Читать книгу Heart of a Hero - Marie Ferrarella - Страница 9

Rusty scrutinized her for a long moment. “Well, at least you’re honest.”

She liked the fact that he didn’t look away when he spoke, that he looked her square in the eye.

If a man can look you straight in the eye, Dee, he’s got nothing to hide, her father had told her a long time ago. Either that, her mother had added, or he’s a cold-blooded liar. Andreini didn’t look like a cold-blooded liar. But she’d hold off making any final judgments about him until there were more facts in. She knew the danger of jumping to conclusions too soon.

“Don’t feel bad,” she told him, “I don’t trust many people. I find it’s a lot less disappointing that way.” She looked at him and noted the rumpled clothing. “Did you stay here all night?”

He’d thought about going upstairs to his apartment several times after he finished looking around outside, but somehow he just hadn’t felt right about leaving her alone. He’d only stopped upstairs long enough to get his shoes.

“Yes.”

She continued looking at him. People usually squirmed under scrutiny. He didn’t. Which meant that he had nothing to hide. Or everything to hide. Which was it? “Why?” She wanted to know.

He ran his hand through his hair, smoothing it down a little. His neck felt stiff, as did his shoulders. He’d never managed to develop his brother-in-law’s trick of being able to catnap comfortably any place that came in handy. But he figured that was all part of Garret’s Justice Department agent training.

“I wanted to be sure you were all right,” he told her simply. “And I wanted to be here in case the kidnapper called.” He saw her raise a brow, silently asking. “He didn’t.”

Had that been a slip? Was Andreini connected to the kidnapping after all? She wished she could stop vacillating and know one way or another. “How do you know it was a he?”

She’d asked the question rather heatedly, he noted, wondering why. “Print outside your window’s too big for a woman.”

“Print?” she echoed. “Just one?”

He nodded. The print would probably harden by mid-afternoon. Even though it was December, the Southern California sun could get pretty intense in the middle of the day. He’d have someone make a mold of it, or do it himself if there was no one available.

“It was a misstep. Whoever it was who took your son must have slid off the bridge and stepped into the dirt as he was leaving. Odds are that your son was probably taken not long after the sprinkler system went through its cycle.” The sprinklers were timed and for some reason, management thought it best to have them go off at night rather than early morning. “The ground was still wet and he left a print.” Because for once she seemed to be taking in what he was saying, Rusty told her the rest of what he’d discovered. “The sneaker’s old. The heel is worn down on the side.”

She pressed her lips together. “I guess maybe you really are a detective.”

He grinned at her remark. “That’s what I’d like to think.”

The grin gave him an innocent, boyish quality. She wondered if he’d practiced it to make people let their guard down, or if it came naturally.

“Is there a trail?” Dakota knew it was foolish to hope that there was. The people she was dealing with didn’t make mistakes. But even so, they were human. Maybe…

The next moment her heart sank as Andreini shook his head. She told herself it wasn’t anything she hadn’t expected.

“Just to the parking lot. Small flecks of mud on the asphalt,” he explained. They had led to an empty carport. The kidnapper had probably parked there, taking a chance that the person the spot belonged to wouldn’t come home to create a commotion about having someone in his or her space. “Even after I have it analyzed, I probably won’t be sure if it came from the same sole, just from the same source, which is only logical.”

Dakota frowned impatiently. She didn’t want logic, she wanted her son.

“So where does that put us?” Back to square one, she thought before he could reply.

The key was to keep moving forward. Things had a way of happening when you kept them in motion. “In my office, asking questions.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “What kind of questions?”

There was that wary tone again. What was she afraid he’d find out? What was she hiding? “Hopefully helpful ones. The more I know about your son, his routine—”

She felt her patience fraying again, just as it had last night. “He’s two years old, he doesn’t have a routine.”

“Everyone has a routine,” he corrected. “Even if it’s only one that’s imposed on a child by his mother. The more I know,” Rusty repeated, “the better equipped I am to find him quickly.”

There was that assurance again. No hesitation, just a tacitly understood guarantee. She’d lived long enough in Las Vegas to know that there was no such thing as a guarantee or a sure thing. Only fools who believed in them. Andreini sounded confident, as confident as a greenhorn watching his first spin of the roulette wheel.

Yet he didn’t really strike her as being a fool, or gullible.

Dakota bit her lip. She knew that she was hoping for the impossible—that somehow this man who’d pushed his way into her life was right. That he would get Vinny back for her. Quickly, before the man who had him taken could make her son forget her.

