Claiming His Family
Ann Voss Peterson
SECRET BABYAlyson Fitzroy had a secret. A precious baby she struggled to protect, until the harrowing day her child was stolen! Now the only man she could turn to was Dex Harrington. The powerful D.A. who could put her baby's kidnapper behind bars forever. The lover who had fathered her child…DETERMINED DADDYDex Harrington was shocked to discover he had a son–and determined to keep his baby safe. Even if that meant taking matters into his own hands. Even if that meant allowing Alyson Fitzroy into his heart. Because as soon as he joined forces with the beauty he believed had betrayed him, he realized so much was at stake. For he hungered to claim this woman and child as his own once and for all!
“I gave birth to our son seven months ago.”
Dex didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe. “I have a son.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.
“Yes,” Alyson said finally.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.
“I couldn’t take the chance. I was afraid you’d try to take him away from me.”
His face flushed with anger. “You should have trusted me to do the right thing. You should have damn well told me.”
She let his anger buffet her. He was right. She’d known it in her heart all along. She should have told him. Despite her fear. Despite the risk. “I’m here now. I’m telling you now.”
“Why are you here now, Alyson? Why did you pick tonight of all nights to tell me I had a son?”
“Because…” She forced her words through the thickness in her throat, through the fear tightening her lips. “Because he’s gone.”
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
Out like a lion! That’s our Harlequin Intrigue lineup for March. As if you’d expect anything else.
Debra Webb concludes her trilogy THE SPECIALISTS with Guardian of the Night. Talk about sensuous and surreal and sexy. Man alive! You’re sure to love this potent story that spans the night…and—to be sure—a lifetime. And you can find more COLBY AGENCY stories to follow this terrific spin-off later in the year.
Veteran Harlequin Intrigue author Patricia Rosemoor has created a new miniseries for you called CLUB UNDERCOVER. It’s slick and secretive—just the way we like things here. Fake I.D. Wife is available this month and VIP Protector next month. So get your dancing shoes retreaded for this dynamic duo.
Finally we have two terrific theme promotions for you. Claiming His Family by Ann Voss Peterson is the newest addition to TOP SECRET BABIES. And Marching Orders by Delores Fossen kicks off MEN ON A MISSION. Who could ever resist a man in uniform?
So we hope you like our selections this month and we look forward to seeing you choose Harlequin Intrigue again for more great books of breathtaking romantic suspense.
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
Claiming His Family
Ann Voss Peterson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ever since she was a little girl making her own books out of construction paper, Ann Voss Peterson wanted to write. So when it came time to choose a major at the University of Wisconsin, creative writing was her only choice. Of course, writing wasn’t a practical choice—one needs to earn a living. So Ann found jobs ranging from proofreading legal transcripts to working with quarter horses to washing windows. But no matter how she earned her paycheck, she continued to write the type of stories that captured her heart and imagination—romantic suspense. Ann lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband, her two young sons, her Border collie and her quarter horse mare. Ann loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at ann@annvosspeterson.com or visit her Web site at annvosspeterson.com
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Dex Harrington—A target of revenge, District Attorney Dex Harrington stands to lose everything he cares about: his career, his reputation and the child he never knew he had.
Alyson Fitzroy—A DNA analyst in Wisconsin’s State Crime Lab, Alyson fell in love with Dex years ago. And when their relationship crumbled, so did her heart. But now she must go to him for help if she ever hopes to see their child again.
Andrew Clarke Smythe—The rapist is clever enough to get himself pardoned for his crimes. But that isn’t enough. Now he wants revenge against the district attorney who put him in prison. And he’ll do anything to get it.
John Cohen—Is the assistant district attorney cynical enough that he would sell out his office for cash?
Lee Runyon—How far will the top criminal defense attorney go to serve his clients?
Connie Rasula—Did she lie in order to get Smythe out of prison?
Maggie Daugherty—An employee of the D.A.’s office, Maggie holds a grudge against Alyson. But what is the real reason behind her narrowed eyes and severe frown?
Valerie D’Fonse—The brilliant scientist loves to gossip. But is there something sinister behind her wide smile?
Jennifer Scott—Is the crime lab chemist romantically involved with Andrew Smythe? Or is she part of the conspiracy to get him released?
Al Mylinski—He’ll give his all to serve justice.
To Brett, a true labor of love.
Special thanks to Jerome Geurts, Director of Wisconsin State Crime Lab—Madison for his help. Any errors, omissions or creative license are mine alone.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter One
Alyson Fitzroy stared at the television screen and ground her teeth together until the pain shooting along her jaw made her let up. A scene taped earlier in the day flickered on the ten o’clock news. Grinning broadly, Andrew Clarke Smythe swaggered to a waiting limousine, a small crowd of supporters cheering him on from outside the prison gates.
