Roan (7 page)

It was ironic that the first thing he wanted was a set of fingerprints. She had discovered Harrell's forgery of her signature because of routine notification that her prints were missing from the paperwork involved in his business transaction. As the sheriff had suggested, a background check for criminal activity was a preliminary for a gaming license. She'd contacted the state agency involved, and they had explained exactly what kind of investment she was supposed to be making. It was then that she'd confronted Har
rell. She wished, instead, that she'd gone to her lawyer. Things would have been different, she thought as she closed her eyes. So different.

 

Roan reached for the phone on its first ring. He glanced at the lighted display of his alarm clock as he spoke into the receiver. Two in the morning. Calls at this hour were never good news.

“Cal here, Sheriff.”

“What do you have?”

“Incident at the hospital,” the duty officer responded with the concise but unnatural wording he'd learned in police school and still favored, like he was in some damned police movie. “Two men infiltrated the premises. Believed to be the same two who robbed Betsy's convenience store.”

A constriction like a steel band tightened around Roan's chest. He rolled to his feet and snatched up his pants in a single movement. “When?”

“Twenty minutes ago, sir. They gagged the prisoner and tried to drag her out of bed. Would have, too, if she hadn't managed to hit the nurse call button.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“Allen has minor bruises from a scuffle with one of the men. Shots were fired, but he wasn't hit.”

That wasn't what Roan wanted to know. Voice hard, he demanded, “And the suspect?”

“Secure.”

“Damn it, Cal, was she injured again?”

“Negative. At least, no more than another bump on the head.”

Roan's relief was so great he felt light-headed for a second. If Donna or anyone else had been injured it would have been his fault. He'd suspected Big Ears and Zits
would be back. He should have posted more guards, inside and out.

He rapped out, “Where were the shots fired?”

“Outside the hospital. The felons discharged a few rounds as they headed for their vehicle. Some broken glass but little other damage. They got away in the same red pickup that was stolen from the drop-off lot.”

“Pursuit?”

“Allen didn't leave the suspect, if that's what you're asking. He radioed location and direction, but the responding unit never made contact.”

Roan frowned, holding the phone with a hunched shoulder as he fastened his pants and picked up his shirt. It was dumb to steal a vehicle, then drive it around in a small town where it might be recognized. Apparently, they weren't dealing with sophisticated criminal minds. On the other hand, Zits and Big Ears had vanished again. He didn't like the sound of that at all. Speaking into the receiver, he said, “I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Not necessary, sir. The problem is under control. There's nothing left to do but file the report. I only called to alert you to the situation.”

“I appreciate your concern for my beauty sleep, Cal,” Roan drawled, “but I want to keep a close watch on this case.” His voice took on a deeper ring of authority. “Lock everything down tight and keep it as quiet as possible. I'll probably hear from the relatives of every patient in the hospital tomorrow, but I'd just as soon not see a report on the morning news.”

“Affirmative.”

“You did post a backup guard?”

“I didn't see it as essential for securing our prisoner. Besides, only Allen and I are here, sir.”

Roan responded to the stiff resistance in the other man's
tone with silk-edged command. “It's essential to me, Cal. I suggest you order backup and stand guard until it arrives. If no one is available, take it yourself.”

“But I'm the officer in charge.”

“I know,” Roan answered, and punched the off button for the portable phone. Cal Riggs could be such a pain with his stiff jargon, strict adherence to routine and protective attitude toward his authority as second in command. Sometimes, Roan had the patience for it. This wasn't one of those times.

He threw the phone into the center of the bed, then finished dressing with the speed of long practice. His wristwatch and his badge lay ready on the dresser. He slipped the watch on, then picked up the star. That symbol of his office had been on his chest for most of his adult life. It carried a tremendous responsibility; many of his decisions had to be made instantly with life or death in the balance. Still, it was seldom that he spent as much time weighing his options or making a judgment as he had in the case of Donna Doe.

