For the Love of Pete (17 page)

Pratima switched on her turn signal, driving up the off-ramp to the accompaniment of twin wails. She drove into the first petrol station and switched off the minivan.

The crying in the back seat rose to a crescendo.

“I will take the boy in to be changed,” Savita-di shouted over the bellowing.

“Yes, yes, please,” Pratima screamed back.

Savita-di got out of the minivan, ran around the side, and opened the door. The minute the boy was lifted from his car seat, his cries died. He nuzzled a tear-stained face into her soft neck.

“There, there, my fine prince. Auntie Savita will make everything better.”

She closed the minivan’s side door and hurried with the baby to the door of the convenience store.

Pratima twisted in her seat to look at the girl baby. The child stared back, her tiny bottom lip trembling.

“Oh, so sad,” Pratima crooned. “Is there nothing to console you?”

The baby whimpered, thrusting a finger inside her mouth, and gnawing. Quite obviously she was teething. Even as she gummed her finger she sobbed again.

Pratima knit her brow. The baby needed something cold to soothe her inflamed gums. It hurt simply to watch such a little one in pain. She glanced at the convenience store. Savita-di had still not emerged and probably would not for some time. She always took too long in restrooms, and that was without the added chore of the baby boy.

Pratima unbuckled her seat belt. “Stay here, little one, and do not move. I will return shortly with an ice for your sore gums.”

She hurried from the minivan, walking as quickly as was possible in the slippery snow. Inside the convenience store, she found a freezer and chose a rather battered box of orange-flavored ices. Pratima emerged from the convenience store clutching the precious box of ices to her chest. But when she looked at the purple minivan, she screamed and dropped the box into the dirty snow.

For That Terrible Man was jumping into the minivan. He started the van and drove off with the Grade 1A Very, Very Fine 1 Mongra Kesar and, much more importantly, the baby girl inside.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Friday, 5:20 p.m.

Z
oey chewed her lip as she peered out the windshield. They were in southern Illinois now, and the weather was getting worse. Dante had insisted on driving for a couple of hours between Kankakee and Champaign, but his jaw had been tight as he drove, and she could tell that his leg was bothering him. When they’d stopped at a rest stop just past Champaign, Zoey had told him that she’d drive and he hadn’t even argued. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He’d taken another painkiller, but he still sat stiffly, like he was in pain. She wished that they’d been able to take him to an emergency room. What if something was worse with the leg than bruises?

She tapped her brake as they passed a semi pulled off the road. The snow wasn’t wet anymore—the temperature had dropped, and hard, dry snow had begun to drift across the road. Zoey had slowed to fifty-five mph, but if the snow kept piling up or the roads got slick . . .

Beside her, Dante shifted in his seat. “We may have to pull over if this weather keeps up.”

She shrugged. “It’s okay for now.”

He shifted again and grunted.

She looked at him. His face was pale. “Does your leg still hurt? Maybe you should take another pill.”

“I’m fine.”

She studied him a moment, then turned back to the road. He obviously wasn’t fine, but he was in some kind of male stoic zone. “Okay.”

He tapped his fingers on his good knee. “So, you been in Chicago long?”

“Four years. I moved there right out of college.”

“You’re twenty-six?”

“Twenty-seven. I was working, so it took me five years to graduate.”

He nodded. “Where’d you go?”

“Indiana University in Bloomington. You?”

“NYU, then Quantico.”

“And you majored in, what? Law enforcement or something?” She signaled to pass a dump truck.

He cleared his throat. “Ah, actually art history.”

She glanced at him quickly. “You’re kidding.”

His mouth was in a flat line. “No. What did you major in?”

He looked kind of embarrassed, which only intrigued her. “English lit, but we’re talking about you. How’d you get from art history to the FBI?”

He sighed. “I always wanted to go into law enforcement, but the family business is in art and antiques.”

“Your parents have an antiques shop?”

“Ah, it’s a little more than that.”

“A little more.” She looked down at her hands, gripping the wheel of a car that probably cost more than twice her yearly wages. “How much more?”

