His Witness, Her Child Page 13

  He strode past the reception desk and into the maze of hallways. It was a damn good thing Jacqueline and Amanda hadn’t come with him. Talk about walking into the snake’s pit.

  He passed the closed doors of Dex Harrington’s and Kit Ashner’s offices. The hum of voices rose from behind both doors. They must be busy. Good. He’d rather not see either one this morning. He didn’t know if he could keep his hands off their necks, and it would probably be a good idea to find out if they were guilty of any wrongdoing before strangling them.

  Rounding the corner to Fitz’s office, he almost ran headfirst into Detective Dale Kearney.

  Kearney snapped to attention. “Reese, I’ve been looking for you.”

  Dillon regarded Kearney with a skeptical eye. He’d known a lot of ex-military men in his life, but none had absorbed the military aura like Kearney. The man’s sharp movements and “sir, yes sir” intensity always made Dillon slightly uncomfortable. “What’s up, Kearney?”

  The detective lowered his voice in a conspiratorial tone. “I need to speak to you about Valerie Wallace.”

  Val. The bartender who was shot by Swain. Dillon’s stomach tightened. “I heard you were with her when Swain took her out.”

  Kearney’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I feel bad about that. Real bad. And that’s the reason I needed to talk to you.” His bright green eyes flicked up and down the empty hall. “Nobody knew I was bringing her to that apartment, Reese. Nobody outside the task force.”

  Dillon tensed. “I know.”

  “You think it was someone inside who leaked the location of the safe house to Swain?”

  He studied the detective. Was Kearney merely trying to excuse himself for his blunder? Or could he be the informant trying to direct Dillon’s suspicion elsewhere? “What do you think?”

  A cloud passed over Kearney’s face. If possible, his posture seemed to grow even more rigid. “It would explain a lot.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  The detective nodded. “I hear you’ve hidden the Schettler girl someplace.”

  Dillon’s gut clenched. Warning bells clanged in his head, louder than a damned tornado siren. “That’s right.”

  Kearney paused. His desire to ask about Amanda’s location hung unsaid in the air like a foul smell. Apparently deciding the question would go unanswered, he gave his shoulders a crisp shrug. “Well, if you need anything, anything at all, just let me know.”

  Dillon flashed Kearney a phony smile and directed his gaze over the red-haired detective’s head, dismissing him. “I’ll do that.” Like hell he would. He made a mental note to recheck Dale Kearney’s files when he got back to the motel room. Kearney and Swain had been in the military at roughly the same time. If they had so much as set foot in the same commissary in the same week, Dillon wanted to know about it.

  Breaking away, Dillon stepped into Fitz’s office and closed the door behind him.

  Fitz’s silver head bowed over the papers on his desk, his hair catching the greenish glow of the fluorescent light overhead. He looked up. Lines tightened around his eyes and mouth. His movie-star visage seemed drained, tired. Very unlike Fitz. “What do you want, Reese?”

  Dillon strode into the room and stopped in front of his desk. “What’s wrong?”

  A grimace twisted Fitz’s lips. “You didn’t watch the ten-o’clock news Saturday night, did you?”

  No, he hadn’t. Saturday night he’d been too busy running from a killer. “What did I miss?”

  “An interview with Harrington. He announced he’s running against me for district attorney in the fall. Word is he already has the governor and the Madison mayor in his camp.”

  So that was what had Fitz so worried. Politics. The only thing Fitz cared about more than justice. Dillon should have guessed. “Well, I may have an answer to your problem.”

  Fitz crooked an eyebrow. “Shoot.”

  “First I need to know what you remember about a case from fifteen years ago. A plea agreement.”

  “A fifteen-year-old case? I don’t have a photographic memory, Dillon. You can look up the file as well as I can.”

  “I’ve already seen the file. I need more. It was Harrington’s case. An armed robbery case against a Jim Plorman.”

  Fitz narrowed his eyes at the mention of Harrington’s name. Dillon could almost see the political wheels turning. “Plorman?” He gave his head a shake, his eyes still glued to the papers on his desk. “I’m drawing a blank.”

