A Cavanaugh Christmas (19 page)

“The men who took Megan didn’t bother wiping down the inside of the van?” Kait asked incredulously. That didn’t make any sense at all.

“I think it was more of a case that they were hoping to have their prints lost in the crowd. Or maybe I’m just giving them too much credit,” he allowed. “Maybe they just didn’t think about having their fingerprints being traced back to them.”

“In this day and age?” Tom asked in disbelief. “Don’t these people watch TV?”

There was a hell of a lot on TV these days, not like when he was a boy and the choices were limited, Sean thought.

“Maybe they’re more into reality shows than procedurals,” the older man theorized. “Whatever the reason, so far I’ve come across about fifteen sets of prints. I’m running as many through the database as I can at one time. Here are the first matches.” He picked up several pages that he’d printed out and offered the lot to the young woman. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Kait said, mentally crossing her fingers that this time, they would find something. “And thanks for coming in on a Sunday.”

“If we find that little girl, it’ll be more than worth it,” Sean told her. With that, he lowered his eyes and got back to work.

The print matches had all come with names and current addresses. Armed with that, she and Tom set out to track down the abductors, praying that the men they were after weren’t something else, as well.

“You look dead on your feet.”

Kait had collapsed onto the passenger seat in his car after yet another one of the matches Sean Cavanaugh and his CSI lab had provided had turned out to be someone with an alibi for the afternoon that Megan had been taken from her front yard.

For a moment, she hadn’t even heard what Tom said to her and then she replayed his words in her head. His assessment was way too accurate.

“Bet you say that to all the girls,” she murmured.

“Only the ones who’ve been up for a day and a half,” he quipped. “Why don’t we knock off for today and go to bed?” he proposed. When she raised a skeptical eyebrow at his suggestion, he clarified, “
Really
go to bed.” Because, as enticing as she’d proved to be, he was pretty beat himself right now.

“Just this last one,” she said, holding up the last match that Tom’s father had given them. She was determined to see this through. “Your dad’s been at it as long as we have, and this is the last set of prints he matched. Wouldn’t seem right if we just set it aside until tomorrow.”

“Right,” Tom said stoically, not so much agreeing as resigning himself to the stubborn woman’s need to follow through. And he didn’t want her going alone, even though he knew that she was perfectly capable of going solo. God knew she’d told him about it enough times. “Might as well find out that this one is a dead end, too.”

Somewhere along the line, their roles had gotten reversed, Kait thought. Now she was the one who clung to hope. “I thought you were an optimist.”

“I am.” He took the sheet from her and oriented himself as to the address. This last set of prints belonged to a woman. He tried to keep an open mind. “Until after the thirty-sixth hour. After that, my darker side has a tendency to come out.”

“Thanks for the warning.” They’d stopped by the precinct to see if Sean had managed to find any other matches, and he had given them this last name. Kait felt as if she’d never even left the car. “You don’t have to come with me, you know.”

For the umpteenth time that day, Tom started up the Crown Victoria. “We’ve got one car between us, so yes, I do.”

“You’ve got four million Cavanaughs you could call to give you a ride home,” she pointed out.

“Just shut up and put on your seat belt,” he instructed. “Besides,” he continued once they were both buckled up and he began to pull out of the parking space, “who’s going to cover your back if you go alone?”

“You mean protect me from—” She paused for a moment as she looked down at the mug shot in her possession. “—Greta Crammer?” The subject of this last interview was a heavyset woman who looked older than her thirty-eight years. “I think I can take her. Especially if I bring a bottle of whiskey with me.”

According to the information under the mug shot, the woman had been picked up on suspicion of drunken driving more than a decade ago. If not for that, Sean would have had nothing that served as a match for her prints.

“It’s been eleven years,” Tom pointed out, glancing at the sheet. “She might have sworn off drinking in that time.”

“Or she might have just been lucky and hasn’t gotten caught a second time,” Kait guessed.

“There’s that,” he agreed. As they pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street, he glanced at her face. He couldn’t quite read her expression. “What?”

