Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel (34 page)

W
ith each suspense novel I write, I’m amazed at how much I still have to learn. Every book takes me into new territory, and the research challenge is immense. I am deeply grateful to the following people who lent me their expertise during the writing of this novel.

Tim Flora, president of Mid-West Protective Service, Inc., whose twenty-eight years of experience in federal and local law enforcement, private investigation, and security made him the perfect PI source for this book—and the entire Private Justice series.

Lieutenant Tom Larkin, commander of the St. Louis County Police Department’s Bureau of Crimes Against Persons, who once again answered my police-procedure questions with promptness and patience.

Marc Ulses, assistant chief/fire marshal of the Frontenac Fire Department, who steered me through the key scene leading up to the climax.

Patricia Davids, fellow author and nurse, who critiqued the medical sections.

Captain Ed Nestor from the Chesterfield, Missouri, Police Department, who continues to be my go-to person for amazing sources.

My deepest thanks, also, to the amazing team at Revell—you rock!

And love—always—to my wonderful husband Tom and my fabulous parents James and Dorothy Hannon, whose love, support, and encouragement I treasure.

Irene Hannon
is a bestselling, award-winning author who took the publishing world by storm at the tender age of ten with a sparkling piece of fiction that received national attention.

Okay . . . maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. But she
was
one of the honorees in a complete-the-story contest conducted by a national children’s magazine. And she likes to think of that as her “official” fiction-writing debut!

Since then, she has written more than forty contemporary romance and romantic suspense novels. Irene has twice won the RITA award—the “Oscar” of romantic fiction—from Romance Writers of America, and her books have also been honored with a National Readers’ Choice award, a HOLT medallion, a Daphne du Maurier award, a Retailers Choice award, and two Reviewers’ Choice awards from
RT Book Reviews
magazine. In 2011,
Booklist
included one of her novels in its Top 10 Inspirational Fiction list for the year.

Irene, who holds a BA in psychology and an MA in journalism, juggled two careers for many years until she gave up her executive corporate communications position with a Fortune 500 company to write full-time. She is happy to say she has no regrets! As she points out, leaving behind the rush-hour commute, corporate politics, and a relentless BlackBerry that never slept was no sacrifice.

A trained vocalist, Irene has sung the leading role in numerous community theater productions and is also a soloist at her church.

When not otherwise occupied, she and her husband enjoy traveling, Saturday mornings at their favorite coffee shop, and spending time with family. They make their home in Missouri.

To learn more about Irene and her books, visit
www.irenehannon.com
.

H
EROES
OF
Q
UANTICO

Against All Odds

An Eye for an Eye

In Harm’s Way

G
UARDIANS
OF
J
USTICE

Fatal Judgment

Deadly Pursuit

Lethal Legacy

P
RIVATE
J
USTICE

Vanished

Trapped

That Certain Summer

A
stranger was coming up her driveway.

Decorative tube of icing poised over the cake, Claire Marshall froze as the crunch of gravel outside the open windows at the front of the house stopped by the porch.

Definitely not John. He would have headed straight to the detached garage in back, as usual. Besides, he and Kevin never cut their Wednesday fishing outings short. And none of their friends would make a social call at this hour of the morning.

A car door slammed, and she finished the last swirl of red icing on the
y
in
birthday
, frowning as a tingle of apprehension skittered through her. How silly was that? This was Hilton, New York, not New York City. A peaceful village of six thousand people. Just because she was a big-city girl who’d never quite acclimated to the solitude of their five-acre spread on the outskirts of town didn’t mean it was unsafe.

Still, as the doorbell rang, she grabbed her cell out of her purse and slipped it in the pocket of her jeans—just in case.

But as she entered the living room and caught a glimpse of the dark-colored cruiser through the front window, her step faltered.

There would be no need for a 911 call.

The police were already here.

A sudden swirl of memories kaleidoscoped through her mind, catapulting her back sixteen years, to her eighteenth summer. A porch swing . . . a tall glass of tangy lemonade . . . a heart-melting romance novel. All the makings of a perfect June day.

