Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel (11 page)

Tomorrow, however, it was going to disappear. Forever.

He jerked it away from the wall, climbed the stairs, and set it by the back door. There was no chance Darcy would wander down tonight. Tomorrow he’d drop it in the dumpster in back of the daycare center. He was always the first one there, and it would still be dark at that early hour.

After scrubbing his hands, he turned off the lights on the first floor and climbed the stairs. Darcy’s door was closed, and he tested the handle. Locked—and it would stay that way all night. He could sleep in peace.

He took a long, vigorous shower. Washed his hair. Brushed his teeth. Clipped his fingernails and massaged lotion into his hands.

When he was at last ready for bed, he sat on the edge of the mattress and opened the drawer of his nightstand.

The framed photo was on top, as always, next to the faded birthday card. He pulled it out and stared at the image. The edges were yellowing a bit now, after all these years, but the long blonde hair, blue eyes, and winsome smile of the high school senior never changed. She’d been so lovely, had so much promise . . .

Then things had gone very wrong. She’d made bad choices, done bad things. Sought refuge in booze and drugs and sex while turning her back on everything that really mattered. On every
one
that really mattered.

And all the love he’d felt for her hadn’t been able to save her.

He’d make up for that, though. He’d save someone else instead, someone who wasn’t too far gone. Someone who would appreciate his efforts. Who would thank him and love him.

Darcy.

Carefully he stowed the framed photo back in the nightstand and shut the drawer. After dimming the light to provide a soft illumination that would keep darkness at bay, he lay down and closed his eyes.

Good night, Lil. Sweet dreams.

A
s his radio alarm clock beeped with skull-piercing intensity in the predawn hours, Dev groaned, groped for it, and shoved the switch none too gently into the off position.

Quiet descended, and he flopped on his back, wiping a hand down his face. After tossing and turning until almost three in the morning—thanks to his new client—he was not ready to get up.

The wind whistled around the outside wall of his corner apartment, and he pulled the blankets higher, wishing he had another way to get warm.

Rolling his eyes, he blew out an exasperated breath. That kind of thinking was exactly why sleep had eluded him. Since he’d walked Laura to her door last night at ten-thirty after their second trip to the homeless shelter, images of her big blue eyes, soft lips, and French-braided hair that itched to be released from its plait had dominated his thoughts.

Enough already.

He shoved the blankets back and swung his legs to the floor. This was adolescent stuff. It was the kind of pining he’d done at seventeen when the French exchange student at his high school had kept every guy salivating with her short skirts, exotic accent, and pouty lips. But Laura was nothing like Mary Renee Moreau, and at thirty-five he should be past such immature yearnings.

Too bad he wasn’t.

Age and experience, however, had honed his discipline. He might not be able to keep visions of Laura at bay in the dark, empty hours of the night when he should be sleeping, but he knew how to focus on the job during working hours. So the answer to his dilemma was simple: immerse himself in the task at hand.

Even if that meant he had to give up sleeping for the duration.

As he rose, his BlackBerry began to ring and he snatched it from the nightstand, a surge of adrenaline chasing away the last vestiges of sleep. Five-thirty was way too early for social calls.

A quick check of caller ID, however, loosened the snarl of tension in his shoulders. Connor. It figured. The man didn’t seem to need more than three hours of shut-eye a night.

“Yeah?”

“Good morning to you too.” His partner sounded disgustingly wide-awake and far too cheerful for the early hour.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“What? Did I disturb your beauty sleep?”

“I’ll laugh after the sun rises. Whaddya need?” He scrubbed a hand over his face and slogged toward the kitchen, caffeine high on his priority list.

“Since I was up already, I touched base with Greyhound. The buses are going to start running at ten. You still want me on day shift for surveillance?”

“Unless you have something better to do. I was going to call them in about five minutes myself. They told me late last night they wouldn’t be back in business until midmorning.” He flipped on the switch in the kitchen, squinting against the sudden glare.

“So I saved you a call. You’re welcome. And I’m fine with the day shift. I brought the pictures of Darcy home with me. She should be easy to spot.”