God, but she hated being this vulnerable, this easy a target emotionally. Self-conscious, she glanced down and realized that she’d slept in the sweater she’d dragged on last night to cover up.

She had to look as bad as she felt. “I need a shower and to put on some clothes.”

The latter was a matter of opinion, Rusty thought, but he wasn’t about to say that out loud. As far as he was concerned, the woman in front of him looked great just the way she was, with the mark of sleep still in her eyes and her hair all mussed and tangled, fresh from her bed.

Maybe he could do with a shower himself, Rusty thought. A cold one. The hot one he’d been planning on to get the stiffness out of his shoulders would have to be temporarily put on hold.

“Me, too,” he agreed. “I’ll be back within an hour.” That should give her enough time, he judged. “We can do the interview here if you want. That way, if a ransom call does come, you’ll be here to get it.”

But she shook her head at his offer. Though she’d jumped when the telephone had rung last night, she wasn’t expecting to receive any calls. Not if Vinny had been taken by the person she suspected. The man didn’t want to contact her. There was nothing she could offer in exchange for her son, nothing he wanted but her son.

“I don’t have to be here,” she told him. “I can have the calls forwarded to my cell phone,” she added as an afterthought.

Dakota led the way out of her room. “Besides, I’d rather go down to your office.”

He was coming to understand the way her mind worked. She took nothing at face value. “To see if it’s on the level?”

The barest hint of a smile curved her mouth. “Something like that.”

Rusty nodded. He preferred it that way, actually. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to have her see the framed photographs of the children they’d recovered. The extensive gallery covered the length of one complete wall and was designed to inspire hope in every despairing parent who crossed their threshold. He figured it would do the same for her.

“Want me to pick you up?” He knew the answer to that even before the words were out of his mouth.

She crossed to her front door and opened it. “No, I can find my own way.”

He merely nodded, accepting her need for independence. Everyone found their own way to deal with a tragedy. She was a hell of a lot stronger than most of the women he’d encountered who had been in her place.

Walking out of the apartment, he turned around abruptly. “One more thing.”

About to close the door, she looked up impatiently. “What?”

“Your name.” She’d never once introduced herself. “Did I hear you correctly last night?”

That’s right, she realized, she’d avoided telling him her name, but he’d heard her correcting the telemarketing person who’d called last night. That had been a slip. Maybe her mistake was in not having changed it, but that had been because she’d believed that the man who had taken her son only knew her by her stage name. It had given her a sense of security, of comfort, to revert to her own name.

Showed what she knew, she thought contemptuously.

Dakota left her hand on the door. “Depends on what you think you heard.”

Cagey, always cagey. It was beginning to fascinate him. “Dakota Armstrong.”

She gave a slight nod. “That’s me.”

Somehow, although he had no idea what a Dakota Armstrong would look like, the name suited her. It was different, unique. As was she.

Rusty put out his hand. “Glad to know you, Dakota Armstrong.”

She didn’t take his hand. She didn’t want a friend, she wanted someone who could do something for her. So instead, she merely closed the door on him.

Her voice came through the barrier. “I’ll see you in about an hour.”

Shaking his head, Rusty hurried up the stairs to his apartment.

He made it to his office in almost half that time. A five-minute shower was all he’d needed before he’d hurried into a fresh pair of jeans and a new shirt. He let the wind dry his hair as he drove to the office, leaving the top down on the vintage blue-and-white Mustang convertible that Megan and Chad had given him for graduation. It was the car he’d spent the better part of two years fantasizing about when he hadn’t been immersed in the minutia of forensics.

He’d expected to be the first one in the office. He’d expected wrong.

There was no need to insert the key into the lock. The door wasn’t locked. As he turned the knob and walked in, he saw Megan coming out of the coffee room, a mug of coffee in one hand, a plate containing two-thirds of a Danish pastry in the other.

Her expression immediately brightened when she saw him. “Hello, little brother, what brings you in so early?” She temporarily set down both mug and plate on the desk in the middle of the foyer. Carrie, their secretary, wasn’t due for another hour. “I thought you’d be basking in your success and sleeping in today.” Before he could respond, she added, “Mrs. Quinn left a message on the machine this morning, saying that she just wanted you to know that there’ll always be a place set for you at their table.”

He’d almost forgotten about yesterday. He’d found the Quinns’s eight-year-old daughter earlier that morning. One of the informants Ben—another partner at the agency who’d come to them via the police department—had cultivated during his career had tipped them off about a little girl who fit Julie Quinn’s description being held in a nearby vacant warehouse. Rescue and reunion had taken place in a matter of hours.