Until a police car pulled up and a grim-faced officer emerged.

Two minutes later, as the man informed her and her mother
that a faulty construction elevator at a job site had plunged her architect father three stories to his death, the perfect day had ended.

But history didn’t repeat itself.

God wouldn’t do that to her.

Would he?

Reining in her burgeoning panic, she breathed in, then out, and forced her feet to carry her across the living room.

Through the art-glass sidelight next to the front door, she had a distorted view of the uniformed man on the other side. He appeared to be young . . . and his expression was serious.

Her heart lurched.

Fingers fumbling the lock, she opened the door. “May I help you?” Her rote words seemed to come from a distance, leaving a hollow echo in her ears.

“Mrs. Marshall?”

“Yes.”

The man clasped his hands behind his back and planted his feet a shoulder-width apart, in military at-ease position.

But he didn’t look at ease.

His posture was rigid, his features taut.

“I’m Trooper Peyton, New York State Police. Did your husband go fishing in Braddock Bay this morning?”

“Yes.”

He cleared his throat, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

No!

The denial screamed through her mind as she clutched the edge of the door, her slippery fingers leaving a smear of icing on the shiny white woodwork.

It looked like blood.

She tore her gaze away from the crimson smudge, forced her brain to process the man’s statement . . . and came to the only possible conclusion.

John was hurt.

Badly.

Otherwise, he would have called her himself.

Cold fingers squeezed her heart as she choked out the question she didn’t want to ask. “My son . . . is he . . . is Kevin hurt too?”

The uniformed man frowned. “Your son?”

She furrowed her own brow. “Yes. My husband and son were together. Kevin’s almost th-three.” Her voice hitched on the last word.

The officer reached for his radio. “Let me call that in. The last I heard, they were only looking for a man.”

Looking for?

The room began to spin, and she grabbed the door frame with her free hand. Darkness licked at her soul, snuffing out the light like storm clouds advancing on the sun. “What do you mean, looking for?”

His features softened as his radio crackled to life. “I’m sorry, ma’am. All we have so far is an overturned boat and an adult life jacket.”

Adult life jacket.

As the words reverberated in her mind, she shook her head, trying to clear the muddle from her brain.

No.

That couldn’t be right.

“Wait.” She plucked at the man’s sleeve. “You shouldn’t have found a loose life jacket. My husband and son always wore their vests.”

He held up a finger and angled away to speak into the radio, conveying the news about Kevin in a crisp, official tone before he turned back to her.

“If you could give me a description of what your husband and son were wearing, ma’am, it would be very helpful to the search and rescue team.”

He wasn’t listening to her.

She stepped closer. In-your-face close. “Did you hear what I said?
They always wore their life jackets. Always! John promised me they would, and he never broke his promises. There shouldn’t be a loose life jacket. And where are they?” Her pitch rose as hysteria nipped at the edges of her voice.

“I don’t know the answer to that question, ma’am, but we’re doing everything we can to find them.” The officer’s reassuring tone did nothing to soothe her. “May I come in while I ask you a few more questions?”

She stared at him as an insulating numbness began to shroud her, weighing down her arms and legs, dulling her senses. “You expect me to just sit here while my husband and son are missing?”

“Professionals are handling the search, Mrs. Marshall. The most useful thing you can do is give us a description and answer some questions.”

It wasn’t enough.

But how else could she contribute? With her fear of the water, she’d hinder more than help if she showed up at the bay.

Closing her eyes, she sucked in a breath—and sent a silent, desperate plea to the Almighty.

The officer took her arm. Wondering, perhaps, if she was going to cave?

Not yet.

But soon.

Because even as he guided her toward the couch, even as she prepared to answer his questions, she knew with soul-searing certainty that nothing she told him was going to change the outcome on this day intended to celebrate the beginning of her husband’s thirty-sixth year.

And she also knew there would be no more happy birthdays in this house.