“Let’s hope so.” He pulled the pot out from the coffeemaker and continued toward the sink.

“By the way, I also talked to Cal this morning.”

Dev frowned, hand on faucet. “You called him on his honeymoon?”

“Give me a break. That’s more like a stunt you’d pull.”

True—not that he intended to admit it.

“Thanks a lot.” He turned on the water. “I always forget about the polish and savoir faire and sensitivity you picked up working with hoity-toity diplomats and politicians all those years in the Secret Service.”

“Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed or what?”

“I didn’t sleep well, okay?”

“Something on your mind? Like that hot new client, maybe?”

“Connor.” The warning came out in a low growl as he twisted off the stream of water and yanked the pot out from under the faucet.

“I guess that’s my answer.” Dev could hear the grin in his partner’s voice. “In any case, Cal called
me
. Their connection from San Francisco was delayed by fog, and Moira was asleep on his shoulder. He said she didn’t get much rest on the overnight flight from Hawaii, thanks to a lot of turbulence. He assumed I’d be awake and was using the downtime to check in.”

That sounded like Cal. He’d always been Mr. Responsibility.

“I hope you told him we had things under control.” He padded back to the coffeemaker, pot in hand.

“More or less. He didn’t sound anxious to hear a lot of details.”

Dev snorted. “Would you be thinking about work if you’d just spent ten days honeymooning in a tropical paradise and had a gorgeous woman asleep on your shoulder?”

A chuckle came over the line. “The caffeine must be kicking in.”

Dev pulled the bag of ground coffee out of the refrigerator, inhaled the aroma, and shook some into a filter. “Not yet, but close.”

“Then I’ll make this quick so I don’t keep you from that high-priority task. Cal said he’d be in first thing tomorrow. I gave him a topline on your case, but you can fill in the blanks in the office. What’s on your agenda today?”

“Working the case, what do you think? And I’ll handle anything at the office that can’t wait until Cal gets back.”

“Okay. I’ll be in touch if the girl shows.”

“Thanks.” Dev set the phone aside, got the coffee brewing, and headed for the bathroom.

A quick shower, a bowl of cereal, several cups of black coffee and he’d be ready to track down the only person so far who might be able to offer them a clue to Darcy’s whereabouts.

A man named Mark.

Mark turned into Davis Daycare and eyeballed the parking lot, eerily illuminated in the 6:15 a.m. blackness by overhead pole lights. The crew they contracted to clear snow had already come and gone. Excellent. The lot wasn’t pristine, but it was navigable, especially the section at the front where parents parked long enough to dash in and dump their offspring before hurrying off to take care of the important business of the day.

As if raising their own children wasn’t important business.

Given the tough economy, though, he ought to cut them a little slack. It was possible some of them needed the two incomes to cover living expenses, not just to stroke their egos and give them cash to buy the latest and greatest flat-screen TV.

Some . . . but not all.

Still, while he might not agree with the priorities of those whose motives were less admirable, they did pay for quality care. And he took the trust they’d placed in him seriously—as did the small family-run Davis chain of daycare centers. Mr. Davis often said that if parents couldn’t take care of their kids themselves, they owed them a safe, nurturing environment. That’s what the Davis centers provided, and Mark was proud to uphold their high standards of quality care. Children deserved nothing less.

He continued toward the deserted employee parking at the rear of the building, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at the guitar case on the backseat. It was a shame to pitch a musical instrument, but that was the safest option. And what better place than here? By the time the employees finished emptying trash cans at the end of
the day, it would be hidden under the kind of refuse even dumpster divers wouldn’t want to ferret through. Nobody liked smelly diapers.

Angling in to a spot beside the industrial trash bin, he inched the car forward over a few snow-covered patches and set the brake. No one else should arrive for twenty or thirty minutes, giving him plenty of time to dispose of the guitar and start getting things set up for the day.

