Читать книгу Peek-a-boo Protector - Rita Herron - Страница 7

A half hour later, sirens screeched up the mountainside, vehicles careening to a stop outside Sam’s house. John met them, then gestured to the patrol officers, Wilkins and Fritz, who climbed out with the bloodhounds.

“There’s evidence of a struggle in the kitchen. Blood,” he said specifically. “It appears that the intruder dragged a woman’s body into the woods.” He paused. “Be careful. This guy might be armed.”

Both men nodded, then headed around back and set off into the dense, dark woods with flashlights, the bloodhounds immediately picking up the scent.

“CSI Turner and Akers,” a heavyset young guy said, flashing his ID. “Where do you want us?”

“The front door was jimmied, so check for prints there. The kitchen appears to be the main crime scene so process it thoroughly.” He flicked a thumb toward Akers. “Follow me around back.” Turner began with the front door, while Akers walked behind him. They studied the back porch, then the grass beneath the steps.

John knelt down, brushing dry crushed leaves aside. “Look, there are boot prints. They’re big, most likely a male’s, and might belong to our perp.”

“I’ll do a plaster cast of a print,” Akers said. “And search for forensics out here.”

“Thanks. I’ll check the car and run the plates, then it needs to be processed, as well.” John glanced at the woods one more time, hoping his guys found something. Preferably the woman alive.

The perp couldn’t have gotten too far, not on foot. Unless he had a car hidden down the road. Of course, once he reached the creek, they might lose his trail.

John strode back to the driveway, then called in the license. Five minutes later, he learned the car was registered to a man named Harry Finch from Atlanta.

Hmm, then who was the woman driving the car? His wife?

He pulled on gloves and shined his flashlight inside the sedan. A fast-food wrapper lay on the floor, a soda can in the cup holder, chewing gum wrappers in the ashtray. He snapped a photo of them, then opened the car door and examined the seats and floor. Pollen dotted the windshield, a long blond stray hair was on the dash, a fiber of some kind had caught in the console, and a baby sock the little girl must have kicked off lay on the seat.

He searched the interior but didn’t find a purse or wallet. Slipping around to the passenger side, he opened the glove compartment and searched the contents. No wallet or ID, but he found the registration, verifying the car belonged to Finch.

At least that was something to go on.

He bagged the soda can and wrapper, used tweezers to pick up the hair and fiber and bagged them as well as the infant’s sock.

Surely the woman had a suitcase of some kind. He popped the trunk and found a small overnight bag stowed inside, so he pulled it out and rummaged through it. A pair of jeans, a lime-green T-shirt, underwear—very frilly underwear—a pair of lime-green flip-flops, toiletries, a pair of boxers and tank shirt for sleeping with the words Hot Stuff on the seat of the boxers.

Not much in the way of clothes—maybe she hadn’t planned on staying long.

Or she’d left wherever she was so quickly that she hadn’t had time to pack. In fact, the pj’s, T-shirt, jeans all looked new and cheap as if she’d just picked them up at a discount store.

Still, he found no ID inside. What in the hell had she done with it?

Ditched it so she couldn’t be traced?

Of course. She knew someone was after her, so she’d gotten rid of her ID, used cash. And run here to Sam.

He cursed, his throat working to swallow. And now that the damn perp knew where Sam was, she might be in danger, as well.

He carried the evidence he’d collected to Turner, who was finishing up with the front door. “Take this and process it, and one of you go over the car once you finish with the kitchen. I want the car impounded, as well.”

Turner nodded. “I was heading inside now.”

“Follow me.” John led the way, and Turner went into the kitchen to process it. Sam was still sitting in the rocking chair. The sight of her cuddling the child, looking so protective and loving and—feminine—stirred something deep inside him, and reminded him of a time when he’d thought his girlfriend was pregnant. When he’d been foolish enough to think a woman mattered more than his career.

Never again.

“Shh, sweetie,” Sam whispered. “I know you want your mama, but it’s going to be all right.”

John’s chest tightened. He hoped to hell she was right.

But judging from the sight of all that blood, the baby’s mother might not be coming back at all.

SAM GLANCED AT JOHN, and her shoulders bunched with nerves. He looked grim and angry, more brooding than she’d ever seen. “Did you find anything?”

John shrugged. “CSI is looking. But there was no ID or purse in the car.”

She frowned, but then smiled down at the baby as she sucked greedily on the bottle. “Her name is Emmie,” she said softly.

“How do you know?” John asked.

She folded the edge of the pink blanket back, and he read the embroidered lettering. Peek-a-boo, Emmie.

At least we know her first name,” he said. “Maybe I missed something in the diaper bag.”