  “It’s the name of one of the foster families that took Buck Swain in. Jim Plorman is Swain’s foster brother.”

  Fitz’s gaze sharpened to a point. “Have you found something more about Swain?”

  This was exactly the response he expected from Fitz. The district attorney had worked almost as hard as Dillon had to put Swain behind bars. And he’d done it in the glare of the political spotlight. When Mark and then Val had been murdered, that spotlight had grown mighty hot. “Just a hunch. Do you remember a case against Jim Plorman?”

  He stroked his clean-shaven chin. “Vaguely. Harrington played his cases pretty close to the vest back then.” A bitter smile curled the corners of his lips. “Still does.”

  “Did he cut a lot of one-sided deals?”

  Fitz crooked a brow. “Why? Did he give away the farm on that one?”

  “You could say that.”

  Fitz shook his head and heaved an exasperated sigh. “Doesn’t surprise me. He never had a reputation for being tough on crime back then. Not that anyone will remember that when they see his name on the ballot. What does an old case of Harrington’s have to do with Buck Swain?”

  Dillon sank into a chair in front of Fitz’s desk. His boss might not be able to remember much about the Plorman case, but he sure as hell would be a powerful ally in his search for Swain’s mole in the task force. And he could use an ally about now. “I think someone in the task force is leaking information.”

  As the words sank in, a dark cloud passed over Fitz’s features. His movie-star mouth tensed. “Media leaks?”

  Dillon shook his head. “Whoever it is isn’t leaking information to the media.”

  Fitz’s brows tilted low over his eyes.

  “He or she is leaking information to Swain.”

  Fitz’s eyes bored into Dillon. “And because of this Plorman case, you think that person might be Dex Harrington.”

  Dillon nodded. “We need to find out.”

  A thousand-watt smile spread over Fitz’s lips. His eyes crackled with intensity. The thought of Harrington in prison for helping Swain was making Fitz drool like a hungry dog. “What do you have on him? Any hard evidence?”

  Dillon frowned. He didn’t have a shred of evidence, hard or otherwise. “I wouldn’t be fishing around for information on a fifteen-year-old case if I did.”

  Fitz nodded, unfazed. “I’ll get someone on it right away. Someone from the outside with no ties to Harrington or the task force.” He leaned back in his chair and pressed his steepled fingers against his lips, his brow furrowed in thought. “How about the little girl? Have you questioned her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Her testimony against Swain is pretty damning. It gives me enough for an arrest warrant.”

  Fitz nodded, all business, the dedicated and crafty prosecutor. “Have you gotten that child psychologist in to talk to her?”

  “No.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Where is she?”

  Dillon’s shoulders tensed. “I can’t tell you.”

  “What?” Fitz narrowed his eyes. Although his voice was checked, the man seemed angry enough to eat the devil himself, horns and all. “Are you afraid I’m going to tell Harrington where he can find her?”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as—”

  “As soon as what? What are you waiting for, Dillon? If this girl is a witness, I want to see her. Yesterday. And I want her under armed guard. What are you thinking?”

&n
bsp; “She’s safe where she is. And I intend to keep her that way.”

  “How? By not moving ahead with the case against Swain? By waiting until she has forgotten all the details of what she saw? By waiting until Harrington uses the negative publicity I’m getting on this case to put himself behind this desk? Is that what you’re after?”

  Dillon didn’t say anything. He didn’t want any of those things to happen, and Fitz knew it. But that still didn’t mean Dillon was willing to risk bringing Amanda into the system.

  “If you don’t put the girl in protective custody, I can swear out a material witness warrant for her, Dillon.”

  “That will solve your publicity problem, Fitz. Bullying a little kid.”

  “I’ll get the warrant issued for her mother.”

  Anxiety stabbed Dillon like the chilled point of an ice pick. A material witness warrant would have half the cops in the county looking for Jacqueline. And when they found her, she and Amanda would be put in protective custody. Like Mark. Like Val.