F
OUR
YEARS
LATER

Claire sniffed the enticing aromas wafting her way from the food court, transferred her shopping bag from one hand to the other, and checked her watch. Nope. She was already behind schedule, and being late for her one-thirty client wasn’t an option. No lunch today.

So what else was new?

On the plus side, maybe she could swing by Starbucks after dinner and apply those saved calories to the ultimate summer indulgence—a double chocolaty chip Frappuccino, heavy on the whip.

A wry grin tugged at her lips as she lengthened her stride. Like that was going to happen. If this day followed her typical pattern, she’d be so exhausted by the time she got home she’d opt for a quick omelet or nuke a frozen dinner, then fall into bed—and the oblivion of sleep. But better catatonic slumber than nights spent watching the LED display on her bedside clock mark the slow-motion passing of middle-of-the-night minutes.

Cutting a path straight toward the escalator that led down to the first level of the mall, she averted her head as she passed the Mrs. Fields shop. Tempting, but not healthy.

When her stomach rumbled, however, her course drifted to the right.

Maybe one cookie.

Two minutes later, cookie in hand, she took a large bite and closed her eyes as the warm chocolate melted on her tongue.

Nirvana.

Far tastier than the turkey sandwich in the fridge at work—the lunch she would have been eating if she hadn’t volunteered last
night to exchange her neighbor’s defective heating pad during her lunch hour. But with the older woman’s arthritis acting up . . . with the sweltering heat of a St. Louis July taking a toll on seniors who ventured out . . . with West County Center just ten minutes away from her office . . . how could she ignore the prodding of her conscience to do a good deed?

Besides, she might not be as old as her neighbor, but she knew what it was like to be hurting, and alone, and in desperate need of a respite from pain.

The chocolate lost some of its sweetness, but she shoved the last bite of cookie in her mouth anyway and picked up her pace toward the escalator. She was
not
going to let melancholy thoughts ruin this moment of pleasure. She’d done that far too often over the past few years—as her mother never hesitated to remind her during her occasional calls from the West Coast. Take what life hands you and get on with it, that was Angela Stewart’s motto. And that philosophy had served her well as she’d forged her executive career. Unlike her daughter, she hadn’t needed valium to get through her first year of widowhood.

Then again, she hadn’t lost a child too.

Claire shoved the chocolate-smeared paper napkin in a trash can and straightened her shoulders. So she wasn’t made of the same tough cloth as her mother. So she had a softer heart. But she’d survived the hard times and gotten her act together eventually, hadn’t she? And that soft heart had turned out to be an asset in her counseling work.

A horde of Friday lunchtime shoppers jostled her as she approached the escalator, and she tightened her grip on the shopping bag. Good heavens, you’d think it was the day-after-Christmas sale.

Leading with her shoulder, she inserted herself in the middle of the surging throng, then maneuvered through the clusters of chattering women to claim a riser and began her descent.

And to think some people found shopping fun.

Her errand had gone smoothly, though. Assuming she got out of
the parking garage without delay, she should be back at the office in time to grab a bottle of water, touch up her lipstick, and run a comb through her hair before . . .

“. . . a poppysicle?”

As the eager, childish voice carried over the background hum of mall noise, the air whooshed out of her lungs and she grabbed the railing.

Poppysicle?

The only child she’d ever heard use that term was Kevin.

And that voice—it sounded like his.

How could that be?

Whipping toward the adjacent ascending escalator, she scanned the crowd. Several risers above her, moving farther away by the second, she caught a glimpse of a youngster about six or seven with hair the hue of ripening wheat.

The same color as hers.

The same color as her son’s.

“Kevin?” Her incredulous whisper was lost in the cavernous echo of the mall.

She tried again, raising her voice. “Kevin!”

The boy angled her way. She caught a profile. Then a full face. As they made eye contact, as he frowned and cocked his head, her heart stalled.

He looked just how she would have expected Kevin to look when he was seven.

As they stared at each other, the noise in the mall receded. Movement slowed. Everything faded from her peripheral vision. Only the little boy’s face registered.

Dear God, is that . . . ?

No. Impossible.

Wasn’t it?