The mystery of her nagged at him. He'd like to put her under a microscope and see what she was made of. Once he had that figured out, there were a few other things he'd like to discover about her, a few that required time, privacy and maybe a bottle of good wine to set the mood.

Jeez. Where had that come from?

Getting personal with the prisoner was the last thing he needed. It went against everything he'd learned about maintaining order in his town, against every principle in his private code. He didn't have time for it right now, probably never would. And that was if his prisoner was willing.

His prisoner. His, not Cal's. There was no “our” prisoner about it. The suggestion that Cal might have an interest in Donna raised hackles Roan didn't know he had.

He drew a ragged breath and pushed that idea back down where it belonged. Still, the obsession with her wouldn't go away. What was she, who was she? Poor little rich girl caught in an abduction scheme or well-kept call girl who knew something she shouldn't? Spoiled daughter out to wring money from Daddy before skipping with her abductors, or silly society chick out for thrills? She'd shown signs of a lot of things, including angel and witch. He needed to find out which she was, one way or another, before it was too late. She'd be gone the minute her memory returned—or the minute she saw that the game was up. She'd scream for a lawyer and bail like everyone else, and that would be it.

Or maybe not, if he decided it was important to keep her close. The case would come up at the parish courthouse. Judge “Pug” Miller was a cousin on his mother's side of the family. Settling legal questions between the two of them, often in a bass rig out on the lake, was a way of life.

To this point, the situation had disturbing echoes reminiscent of the incident with the Hearst heiress from back in the 1970s. Patty Hearst had been abducted at gunpoint. She later claimed she was raped and forced on pain of death to participate in the crimes of the political terrorists who captured her, but a jury had decided otherwise. Part of the reason was because Hearst had not only recorded political propaganda messages for distribution to the public, but was caught on film with a rifle in her hands. It was also, however, because she had no reason or coherent explanation for why she'd acted as she had, seemingly embracing the politics of her captors. If he remembered right, there'd been another factor at work. It appeared her greatest crime had been being born into an elite family that was bent on using its wealth to keep her out of prison. She'd expected too
much of the legal system and it had turned on her. She had been, he thought, a lot like his Donna Doe.

Roan gave a snort of disgust, then pinned his star to his shirt with a practiced move. He was doing it again, grasping at every angle that might bolster Donna's kidnapping story. He wanted to believe her. That was the trouble.

He'd run her prints. Nothing. He'd compared the pictures from the surveillance tape against mug shots. Nada. He'd contacted the Florida Highway Patrol and Dade County Sheriff's Department where the old van had been stolen. Zilch. He'd even contacted the FBI for reported kidnappings, but they had no one approaching her description on file. The last hadn't exactly made him cry. All he needed was a swarm of uptight government types in button-downs crawling over his territory.

Regardless, Donna, if that was her name, was keeping something from him; he knew it. She had dragged just enough information from her tainted memory to keep him guessing, but nothing concrete to help nail the men with her. Was it the need to keep her lover out of jail or fear that held her back? Either way, Roan wanted answers, like an explanation for why Big Ears and Zits were so determined to get to her that they risked crashing the hospital. That was the first question on his agenda as soon as he saw Miss Donna Doe.

On his way out of the house, he looked in on Jake. His son enjoyed the heavy sleep of a teenager; the telephone hadn't disturbed him and Roan didn't wake him. He dropped a note on the kitchen table in case he wasn't back by morning, then left by the front door. Old Beauregard, lying near the edge of the high outside steps that descended from the second-floor living area to the ground, raised his head and turned up his dolorous bloodhound face as if in
inquiry about the early exit. Roan bent to give him a scratch or two behind the ears, then ran lightly down the steps.