  He couldn’t let it happen. “I’m not bringing them in, Fitz.”

  Fitz shook his head. “You know damn well if anything goes wrong, I’ll be the one held responsible.”

  Dillon straightened to his full height. Fitz was wrong. Dillon would be the one responsible. He was the one who had given Jacqueline his word that he’d protect her daughter. And he was the one who wouldn’t be able to live with himself if anything happened to that precious little girl. “Sorry, Fitz. No one knows where the girl is until we find the snake who’s leaking information to Swain. I’m not putting her life in danger.”

  “And playing this game of yours isn’t putting her life in danger?”

  Dillon refused to rise to the bait.

  A look of real regret washed over Fitz’s chiseled features. “If you don’t do this my way, Reese, you give me no choice.”

  Dillon held up a hand. The last thing he needed was the police breathing down his neck. He had enough trouble keeping Swain off their heels. “I need time, Fitz. Give me time to find out who’s leaking information to Swain. Give your investigator from outside the task force time. I’ll bring Amanda Schettler in as soon as we’re sure who we’re protecting her from.”

  Fitz leaned back in his chair and scrutinized Dillon through narrowed eyes. “I must be crazy for doing this, Dillon, but I’ll give you forty-eight hours. After that, if my man doesn’t come up with anything, the entire police force and sheriff’s office will be looking for Jacqueline and Amanda Schettler. Have I made myself clear?”

  Dillon turned and strode to the door. “Perfectly.”

  “And Dillon?” Fitz’s voice rose from behind him. “You’d better pray nothing happens to that little girl in the meantime.”

  JACQUELINE PACED ACROSS the cramped motel room like a tiger in a cage. She glanced at her watch for the fifteenth time in fifteen minutes. A quarter after ten. Questions spun in her mind. Had Dillon been able to get a meeting with the judge? Had he learned anything?

  She looked down at the motel-room phone. This waiting was killing her. If only he could call her, tell her what was going on. But he couldn’t call. He couldn’t take the chance that a phone call might be traced to this motel. To this room.

  She glanced at her daughter. Amanda lay curled beneath the sheets, still sound asleep. She had slept more peacefully last night than she had since Mark had been killed. No screams in the middle of the night. No nightmares.

  Jacqueline had been so afraid that forcing Amanda to remember her father’s murder, forcing her to talk about it, would make her nightmares worse. So afraid Amanda would draw further into herself until Jacqueline could no longer reach her at all.

  But just the opposite seemed to have happened. At least for one night, Amanda had been at peace. She had slept.

  And once again it seemed Jacqueline had Dillon to thank.

  “Mommy?” Amanda blinked up at her, pupils wide in the darkened room.

  “Good morning, punkin.”

  Amanda stretched and offered her a little smile. “Can I have doughnuts for breakfast?”

  “Doughnuts? Mr. Reese brought us some cereal. You like cereal.”

  “But I want doughnuts.”

  “Why doughnuts?”

  “Because they’re special. I want something special.”

  Jacqueline smiled at her daughter. This was the first time she’d been hungry since they’d left Dillon’s house. Jacqueline wished she didn’t have to deny her the doughnuts. She picked up the box of cartoon-inspired cereal Dillon had purchased this morning. If the unnatural neon colors and high sugar content didn’t qualify as special, she didn’t know what did. “This stuff is pretty special. We never have this at home.”

  At the sight of the zany box, Amanda’s eyes lit up. She sat up and threw the blankets back. “Can I have some without milk?”

  “If you brush your teeth and get dressed, you can have it whatever way you want.”

  “All right.” She climbed out of bed and scurried into the bathroom.

  While making the bed and straightening the room, Jacqueline allowed her thoughts to turn to Dillon. His consideration for Amanda, from his choice in cereal to his gentle manner when questioning her about Mark’s death, warmed Jacqueline’s heart. Mark had never gone grocery shopping, let alone selecting a cereal just for Amanda. He’d been too absorbed in the pub, both the business aspect of it and, most of all, the social aspect. He’d spent night after night at the pub far past working hours quaffing pint after pint with his friends. If he hadn’t been so good at business, his partying would no doubt have drained the pub’s profits years ago. Amanda had deserved a much better father than Mark.