Once out of the car, Mark opened the back door, reached in, and grasped the handle of the case. He’d already given it and the guitar a thorough going-over, and there was nothing on either to identify them as Star’s. So even if someone by chance found them, there was no way to connect the items to the itinerant teen.

Straightening up, he inspected the parking area once more. It was quiet and dark at this early hour, and the tall bushes at the back hid the lot from the view of the houses on the next street.

There would be no witnesses to his furtive activity.

Guitar in hand, he shut the door, circled behind the car, and headed toward the dumpster.

Too fast.

His foot shot out from under him on a patch of ice, and as he sprawled on the frozen pavement, the guitar slid several feet away.

Gasping for air, he struggled to fill his deflated lungs as he took a quick inventory. No damage as far as he could tell. Thank goodness. The last thing he needed right now was a sprained ankle or a broken arm. An injury like that wouldn’t jibe with his plans.

Back on his feet, he took a second to get his footing before making his way more carefully across the asphalt. Once he retrieved the guitar, he continued toward the dumpster.

Almost done.

He tightened his grip on the handle of the case, reached up, and pushed on the lid of the trash bin.

It didn’t budge.

Mark frowned. The lid always gave easily. What was wrong with it today?

He shifted position to take advantage of the light on the other
side of the parking lot. Ah. The lid was frozen shut with a thick coating of ice.

A cloud of frosty breath formed in front of his face as he let out a sigh. Was anything ever easy?

He set the guitar down. Using both hands this time, he pushed on the lid as hard as he could. Hammered against it with his fist. Shook it.

Nothing.

Now what was he supposed to do?

Despite the cold, a trickle of sweat inched down his back.

As he tried to think of some other option, he gave the lid one final shove. A cracking sound filled the quiet morning, and all at once the ice shattered, spewing shards in all directions. One of the razor-sharp projectiles clipped his cheek, and he muttered a curse.

At least the dumpster was now accessible.

Hefting the guitar with one hand, he pushed up the lid with the other—just as a pair of headlights arced his direction, pinning him in a spotlight.

What the . . . ?

He swung around, shielding his eyes with one hand as he let the lid drop back into place. The resounding boom echoed like a cannon in the morning stillness.

The headlights swung away from him as a car pulled in beside his. Still blinded by the bright light, he blinked, trying to see who’d interrupted his covert task.

The car lights went out. A door slammed, and a female voice spoke.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hamilton. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

It was Faith Bradley, the twenty-two-year-old who worked the front desk. She often came early—but never this early.

She moved closer, her face shadowed in the predawn darkness. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” He shoved the word past his stiff lips, trying to calm his racing pulse.
She doesn’t know a thing. Act normal. She’s just a dumb kid, and she likes you. She’ll buy whatever you say.

“Can I help you with something?” She glanced toward the guitar in his hand.

“No. I just need to get rid of this old case. It was cluttering up my basement and the dumpster in my alley was full. Why are you here so early?”

“With the center closed for a couple of days, I thought you might be able to use some help getting things ready.”

It was hard to fault someone for being a conscientious employee.

“Thanks. Would you mind opening the door and turning on some lights while I finish up out here?” He fished in his pocket for the building key and handed it over. On the plus side, the dim light masked the tremor in his fingers.

“Sure.” She leaned closer to examine his cheek, her expression concerned. “I think you’re bleeding.”

Was he? He tugged off a glove, lifted a hand to his cheek, and swiped his fingers across. Yeah, he was.

“It’s nothing. The lid was sealed shut and I had to break the ice to get it loose. A piece flew off in my direction. I’ll take care of it when I get inside. It would really help if you’d open up and turn on the lights.”

“Right. I’m on it.” She trotted toward the door, anxious as always to please.

He waited until she fitted the key in the lock and disappeared inside before returning to his task. Once more he lifted the lid and hefted the guitar. This time he managed to toss it inside. The lid banged shut.

As he picked his way carefully toward the back door, he let out a long, slow breath. Too bad Faith had shown up. But he’d be extra nice to her today and she’d forget all about this incident—just as he intended to.

Because he had much more important things to think about in the coming days.