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”

He shook his head, glancing out the window a moment. “My family has an international art auction house. It was founded by my grandfather over fifty years ago. We have branches in Hong Kong, Milan, London, and New York.”

“We?”

He shrugged. “I inherited stock from my grandfather, so yeah,
we.
Everyone else in my family works at the business in different capacities.”

“Everyone but you,” she said softly. He must’ve had nearly overwhelming pressure to join the family business. The fact that he’d opted for the FBI instead proved a strong and stubborn will.

“Yeah, everyone but me,” he answered. “Now, those were some awkward Thanksgivings and Christmases—the first couple of years after I’d made my decision.”

“But they did accept your career in the end, right?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Sure.”

She glanced at him. He was staring straight ahead out the windshield, his mouth firmed into a grim line. “You don’t sound convinced.”

He sighed, and his hand dropped to his leg, brushing the fabric stretched taut over the bandage underneath. “I grew up in a family devoted to the arts and business. My siblings and I all went to private boarding schools, we spent summers in Europe . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “To them I’m basically a cop. It’s not just that they don’t get why I’m an FBI agent, it’s more than that. Like I announced one day that I was going to become a wombat. Totally alien.”

Zoey cleared her throat, realizing for the first time that Dante wasn’t only from a different world, he was from a different class. Mom had been pleased when Zoey had gotten into Indiana U, but it wouldn’t have been such a big deal if she hadn’t. If anything, Zoey was more educated than the rest of her family, whereas Dante’s family thought he’d stepped down in choosing the FBI. Wow.

Just . . . wow.

She glanced at him again, remembering something he’d said when they’d begun this discussion. “You never answered me. What didn’t you want me to do?”

He grimaced. “Girls—women—get weird when they find out I’ve got money.”

“Weird how?” But she thought she knew. She’d started stiffening up the moment she’d figured it out.

“They either see me as a meal ticket or they get defensive, like I’m judging them on their manners or something—and finding them lacking. Either way, it tends to spoil a relationship.”

“Huh. Bet it does.” Zoey kept her eyes on the road and wondered if he knew he’d used the word
relationship
in connection with her. Well, kind of in connection. Close, anyway. She shook the thought out of her mind. “You don’t have to worry with me, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. First of all, I’ve got more cash than you at the moment. And secondly, if you don’t like my manners, you can go blow.”

His head reared back. “You’re telling me to go blow?”

She pursed her lips. “Only if you find my manners offensive.”

“Huh. That’s pretty tough talk for a poet.”

“Watch it. Poets are notoriously sensitive. You don’t want to piss me off.”

He snorted. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“You do that.” She felt herself smiling now for no particular reason.

They were silent for a bit until they passed an Illinois DOT sign indicating that there was a gas station at the next exit. Zoey flipped on her turn signal. “I want to stop up here.”

Dante looked out the window at the rolling, white, frozen fields. “Here?”

“Yeah. I need a restroom.”

“Already? This is the second stop since lunch.”

“I bet you’re really fun on dates,” Zoey muttered.

He arched his brows, looking patrician and insulted at the same time. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Are your dates allowed to use the restroom? Or do they have to hold it in through dinner?”

“Most people can make it all the way through a meal without getting up.”

“You are dating females, right?” she asked sweetly.

She waited for his comeback, enjoying the whole snarky exchange, but he didn’t say anything.

She glanced at him as she turned into the gas station. “Dante?”

“Look,” he said. He tilted his chin at the front of the convenience store. Two older ladies were swaying there, and beneath their long down jackets they had on saris.

“Oh, my God!” Zoey’s heart sped up and she involuntarily jerked the wheel, making the car swerve.

“Watch it.” Dante’s words were sharp, but his voice was even. “Pull in beside the store, over there.”

Zoey followed his directions, stopping the car smoothly. She put the car in park and looked at him.

“Wait here,” he said.

He’d already drawn his gun. He got out of the car, holding the gun down by his leg where it was partially hidden in the folds of his long leather trench coat. Zoey watched him stroll toward the women. He must be working hard to appear casual, because his limp was slight. He seemed in no particular hurry, but her pulse was pounding. She could see now that one of the women held a child in her arms, a blue jacket hood pulled up over the little head.