With one foot in the floorboard of his tan police unit, he hesitated while he patted his shirt pocket, making certain he had his cell phone with him. At the same time, he looked back at the house that was silvered by moonlight to a ghostly shade of gray. Built in the 1850s, Dog Trot, as the house was called for the carriage way cut through the center of the lower floor, was a bastard blend of Georgian and French West Indies styles. Four square and solid, two and a half stories tall with deep, sheltering porches, it had withstood searing summer sun, cold winter rain, the violent storms that sometimes spun across the heart of Louisiana, and hordes of kids as destructive as locusts. It had sheltered Benedicts since the day the last wooden peg was driven into the last hole, and it now protected Roan's son who slept so peacefully upstairs.

A few of his relatives, mostly female, made a fuss about Roan leaving a fourteen-year-old boy alone at night when duty called. He didn't much like it himself, but there was no other choice now that his dad, who'd lived with them when the boy was younger, was off on his great motor home adventure. Jake didn't want to be hauled out of bed several times a week to go to one of the neighbors' house, nor was he afraid of staying alone. Besides, Dog Trot was probably the safest place in the parish, much more so than the hospital, even without an armed guard. Few people wanted to risk the swift retaliation an attack on a sheriff or his family would bring, especially if the offence occurred on the official's home grounds. On top of that was the Benedict habit of protecting their own. This was their land, their home, their castle. Jake had once said when he was ten years old and into knights and dragons: Here, they were kings. Damned if his son wasn't right.

Roan grinned with a quick shake of his head, then settled into the driver's seat and started the engine.

He saw the broken glass first, the remnants of what had been the automatic doors leading to the Emergency Room. It lay scattered across the polished floor inside, glittering in the sterile brightness of the lights. Two EMTs dressed for ambulance duty stood talking in hushed voices. They looked up and nodded a greeting as he approached, their expressions showing plainly that they'd like his take on the situation. He only lifted a hand, however, as he crunched glass under his boots on his way toward the main hospital wing.

Cal met him at the nurse's station for Donna's room. A young nurse garbed in lime green and rose, with a Walkman on her hip and black earphones nearly hidden by her dark, curly hair, stood flipping through a chart. After a quick look at Roan's face, she grabbed a cart and pushed it out the door, muttering about making rounds. Roan let her go. When she had vanished into a patient's room, he summoned Allen from his position outside Donna's door. Positioning himself so he could watch the corridor around the suspect's room, he heard the reports of both Cal and Allen.

When they'd finished, he asked, “What do you see as the motive?”

“Who knows?” Cal answered with a shrug. “All the suspect would tell me was that it was too dark to see her attacker.”

Allen put his hands on his wide hips. “You want my opinion, her pals were trying to spring her.”

“Then why the gag?”

“For show. To make it look like a kidnapping in case they were stopped. Wouldn't surprise me to hear it was her idea.”

“You said her IV shunt was jerked out in an apparent struggle. I suppose she did that for the same reason?” Roan heard the hard anger in his voice with some surprise, but didn't bother to downplay it.

“An accident, maybe, because they were in a hurry or else didn't know how to remove the damn thing. I expect she fell because she passed out from the sight of blood.”

Roan had seen no susceptibility of that kind on the night Donna was shot. Besides, women weren't as squeamish as men about that kind of thing in his experience. “So why hit the call button? Another accident?”

“Could be.” The words were defensive. “We're dealing with amateurs here, seems to me, or they'd have made a better job of it.”

“They almost pulled it off anyway, and might have if the duty nurse hadn't heard the scuffle over the intercom. Speaking of which…”

Allen didn't pretend to misunderstand him. “I swear I just walked off for a second. I needed a shot of coffee to stay awake.”

“In other words, you didn't think there was any danger.” Allen liked to talk, Roan knew; he'd probably leaned on the station door here, shooting the bull with the night nurses, since it was a habit during normal rounds. It wasn't surprising. The jail inmates sick enough to rate a hospital stay seldom required much watching.

“Who'd ever guess the two bad guys would come back, anyway,” the deputy said, rubbing a hand over his face in tired bafflement. “Or that they'd be smart enough to hang around the side entrance until some visitor opened the door for them.”