problems. So, it looks like I’ll just have to enjoy other people’s children,” she said, trying to make light of it.

But she couldn’t forget the loss. The disappointment.

Carla glanced away, obviously embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed—”

“It’s okay. I’ve adjusted.”

A long pause ensued and then Carla asked, “Do you ever think about your baby? Where he is and what he’s doing? If he’s happy?”

The question surprised Macy, but then it shouldn’t have. Carla had left the day before Macy had delivered, so she couldn’t have known Macy’s child had been stillborn. But Macy didn’t want to get into all that. What she really wanted to know was if Dr. Dixon delivered Carla’s baby, as well. She nodded. “Of course. All the time. Do you?”

Carla hesitated. “I think about it sometimes, but then I think what happened might have been for the best.”

Macy nodded her understanding. “Giving up a child for adoption is one of the biggest sacrifices a mother can make. But when it’s what’s best for the baby…”

Carla’s eyes went wide. “Oh, I didn’t give him up.”

Macy stared at Carla. “I…I don’t understand. Do you mean you changed your mind and took your baby home?” Her gaze darted around the room searching for photos of an older child. She hadn’t seen any in the photo albums.

Furrows formed on Carla’s brow. “You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

“My baby was dead. He was stillborn. When that happened, everything changed.”

But…Macy had been told that everything had gone fine for Carla…that the adoption had been completed and Carla was happy her child would have a good home.

When Macy finally found her voice, it was only a whisper. “No, I didn’t know.”

“They said it was for the best. He wouldn’t have been normal and would have had severe medical problems all his life. Something about the heart. And I know now, I was way too young to take care of him properly. I blame myself sometimes.”

“But it wasn’t your fault.”

“I know. That’s what the doctor said.”

“Do you remember the doctor’s name?”

Carla shook her head. “Why?”

“No reason,” Macy said absently.

An hour later, and after a lot of chatting about Carla’s plans to make something of her life eventually, Macy left Carla’s and drove back to her office, her mind reeling as she tried to make some sense of what she’d just learned. Why would anyone lie to her about Carla’s baby? And it wasn’t just one person who’d lied, it was the doctor and the rest of the staff. Her father. Did they think she couldn’t handle the news after hearing her own baby had been stillborn?

Two stillborn babies within hours of each other? What were the odds? Immediately the lawyer in her rose to the fore. Had the doctor or the staff been negligent? Had they botched something in one of the births—or both?

She parked and went inside the tall, contemporary Citicorp building, rode the elevator up to her office on the seventh floor. The only conclusion Macy could draw was that there was culpability on the part of either the physician or the staff when her child died, and they didn’t want the facility to get slapped with a lawsuit. If they lied to Macy about Carla’s baby, there’d be no reason for Macy and her family to think there was any problem with the standard of care when her child was stillborn. If her family knew about two dead infants within twenty-four hours of each other, someone might have had a few questions.

Preoccupied, she crossed the reception area, barely acknowledging Cheryl, went into her office and sat at her desk. Even if she’d heard about Carla’s baby back then, she’d been so naive, she might not have thought anything of it. But her father would have. Then again, since he wanted the whole thing to disappear, and Dr. Dixon was his friend, he might not have done anything. Wesley Capshaw looked out for himself.

Her head hurt. She didn’t work well on possibilities or assumptions. She had to find out exactly what had happened that night. But how? She couldn’t waltz into the shelter and start poring over confidential records. Requesting her own records would take time and wouldn’t necessarily show anything. She needed Carla’s records, too, and she had no way to get them. No reason either unless she told Carla everything. Even then there was no guarantee Carla would want to do anything. Like Macy, no one knew about her past, and especially not Carla’s husband. She’d said he had a temper and she wasn’t sure how he’d react, so she’d never told him.

But Detective Santini could get access to the records.  His case…the Ray case…was connected to Haven’s Gate. He could easily get a search warrant to look at the records. And he could take her with him.

Anyone who knew the circumstance would think it suspicious. All she had to do was tell him why he needed to check the records.

She would have to tell him about her past.

***

BERNIE’S SPORTS BAR AND GRILL was the nearest watering hole to the House, aka the station, and while Rico didn’t frequent the place as often as the rest of his unit, he managed to make every Yankees game he could. As a kid, Rico, his dad and his brothers watched them all. His dad worked hard at his small restaurant in Hoboken and the family had barely scraped by, but attending ball games was part of Mario Santini’s life.

Initially, his dad had to force Rico to go along, because Rico was more interested in his computer than baseball. But the sport got under his skin, and now, even though he was three thousand miles away, he was still a fan and watched every game he could.

Three televisions blared with the most important game of the season. Yankees versus their archrivals, the Boston Red Sox, and Rico had convinced his buddies that they better root for his team.

“My round.” Luke slid first one pitcher of beer across the table and then another.

Deep voices reverberated throughout the bar with each hit, run or out. Jordan, Luke and Rico hooted along with everyone else and slapped high fives or gave fist-bumps when their team came home. Their table was directly in front of the big screen and they were on their fourth round of beer, the Yankees were down by two runs and the bases were loaded when the room came to a sudden hush.

Rico did a 180. A blond woman stood just inside the doorway, looking to the left. When she turned his way his mouth fell open. Macy Capshaw.

What the…

“Come to Papa,” one of the guys at the next table said and whistled loudly. A few other drunks joined in.