Rusty shrugged. Gratitude always made him feel awkward, like someone who’d suddenly become too big for his clothes. “Place setting belongs to Ben as much as to me.”

“That’s my little brother, modest to a fault.” Affection entered her eyes as Megan reached up and patted his face. She left her hand where it was as she studied him. Had he been up all night?

“You look tired, Rusty. Why didn’t you sleep in?”

He grinned as he took her hand in his and removed it. “You’re being a mother again.”

“Sorry, habit.”

He knew she wasn’t alluding to the fact that she had a child of her own these days. The habit had been ingrained in her long before then. Megan had been more like a mother than a sister to him while he was growing up. Their own mother had slowly shrunk away from reality, retreating into a world of her own making after Chad had been kidnapped, until she all but disappeared. Discovering two years later that her ex-husband had been the one to kidnap their son had done nothing to stabilize her world. So, Megan, still a child herself, had taken over being both parents as well as sibling to him. He’d never felt himself short-changed, not even once. There wasn’t anything he wasn’t willing to do for Megan. Where it might have divided some, the crisis had only succeeded in bringing them closer.

Megan held herself in check, squelching the desire to tell him to turn around and go home. “But you’re still not answering my question.”

He knew she’d keep after him until he told her. Megan hated not knowing anything. “Client coming in this morning.”

News to her. Cade hadn’t said anything about a new client coming to the office. Which meant that he didn’t know. “You’re drumming up business in the street these days?” she asked Rusty.

“It’s my neighbor,” he told her. “Two-year-old was kidnapped last night sometime between eight and eleven. Stolen right out of his bedroom.”

Though she was juggling two cases at the moment, Megan’s interest was instantly aroused. “Do the police have any leads?”

“They weren’t called in.” He saw surprise register on his sister’s face. “Client didn’t want them.” And, whenever possible, they tried to adhere to the client’s wishes.

“Why not?”

He shrugged. She wasn’t asking anything that he hadn’t asked himself. “My guess is that the client’s running away from something.”

“Sounds like something caught up.” Megan picked up her mug and plate again. There were files waiting to be reviewed on her computer. “You going to need help?”

The offer wasn’t unexpected. They all shared time on each other’s cases. But somehow, when it came from his sister, he found himself chafing just the slightest bit. “I’ll know where to find you if I do.” He paused, then added, “I know how to ride a two-wheeler by myself now, Megan.”

He was referring to the time she’d taught him how to ride a bicycle. His coordination had been less than stellar in those days and he’d crashed a dozen times or so before finally getting the hang of it. She knew he was telling her to back off in polite terms. But she hadn’t made the offer because she didn’t think he could handle the job, she’d made it because she liked helping.

“Right.” Standing on her toes, Megan managed to reach his cheek and brushed a kiss on it. “I’m never going to get used to the idea that somebody whose bottom I diapered is now taller than I am.”

“A foot taller,” he emphasized. “And I’d just as soon you deep-sixed the diaper story if you don’t mind.”

It was all the heads-up Megan needed. She laughed. “Widowed or divorced?”

Rusty looked at his sister with complete innocence. “Who?”

He wasn’t fooling her for a second. “The woman who’s coming in.”

“What makes you think it’s a woman?” He’d deliberately used the word client.

Megan grinned, forgetting her queasy stomach for the moment. “The FBI isn’t in the habit of hiring dummies.”

“Just nosy women,” he teased. He eyed the partially consumed pastry on her plate. It reminded him that he’d completely forgotten about breakfast this morning. Until now. “You going to eat that?”

She pushed the paper plate toward him. “Be my guest. My stomach isn’t feeling quite up to par this morning. I don’t know why I even bothered buying that.”

Now that he thought of it, whenever he’d seen her this past week, Megan had looked rather pale. Rusty raised a brow just as he heard the door open behind him. “You’re not…?”

Megan knew exactly what he was thinking. Because it had been in the back of her mind for the past seven days. Ever since she’d thrown up.

“Not that I know of.” She gave him a warning look as she cut him off. The last thing she wanted was to have rumors flying around the office before she was sure there was a reason for them.

But it was too late. Sam Walters had come into the office with his wife, Savannah. Overhearing enough to piece together the rest, he came over and draped an arm over Megan’s shoulder. He and Megan went way back, to the days when he’d been on the police force and she’d been a rookie special agent.

“Another little Wichita on the way, huh? Maybe we should seriously think about opening up a nursery on the side. Certainly make a nice statement about the place.” He looked at Megan. “So, what do you want this time, a boy or a girl?”

“What I want,” Megan said, retreating into her own office, “is some peace and quiet so I can finally wrap up the paperwork on my last case.”