“What—what?” Kait fired back at him, confused. Maybe she
was
getting too punchy. But she had an odd feeling about this one. Something told her that she’d regret it if she put this off until tomorrow.

“Something about this one speak to you?” Tom asked. “Because you’ve got a really strange expression on your face.”

She didn’t want him pinning her down like that. Besides, he’d probably find it funny and she didn’t want him laughing at her. So she shrugged as she said evasively, “Probably just indigestion from that pizza you picked up. Pineapples do not belong anywhere near a pizza, much less on it,” she told him firmly.

Tom laughed at her argument. “Didn’t know you were a pizza expert among all your other talents. Nobody forced you to eat the pineapple chunks,” he reminded her. “You could have easily picked them off.

“Seriously, though. Do you have a feeling about this one? Tell me,” he coaxed. He was a great believer in gut feelings.

“So you can laugh at me?” she challenged. “No, thanks.”

Tired, he blew out an impatient breath. “Kait, I’m chasing around dead-end leads all day Sunday when I could be sleeping in. I dragged my father down here to work the case. Does it look like I’m looking for a laugh?”

“No,” she said quietly.

He understood that she was defensive because of her background, but at this point, he would have thought that he’d proved himself to her.

“When are you finally going to put that chip of yours away for good?” he asked. “Or are you just going to keep whipping it out every time you take offense when none is intended?”

“You’re right,” she admitted, even though it cost her. “I should be thanking you.”

“I’m not asking you to thank me, I’m asking you to trust me. We’re on the same team, the same side, so stop jumping away every time you think I’m going to say something and turn on you. Get it through your head—I’m not, okay?”

“Okay.”

With that hopefully cleared up, he returned to his original question. “Now, do you have a hunch about this, or are we just clearing the board so we can start fresh in the morning?”

“I’ve got a hunch,” she admitted. “A strong one. And I can’t even tell you why.” That was the worst part. She couldn’t explain why this certain feeling fluttered in her stomach.

“You’re a cop, you don’t need a reason why. It’s something that comes with the territory,” he told her in all seriousness. “Last hunch I had kept my partner from blowing up.”

Despite how tired she felt, she looked at him, his last comment cutting through her fatigue. “What happened?” she asked.

But he waved the question away. He didn’t like bragging, and to tell her the story where he was the hero would be bragging.

“Story for another time,” was all he said. “According to the address on that arrest report, we’re almost there,” he commented, slowing the car down to less than the speed limit while he took in his surroundings.

The residential area was a complete antithesis to the neighborhood they’d been in at the rental agency just before midnight. There, a person would have been afraid to go out after dark, even if they were armed. Here, he had a feeling a person was safe even if he had hundred-dollar bills hanging out of his pockets.

“Looks like Greta Crammer has done well for herself,” he commented.

The GPS arrow on his screen—he’d deliberately muted the voice command because he found it grating—pointed to the right, then to the left. The houses they passed, all two-story, were absolutely huge, not a single modest home in the bunch.

“What do you do with so much space?” Tom marveled under his breath as he passed a large house.

“How long does it take to clean a place like that?” she asked as they drove by a residence with a stone front that looked as if it was meant to be a castle, not simply someone’s home.

“You got a house like that, you don’t worry about cleaning it. You pay someone to do the work,” he quipped.

He thought it was a waste of time coming here, she could see it in his eyes. But he was humoring her, which meant a lot. She wouldn’t have been able to sleep, thinking about this last one.

Part of her wanted this ordeal—searching for Megan—to finally be over.

Another part of her—the selfish part—wanted it never to end. Because it would mean not just the end to the search, but an end to everything else.

You’re supposed to be ready for that, remember?
she upbraided herself.

“This is it,” Tom announced, pulling up at the curb in front of a Tudor-style house.

I certainly hope so,
Kait thought as she got out. She heard the car’s doors shutting rhythmically.

Kait started to head toward the front door of the house, but at the last moment she detoured over to the gate that led into the backyard.

“What are you doing?” Tom asked. Had she heard something?

“Listen,” she hissed, her own voice low.