  And Jacqueline had deserved a much better husband.

  A man like Dillon Reese.

  She pushed the thought away and dedicated her attention to tucking the spread just so under the pillows. She couldn’t let her mind wander to ridiculous fantasies. She had to focus on protecting Amanda from Swain. And protecting Amanda’s heart and her own from wanting what could never be.

  The gravel outside the motel room cracked and popped under the tires of an approaching car.

  Jacqueline’s nerves pulled taut. Was Dillon back already? She walked to the window and carefully pulled back a corner of the thick draperies. A sliver of sunlight pierced the gloom. She peered out.

  A car was approaching the motel, all right, but it wasn’t Dillon’s rental car. It was a marked police car. It drove past their room and headed in the direction of the hotel office.

  Anxiety prickled over her skin. Why were the police here? Could it have anything to do with Amanda? Or was their visit to the motel purely coincidental?

  After all that had happened in the past few days, she didn’t believe in coincidences. She laced up her boots and donned her parka. The motel office was only a few doors down. She could sneak to the corner of the building and see if she could overhear the officers’ conversation with the motel manager. The whole trip would take a couple of minutes. If the cops’ visit to the motel had nothing to do with Amanda, she and her daughter could be back in the room’s safety before cereal grew mushy in milk. If it did, they would be in a better position to slip away unseen.

  Her gaze rested on the silver barrel of Dillon’s gun. She’d take the gun. Just in case. If the motel manager led the officers to the room, she would be better served to have the gun with her, rather than in the room waiting for them to find it.

  She slipped the gun into her pocket and turned just as her daughter emerged from the bathroom. “Hey, punkin, I think I remember a vending machine next to the motel office. Let’s see what they have. Maybe you can have doughnuts and cereal for breakfast.”

  “Cool,” Amanda breathed. She quickly pulled on her coat and followed Jacqueline to the door. “Can Dorsey come with us? He doesn’t want to be alone. He gets too scared.”

  Jacqueline smiled gently. “Of course Dorsey can come.”

  Amanda nodded and snatched the stuffed horse f
rom the bed. They walked outside.

  The motel was made up of three separate buildings surrounding the parking lot like a horseshoe. The office was on one of the ends of the horseshoe. It didn’t take them long to find the vending machine around the corner from the office.

  Jacqueline withdrew some quarters from her pocket as Amanda decided between apple and blueberry fruit pies.

  The sound of voices drifted to her from around the corner. Her pulse picked up a beat. Tension inched up her spine. She peeked around the corner of the building. Two officers in blue uniforms stood at the sliding window that acted like a front desk. Thankfully their backs were to her.

  One of the officers rapped on the glass. The man inside slid it open. A wave of cigarette smoke escaped into the outside air. “What can I do you for, Officers?”

  Their voices were muffled, but she could still hear them over the noise of the highway traffic. Jacqueline leaned closer to the corner of the building.

  “Have you seen this woman around the motel?”

  The gruff, chain-smoking man at the window chuckled. “She sure is a looker. I wish I’d seen her around here. Why? What did she do?”

  “She has a little girl with her. About seven years old.”

  Jacqueline’s breath caught in her throat. She closed her hand around the quarters, the coins digging into her flesh. It was no coincidence. The police were looking for her and Amanda.

  But why?

  Could Dillon have sent the police to pick them up? Had he found Swain’s mole and sent a couple of officers to take her and Amanda to safety? No. He would have come to tell Jacqueline the good news himself. He never would have scared her like this.

  Unless something had happened to him.

  Fear niggled at the back of her neck. Could Dillon have been hurt? Could he have told the officers to pick them up because he couldn’t do it himself?

  No. He would have given them the room number. If the officers knew which room they were in, they wouldn’t be at the office window showing pictures.