Andrew Clarke Smythe, the most notorious serial rapist in Dane County’s history, was free. And the tests Alyson had performed in Wisconsin’s State Crime Lab were responsible.
Since the day she’d received the order to perform the DNA comparison between blood found under the fingernails of a recent rape victim and the DNA of the imprisoned Smythe, she’d feared this would be the result. But she’d hoped the police would be able to shoot holes in the impossible theory that Smythe had a DNA clone out there committing rape—before he won his appeal for a new trial. She’d never dreamed the governor would bypass the criminal justice system completely and give the Smythe Pharmaceuticals heir a pardon.
She wrapped her arms around herself. She felt sick to her stomach. But as sick as she felt, she knew it had to be worse for Dex.
As if echoing her thoughts, Dane County’s new District Attorney Dex Harrington’s face flashed on the television screen next. Outwardly he looked the same—the all-American male with hair the color of a sun-kissed beach and the square jaw and cleft chin of a superhero. But he’d changed in the past year and a half. She could read it in the hardness in his eyes, the rigid muscles along his jaw. He seemed even more judgmental than he had the last time she’d seen him. The time she’d been the one on whom he was passing judgment. The time she’d come up wanting.
She shoved the bitter memories from her mind. She couldn’t waste her life being bitter. It wouldn’t change anything. And looking at Dex’s face on TV, the solemn line of his lips, the tortured squint of his eyes as he answered the reporters’ questions, bitterness was far from her reach. She felt only regret.
Alyson pushed herself up from the couch and switched off the television. Wrapping her terry-cloth robe tighter around her, she padded out of her comfortable little living room on bare feet and started up the staircase leading to the bedrooms.
Reaching the top of the stairs, she strode past her own bedroom to the closed door at the end of the hall. She paused for a moment and listened. Hearing nothing, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Though Alyson had closed the windows against the humidity, the air still smelled like the fresh June night outside. She squinted her eyes against the darkness, the full moon obscured by drawn curtains. Only a feeble light from the hall chased away the shadows and revealed the white bars of the crib in the corner. The crib that held the most precious thing in her life.
She approached on stealthy steps and peered inside. Seven-month-old Patrick lay on his back, his head turned to the side. His little chest rose and fell with each breath. As always, a wave of love and gratitude surged through her at the sight of him. His peaceful face, his clenched fists, the tiny cleft in his chin.
Just like his daddy’s.
She’d meant to tell Dex at first. Even after the blowup. After all, he’d had a right to know. She’d even telephoned him a few times, but he’d refused to take her calls. And whenever she’d forced herself to drive to his house, she’d invariably driven away without stepping from her car. She just couldn’t make herself face him.
She’d kept seeing the scorn in his eyes when she’d defended her father, when she’d taken her first wrong step. She’d kept hearing Dex’s bitter words the last night they were together, the night he refused her a second chance, the night he told her he didn’t want her anymore.
She shook her head, shutting out his words, and focused on her child’s innocent face. No matter what Dex had done to her, he still deserved to know he had a child. And if things were that simple, she would have found a way to tell him.
But things weren’t that simple.
Leaning over the crib gate, she reached a finger to touch the soft blond down on her baby’s head. He’d given her the strength to go on after Dex’s rejection, after her father’s crimes and his subsequent death from his co-conspirator’s bullet. Patrick was her little man, her love, her life. He was everything she had.
She couldn’t risk losing him.
A feeling crept over her skin. A feeling that had nothing to do with the child sleeping in the crib. A feeling of being watched by malevolent eyes.
She jolted upright. Too late. A hand closed around her throat. A sweet-smelling cloth pressed over her nose and mouth.
She held her breath. She couldn’t scream. If she did, she’d drag the fumes into her lungs, she’d lose consciousness. She wouldn’t be able to fight. She kicked back, connecting with a shin.
A guttural growl exploded in the darkness. “Damn bitch.”
She flailed her arms, trying to hit her attacker, trying to loosen his grip. Swinging low with one hand, she hit his hip, her fingers grasping something soft hanging from his belt. A rope. Oh, God, he intended to tie her up. Or just slip the ligature around her throat. Once that happened, she didn’t stand a chance. Panic bolted through her. She flailed harder. One fist connected with the side of his face.
Another curse erupted from his lips. The hand on her throat tightened, cutting off her breath. Cutting off her life.