Drawing closer, he cocked his head. When he did, he heard a high-pitched voice saying the word “No,” over and over again.

Just as a child would.

He lengthened his stride, getting ahead of Kait, and pushed open the gate.

A startled woman—an older version of the photograph that Kait had—and an unhappy girl who’d obviously been crying looked in their direction. The little girl had extremely short blond hair. Both were caught by surprise.

The little girl’s eyes widened, as if recognizing Kait. She gave every indication that she was about to run toward them, but the woman quickly grabbed her and pulled her back. With both hands laid over the small child’s shoulders, she anchored her in place.

Tom quickly scanned the area. The entire yard looked like a child’s idea of paradise. There was an elaborate playhouse, an extensive swing set and a host of other things throughout the yard. Everything a child could possibly wish for was right here in this fairy-tale place.

The next moment, a stocky, gray-haired man who’d been standing in the back of the yard quickly stepped forward. The expression on his florid face went from concern to the embodiment of dismay.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone of voice polite, but far from pleased at this sudden invasion.

Kait’s eyes widened as the man moved so that his body was in front of the hostile-looking woman and the child she was holding on to.

“Tom.”

Though she said nothing else, he knew she was asking him if he saw what she did: the resemblance between the photo they had and the man standing before them. It took him less than a moment. There was no doubt in his mind. “Yeah, I see it.”

“See what?” the man demanded, looking from one to the other, his voice growing more tense, as was his body language.

“Kaitlyn, I want to go home,” the little girl suddenly cried, trying to jerk free of the woman’s hold on her. “Take me home,” she pleaded.

“You
are
home,” the woman snapped.

“You’re the guy who rented a white van several weeks ago,” Tom said.

The man’s eyes shifted from one to the other as if he was waiting for something. “You’ve made a mistake,” he insisted. His voice quavered.

“I don’t think we have,” Tom answered, his tone deliberately mild.

The man grew more nervous. “I think I’d like you to leave,” he said. “You’re scaring my little girl. If you don’t go, I’ll, I’ll call the police,” he threatened.

“We are the police,” Tom told him. He took out his badge and held it up for the other man to see.

The moment he did, Greta Crammer yanked the little girl closer to her. “Come inside, Sally, it’s time for your bath.”

“I don’t want to go with you,” the little girl cried, digging her feet in. “I want my mommy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I am your mommy,” Greta snapped angrily. “Now come inside with me. Do as I tell you!”

Kait instantly moved toward the woman and the child. “I don’t think so, Greta,” she said to the other woman.

As she went to separate the little girl from the woman, the latter sharply yanked the little girl’s arms, pulling her even closer. The child screamed.

“Don’t touch my daughter!” Greta cried, hysteria building in her voice. “You can’t have her! I’m not going to lose her again, do you hear me?”

Then the girl began to cry pitifully.

Her pretty brown hair had been chopped off and dyed, but it was Megan. Thank God it was Megan, Kait thought. “Megan,” Kait began in a calming voice. “Your mommy sent me to bring you home.” Megan raised her head to look at her. “It’s going to be all right.”

That was when Greta snatched up the pair of pruning shears that had been left out on the glass-top table. A wild look in her brown eyes, she held the shears like a weapon against Megan’s throat.

“You take a step closer and I’ll kill her. I swear I’ll kill her and myself. I’m not going to lose my baby again, do you hear me?” she shrieked. “Not again. She’s mine!”

“Sir,” Tom began in a low, calm voice that belied the anxious feeling that was in the pit of his stomach, “is this woman your wife?”

“Yes, yes she is. She’s not well. Please don’t hurt her.” Greta Crammer’s husband looked terrified.

“Then tell your wife to let the little girl go before she does get hurt,” Tom advised.

“Greta, please,” the man begged, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

“No, Max!” Greta snapped. “She’s mine. She came back to me and I won’t let her go. I can’t. Make them go away, Max,” she begged. “Make them go away.”

“We don’t want anyone to get hurt today,” Tom told Max since he was obviously the more reasonable of the two. Then he looked at Greta and said, “Drop the scissors, ma’am.”