Dante stopped a few feet away and reached under his coat. When his hand came back out, it was empty. He’d put away his gun. He approached the ladies and said something to them. Even from inside the car, Zoey could hear both women shriek.

She couldn’t stand this anymore. Zoey scrambled from the driver’s side of the car, the snowflakes stinging her face as she ran to the door of the convenience store. Both women were wailing, crying as if their favorite dog had died, and the baby was screaming, too, its little face pressed to the shoulder of the woman carrying it.

Dante turned as Zoey approached. He frowned. “I thought I told you to stay in the car.”

“I couldn’t,” she panted. She reached for the baby. “I—”

But the baby’s head had turned at the sound of her voice. Zoey stared into big, watery blue eyes and a square little face topped with blond curls beneath the blue hood. The baby blinked and buried his face back into the woman’s neck, bawling.

“Zoey?” Dante’s voice was urgent. “Zoey?”

She looked at him blankly. “That’s not Pete.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

Friday, 5:43 p.m.

N
ot Pete?” Dante looked from Zoey to the two elderly Indian ladies. Had he accosted the wrong women? Except they’d reacted to the name Gupta, and there couldn’t be another pair of Indian ladies in saris running around southern Illinois.

“That’s not Pete,” Zoey repeated. Her face was white, her big blue eyes stark.

“You’re sure?” he asked idiotically. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Indian ladies exchange a glance. He shifted slightly, blocking access to the parking lot. “Zoey?”

She shook her head. “I-I don’t know who this baby is.”

He might’ve done the totally unprofessional then and pulled her into his arms to comfort her, but the taller of the two Indian ladies tapped him on the sleeve. “Are you a policeman?”

“I’m FBI, ma’am. Why—”

But the short lady rounded on him. “That Terrible Man stole the baby! You must go after him at once.”

“What man, ma’am?”

“The Terrible one!” the taller lady said, apparently under the impression he hadn’t heard the first time.

Dante sighed and rubbed the spot between his eyes where a headache was brewing. “It’s cold out here. Let’s go inside where the baby can be warm.” He stopped in sudden realization. “Whose baby is this? It doesn’t belong to you, does it?”

The ladies exchanged another look.

The taller lady began, “He—”

But the shorter lady stepped on her foot, making her cut off her words with a squeak.

“He is our baby,” the little round woman said.

Dante looked between the blond, light-skinned child to the Indian woman. “I see.”

“Savita-di, you are only making matters worse,” the taller woman scolded. She turned to Dante. “The child was in That Terrible Man’s car, along with the baby he stole.”

“Wait. You mean—”

But Zoey interrupted him. “He stole—kidnapped—
two
babies?”

The taller lady nodded vigorously. “Yes! Yes, he is a most vile man.”

“But where is the other—?” Zoey started.

“This is what we are trying to tell you!” Savita Gupta said. “He took our minivan with the child inside!”

“Oh, my God!” Zoey said.

“Can we go in the building?” Dante asked.

No one listened to him.

“He is iniquitous!” the tall lady was sputtering. “A terrible, terrible man, and I do not know what he will do with that sweet, innocent baby, no, I do—”

“Look,” Dante said loudly. “Let’s go inside before the remaining baby freezes, shall we?”

“You don’t have to yell,” Zoey muttered.

He rolled his eyes but refrained from snapping back, since she was obviously under strain. He herded the women inside the little convenience store. There was a fast-food sub shop to one side of the store, and Dante found them all a table. The baby by this time had stopped whining and appeared to have fallen into an exhausted sleep. He was a chunky little kid and looked too heavy for the woman holding him.

Dante sighed. This was the problem growing up with an old-fashioned mother. He spoke to the shorter Indian lady. “He looks heavy. Why don’t I give you a break?”

He could feel Zoey’s startled glance, but he kept his own gaze on the Indian woman. She narrowed her eyes at him, but her arms must’ve been aching. She nodded reluctantly.

He took the warm little body—amazing how solid babies were—and settled the sleeping child against his shoulder. “Now. What are your names?”