“Holler if you need anything,” Rusty called after her. He grinned, taking a bite of the Danish she’d surrendered as she pretended to give him a reproachful look.

“Likewise,” she echoed, closing her door.

He finished the pastry before he ever reached his office. The sound of the front door opening again caught his attention a second before he crossed the threshold. Turning, he saw Dakota walk into the main office.

Because Carrie hadn’t yet arrived, Savannah greeted the statuesque blonde, silently wishing she had the other woman’s figure. She was trim and athletic, but curves like those of the woman in the powder-blue suit were to be envied.

“May I help you?”

Dakota looked around before answering and saw Rusty. She pointed toward him. “I’m here to see him.”

Standing next to his wife, Sam said, “Lucky him,” in a voice audible only to Savannah. She gave him a jab in the ribs with her elbow and he laughed. “I’ll behave,” he promised, giving her an affectionate nuzzle. “God knows you’re woman enough for me.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Savannah told him, managing to keep a straight face until after he’d entered his own office.

Dakota caught the tail end of the exchange and felt a fleeting tinge of envy. She’d never enjoyed that sort of relationship with a man, the kind that came with lighthearted teasing and heavy doses of love. Not even with Vincent.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t change your mind,” Rusty told her as he waited for her to enter his office.

“Why?”

“Because I want to help.”

She could almost believe him. He sounded sincere. But she knew the only reason he wanted to help, no matter what he said, was because of the money. What she had in her purse would more than cover any fee he wanted to charge.

“Have a seat.” Rusty gestured to the chair in front of his desk. He closed the door behind her before crossing to his own chair, then waited until she sat before beginning. She looked not unlike a bird on a wire, trying her best to not lose her balance. “Change your mind about going to the police?”

“No.” The retort was immediate and sharp. Her voice softened a shade. “I haven’t. I told you before, I don’t want the police brought in on this.”

She’d seemed genuinely concerned about her son. Why was she so wary of the police? Had the kidnapper contacted her and issued the standard threat about killing the hostage if the police were summoned? She had to know the police were still her first, best bet. “Do you mind telling me why?”

She never flinched as she returned his gaze. “Yes, I do mind.”

Kidnappings were hard enough without facing obstacles provided by the parent. “I can’t help you if you keep things back.”

There was no way to read the look in her eyes. “What about that track record you were bragging about?”

If they were going to get anywhere, she was going to have to get rid of that chip on her shoulder. He tried diplomacy. “Most parents are completely open with us, telling us everything they can in order to help us find their missing children.”

She looked down at her perfectly lacquered nails, torn. Consumed with worry. She wasn’t afraid for Vinny’s safety, she was just afraid of never seeing him again. “What is it you want to know?”

He began with the logical question, taking out the tape recorder he kept in his desk. Cade had few rules, but one of them was that the first interview had to be taped. “Would Vinny’s father kidnap his son? Or have him kidnapped?”

The question passed by her, unheard. She was staring at the tape recorder. “What are you doing?”

She was acting as if he’d put a snake on the table instead of a machine, Rusty thought. “Taping the conversation.”

“Why?” It was a demand, not a question.

“Agency rules. Just a way to keep the facts fresh and on record.”

She wanted to tell him to put it away. She wanted to bolt. But most of all, she wanted Vinny. So she didn’t tell him to get rid of the machine and she didn’t leave. Folding her hands in front of her, exercising extreme control over her worn nerve endings, she looked at him.

“What did you ask me?”

Rusty repeated the question. “Would Vinny’s father kidnap his son? Or have him kidnapped?”

“No.”

In his estimation, she’d answered too emphatically. “No disrespect, but maybe you don’t know the man as well as you think you do—”

Dakota laughed shortly. He had that right. “Truer words were never said, Andreini, but even so, I know he wasn’t the one to take the boy.”

He had to push it to the limit. There was more than one case of a child taken by an estranged spouse in their files. “What makes you so sure?”

She set her mouth grimly. “Because Vinny’s father is dead.” And that was when the trouble had all started, she remembered.

“Oh.” He couldn’t gauge by her tone whether the man’s death had left her bereft or relieved. “I’m sorry.”

She lifted her shoulders carelessly, not about to display any more emotion in front of this stranger than she already had. “Yeah, so am I. He had a lot of faults, but he was a good guy. Or tried to be,” she amended, saying it more to herself than to Rusty.

There was a hell of a lot more to this than she was telling him, Rusty thought. He had to get her to talk to him. And for that, he was going to have to get her to trust him.

He figured he had his work cut out for him.