Emmie drained the bottle, and Sam lifted her to her shoulder, then patted her back. John retrieved the diaper bag, and she watched as he unloaded the contents—diapers, two fuzzy pink sleepers, a plastic duck, rattle, set of plastic keys, three cans of formula, baby wipes, shampoo, lotion and baby socks.

Just enough things to last a night or two, until Sam could get to the store.

“No, nothing,” he said. “Not even a credit card or checkbook.” With his gloved hand, he removed a small wad of cash that was tucked inside the diaper bag lining.

“She was on the run,” Sam said quietly, her heart aching for the baby girl. “Probably from the baby’s father or an abusive man.”

John frowned. “We don’t know that yet. Hell, she might have kidnapped the kid and was running from the law.”

“I haven’t heard any Amber Alerts recently, have you?” Sam asked.

“No, but we don’t know how long she’s been traveling. I’ll check the databases and see if a baby girl has been reported missing lately. How old do you think she is?”

The baby burped, and Sam smiled. “About two or three months. She’s just starting to hold her head up.”

“I’ll take your word on it,” he said. “I found registration on the car. It belonged to a man named Harry Finch from Atlanta. Do you recognize the name?”

Sam shook her head. “No.”

“You want to tell me what happened before I arrived.”

Her stomach knotted as the past few hours flashed back. Her expression must have revealed her anxiety, because he stepped closer and pressed a hand to her arm. “Sam, are you all right?”

She exhaled and gathered her courage. “Yes. I was just thinking about earlier. Before I got home…”

“What happened?”

“I saw Leonard Cultrain today,” she admitted. “He’s trying to get visitation rights to see his son, and the boy’s grandparents, his wife’s folks, are fighting it.”

His brown eyes turned darker as he narrowed them. “Let me guess. He threatened you?”

She shrugged. “He said I’d be sorry I messed with him.”

“Dammit, Sam, you can’t go antagonizing that man.”

“I wasn’t,” she said, instantly on edge. “But I have a job to do, and that means protecting his son from him. Little Joey knows Leonard strangled his mother, and is terrified of his father, and so are the grandparents. Joey saw his dad beat his mother more times than I can count.”

John hissed. “I know. I took the calls myself.” But the patrol officer who’d found Cultrain drunk in his truck the night of the murder had neglected to read the man his rights before arresting him.

Sam gulped back her fear. “Do you think Leonard came here looking for me? That he might have been hiding out and when this woman came in, he mistook her for me?”

John studied her for a long moment, his expression guarded. “I don’t know. Judging from the fact that there’s no ID in the car, it’s more likely that the woman was in trouble. But you can damn well count on the fact that I’m going to pay Cultrain a visit.”

“Shh,” she said. “There are delicate ears around.”

He arched a brow and leaned over her, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Since when did you develop delicate ears, Sam?”

She tensed at how close he was. She could see his beard stubble, smell his masculine scent, feel his breath on her cheek. Of course, he wouldn’t think she was delicate.

Or pretty, either.

She gestured toward the baby. “I was talking about Emmie.”

His eyes twinkled, then he pulled back and his frown returned. “Oh.”

“Thank you, John,” Sam said, banishing any fantasies she might harbor about John Wise, and shifting the baby to look into her big eyes. “I can’t stand to think that this woman might have been hurt because of me.”

“I’ll get to the bottom of it,” John said. “Meanwhile, what are you going to do with the baby? Put her in foster care?”

The little girl closed her fingers around Sam’s, and her heart twisted. “I don’t know. I’ll keep her tonight, and then decide. Maybe we’ll find her mother and I won’t have to place her in the system. At least, not yet.”

He averted his gaze as if he didn’t think she should count on that.

But Sam had to remain optimistic. This precious baby’s mother had not abandoned her, at least not willingly. And she didn’t want Emmie to end up without a mother as she had.

Or in the system where Sam knew firsthand that anything could happen to her…

THE NEXT TWO HOURS dragged by while forensics finished processing the scene.

“We’ll take the blood and prints to the lab,” John said. “Maybe they’ll help us ID the woman.” He glanced at Turner. “Let’s take a DNA sample from the baby, too. We might need it to identify the child.”

Turner nodded. “I’ll take palm and foot prints, too. That might help with identification.”

“Good idea.” John gestured toward Sam, who was still holding the baby, guarding her like a mother lion would her cub.

Sam’s look turned wary. “When you find the mother, she can identify the baby.”

“Sam, we don’t know for certain that this woman was the baby’s mother,” John said firmly. “And you know as well as I do that it may take days or even weeks to find this woman. Besides,” he continued, “if the mother is dead, we’ll need to look for other family members who can take in the child.”

