Mother by Fate

“Tell him I’m busy.” He heard the little-girl voice, complete with the lisp.

Not waiting for his sister to relay the message, he said, “Tell her I said to come to the phone.” There wasn’t time for games that night.

He heard his sister’s voice... More important, her tone of voice. A quick scramble sounded, and then Mari said, “Hi, Daddy. I guess it’s not done yet, huh?”

She knew he caught bad guys—like the one who’d killed her mother. She didn’t need to know anything else. Their deal was he’d tell her when it was over. And that any time he could, he’d call to tell her good-night.

“Nope, not yet.”

“It’s dark.”

“I know.”

But her daddy was like Superman. He had special powers. And men with special powers had to get the bad guys so little girls and their mothers could sleep safely in their beds at night.

Reality was a part of Mari’s life.

Because reality was that Mari’s mother had been raped and murdered in their home while Mari had been sleeping in her bed down the hall. Not that the little girl knew any of the details. Only that Mommy had been killed. Not where. Or when.

“Hurry up and get done so you can come home,” she said now. The vulnerability in her voice only meant she was tired.

“I will. I love you, punkin.”

“I know. I love you, too, Daddy.”

“’Kay—” He was ready to tell her goodbye when she interrupted.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you eat your supper?”

Did he lie to her? Or make her worry? Life was filled with hard choices.

“Yep.” He had eaten it. The night before. And the night before that.

“I love you, Daddy. Please come home for breakfast if you’re done.”

As if he’d be anyplace else.

Michael hung up just as the cab was turning onto the street with the thrift shop. Was it only a few hours since he’d been there? Seemed like days to him.

And he was no closer to catching his perp.

She was out there someplace. Desperate enough to break into someone’s home? To hurt them in order to get money for drugs?

Or would she head straight back to LA and the little boy she’d tried twice now to steal away from the father who loved him? Who worked as a shift manager at a reputable company and could provide a stable and loving home for the boy.

A father who didn’t do drugs.

Standing at the door to the SUV, he glanced over to the thrift shop. There had to be access to the women’s shelter somewhere on that street. It made sense. But he couldn’t find it.

Nor did he know a thing about women’s shelters. Except that they were hidden in ordinary neighborhoods. Hidden where no one would expect to find them.

Sara Haven had been outside the thrift shop the day before.

Sara, who worked with victims of domestic violence.

She’d know where the shelter was.

More than that, she knew Nicole. Sara was a counselor. The wanted woman had obviously talked to her. And probably to others, too, all of whom Sara could put in touch with him.

It meant that he was going to have to come clean with her.

He’d have to confess that their chance meeting had been a ruse. That he’d only been using her to get information.

But when she heard why, when she heard that the woman she’d been protecting was a dangerous criminal who’d probably smuggled a gun into the women’s shelter with her, she’d help him.

She wasn’t going to like him anymore, though.

It couldn’t be helped. Regret was a wasted emotion that he shrugged off as best he could.

Sliding his cell phone out of its holster, Michael dialed the number he’d told himself to forget.

* * *

SARA’S TENSION HAD not dissipated one bit. There was no encouraging news. A frustrating lack of it, as a matter of fact. Trevor Kramer, and his infant son, Toby, were both at home where they belonged. Trevor had been sitting alone watching the Food Network on television when the detectives had knocked on his door. Toby, asleep on a blanket on the couch next to him, appeared to be healthy, rosy cheeked and content.

The three-bedroom rental was clean. No sign of drugs or booze. It had smelled slightly of bacon. Trevor said he’d made an omelet for dinner.

He’d asked if there was any news on his wife.

The detectives had asked if he’d sent someone after her.

His adamant reply to the negative had convinced the LAPD that he was on the up and up.

Which made no sense to Sara or any of the other members of the High Risk Team, who were gathered in Lila McDaniel’s office just after ten that Saturday night.

They’d just received a call from the Santa Raquel police with a follow-up report on the truck that Nicole had reportedly ridden away on. The driver had never known she’d been aboard. Officers were canvassing the neighborhood but didn’t want to alert the public at large, or show Nicole’s picture in case her husband didn’t know she’d been in the area.

“I’m going to be off, then,” Officer Sanchez, one of the members of the High Risk Team, said as he reached out to shake Sara’s hand, and then Lila’s. “You two should get some rest, too. There’s not a lot more we can do tonight.” He looked toward Bethany, Nicole’s new victim witness advocate. “She has your cell number. My guess is that’s the one she’ll use if she wants to get in touch with us.”

“She has mine, too,” Sara said. They did things on a case-by-case basis at the Lemonade Stand. If she wanted to hand out her private cell number to residents, that was her business.

“And mine,” Lila added.

“Security’s all been alerted here,” Tammy Severnson, the most senior of the four full-time security agents at the Stand, said as she moved toward the door. “If she shows up, they know to get her to safety ASAP and be on guard for anyone following her.”