A pained look crossed Sam’s face, but she complied. The baby fussed as Turner took a DNA swab from the inside of her mouth and took her palm and foot prints.

“Come on, sweetie,” Sam said, standing. “We’ll go wash off that nasty ink.”

She hurried up the steps, then returned a few minutes later with the baby wrapped snugly in the blanket. She’d also tucked one of those silly Butterbean dolls beside her.

“I didn’t figure you for a doll kind of girl,” John said with a grimace.

Anger glittered in her eyes as if he’d insulted her. “I’m not, but Bitsy doll is special.”

God, she’d even named the damn thing. “Bitsy?”

She jutted her chin up defiantly. “Honey gave me her doll the first night I went to live with Miss Mazie, but Miss Mazie stayed up half the night making me one of my own. This is her, Bitsy.”

His gut pinched at the slight warble to her voice. Of course, Miss Mazie had given her the doll; it was her trademark. The older woman had started making the handmade cloth dolls—with their faces in the shape of a butterbean—to give to her foster kids. He’d heard the story. The kids were scared, lonely, some traumatized, and she wanted them to have something special to comfort them at night. She’d fabricated a story about how the babies came from butterbeans that she picked especially off the vines, just the way she picked them to come and live with her and be her children.

Sam had only been seven years old when her parents were murdered. Just a child.

A disturbing image of a tiny, vulnerable Sam flashed in his head. Had Sam been afraid that night? Had she suffered nightmares of her parents’ murder?

Outside the wind shook a tree limb against the windowpane, and he saw the beam from a flashlight weaving back toward the house. His men were returning.

Sam noticed them at the same time, and fear clouded her eyes. They stepped out onto the back and met the two officers who’d been combing the woods, the bloodhounds leading the way into the backyard.

“Did you find anything?” John asked.

Officer Wilkins shook his head. “The trail went cold at the creek. The perp probably waded through the water to the road on the east side by River Ridge where he had a car waiting.”

Their boots were wet, so they’d obviously followed the trail until it ended. “You saw tire tracks on the road?”

“There were marks on the shoulder in the dirt,” Fritz said. “Course they could have been from someone else. You know that’s a popular make-out spot for the teens.”

John nodded. Still, he’d have the CSI take tire tracks just to be sure they covered all their bases. “You didn’t find anything in the woods? A purse or wallet maybe?”

“Not a thing, Chief,” Wilkins said, sounding frustrated. “But it’s dark as hell out there.”

“I know.” John gestured toward the panting dogs. “Come back in the morning when it’s light and look again. Maybe we’ll find something then.”

They agreed and went to their patrol car. Larry, the owner of the local tow truck service, arrived and hooked up the car to haul to the impound lot. The CSI team packed up to leave.

He walked Sam back inside, but the stark sight of the blood made him pause. There was nothing else he could do tonight, not until he heard from forensics.

“Put the baby to bed and I’ll clean up here,” he said.

“I can clean up,” Sam said, that hard look back in her eyes.

“Don’t argue,” he snapped, irritated that she was so stubborn. “You look exhausted.”

“I’m not sure I’ll sleep tonight,” she admitted.

He wanted to tell her he’d stay and protect her. But getting involved with Samantha Corley was the last thing he needed to do. Just the way she held that baby made him see her in a different light. Sam wanted a family, that was obvious. That was the reason she took care of everyone else.

And he had his own agenda—a career he wanted to build. A family wouldn’t be part of it. At least not with a woman whose father was rumored to be a dirty cop. That wouldn’t look good for him.

Still, she looked exhausted and had been through hell. “I can stay,” he said matter-of-factly.

Her gaze met his, something intense and hot passing between them. Anger?

Attraction?

“Thanks, John,” she said, “but I’ll be fine. As you pointed out, I’m not exactly delicate. I can take care of myself.”

Regret hit him. Had he hurt her by those words? He hadn’t meant them as an insult.

“But I will take you up on the offer to clean up the blood,” she said. “While you do that, I’ll put Emmie down. Then I’ll make sure my shotgun is loaded and by my bed.”

Leaving off on that note, she turned and strode up the steps, jiggling the baby in her arms. He stood for a second watching her, admiring her. Wishing he didn’t find her mixture of tenderness with the baby and her tomboy toughness and tenacity so damn sexy. Wishing he didn’t find the sway of those hips so seductive.

He’d clean up the blood and get on his way.

He had a case to solve. And the first stop he was going to make when he left was Leonard Cultrain’s house. He’d find out if the bastard had been here tonight.

And if he had, the man would be sorry he’d ever set foot on Sam’s land.