She hit him again, trying to put more force into the punch, but he only gripped her throat harder. Her pulse beat in her ears. Dizziness swam in her mind. Her fist connected again. She needed air. She couldn’t let herself pass out.
Suddenly the grip on her throat loosened.
She gasped in a breath. Then another. She tried to twist in his grip, tried to get away, but he held her fast, the cloth clamped over her mouth and nose. The scent of chloroform tickled her sinuses and filled her lungs. Her head reeled, dizzy, slipping.
Darkness closed over her.
Chapter Two
Alyson woke, a strange smell filling her nostrils, its sweet flavor tainting her mouth. Her stomach protested and her head whirled. What had happened? She lay still, willing her stomach to stop flipping, her head resting on the berber carpet in Patrick’s room.
Patrick.
Memories rushed back. The hand gripping her throat. The cloth over her mouth and nose. The unmistakable smell of chloroform.
She jolted into a sitting position. Her stomach heaved. Her head pounded. She choked back her sickness and climbed to her feet. Two steps and she was at the crib gate, her fingers clutching the bars, her mind scrambling to process what she was seeing—and what she was not seeing.
The crib sheet glowed like pristine snow. Shadows from the mobile suspended above the crib danced across the expanse of the sheet.
The empty expanse.
Patrick was gone.
Her heart lurched in her chest. She grabbed the side of the crib to keep from toppling over. It couldn’t be. Her little man. Her baby.
She knelt beside the crib and looked underneath, straining her eyes, desperately searching the shadows. As if she believed he’d crawled out. As if she believed her seven-month-old was suddenly able to play a game of hide-and-seek with his mommy. Even in her panic, she knew he was gone. She knew it. But she didn’t want to believe it. There had to be another explanation. There had to be, however impossible.
A phone’s ring jangled above the roaring in her ears. Cold dread welled up inside her, swamping her, drowning her. She forced herself to concentrate. Forced herself to turn away from the empty crib. Forced herself to walk down the hall to her bedroom.
The telephone waited on a bedside table, its light throbbing in the shadows with each ring. She picked up the receiver and held it to her ear in a shaking hand. Far away she heard her voice say, “Hello?”
“I came for you tonight, Alyson.” The voice slithered from the phone.
She gripped the receiver until her knuckles ached. “Where’s my baby?”
“Like I said, I came for you tonight, but I found something better.”
“Where’s my baby?” Her voice broke, shrill with panic.
“He’s safe. For now. But if you call the police, he won’t be safe for long.”
Oh, God. Oh, God. Her mind raced. She didn’t know what to do. “Don’t hurt him. Please. I’ll pay you anything you want.”
“I don’t need your money.”
“Then what? What do you want me to do?”
A chuckle erupted over the phone. “I was waiting for you to ask that. I want you to contact the baby’s father.”
“The baby’s father?”
“You know who he is, don’t you, Alyson? Or do you need to do a DNA test to find out?”
She did her best to swallow her panic. She had to stay calm. She had to stay focused. She had to convince this man she would do whatever he wanted. As long as he didn’t hurt Patrick, as long as he gave her baby back, everything would be all right. “I know who he is.”
“Good. It’s much better when you don’t have to rely on DNA. It’s such an unpredictable science. All those double helixes running around, or whatever the hell. You never quite know when you’re going to get an inconvenient match that will ruin all your plans.”
Understanding cut through the fog of panic and confusion clouding her mind. The chloroform. The rope. All elements of the rapes he’d been convicted for two years ago. She knew who was on the other end. She knew who had stolen her baby. “Smythe.”
“Can’t put anything past you smart scientist types.” A chuckle rippled over the phone line, vulgar, obscene. “How about that justice system? Isn’t it great?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Revenge. Pure and sweet.” His voice lost the chuckle and grew dark. “You see, I know who fathered your bastard, too, Alyson. And no man condemns me to two years in that hellhole of a prison and gets away with it. No man. I want you to tell him that.”
How in the world had Smythe learned Dex was Patrick’s father? Alyson hadn’t told a soul. She’d taken a leave of absence from work to hide her pregnancy. She hadn’t even listed Dex on Patrick’s birth certificate. But it didn’t matter how Smythe had learned the truth, he was planning to use the baby against Dex. She couldn’t let that happen. “Your plan isn’t going to work, Smythe. Dex doesn’t even know about Patrick.”
“He will after you tell him.”
Tell Dex? She couldn’t tell Dex. Not now. Not after all this time. “But I—”
“You what?”
Her knees wobbled. She sank onto the bed, grasping the edge with one hand to keep her balance. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll tell him tonight.”
“I thought you’d see things my way. You want me happy, Alyson. For your baby’s sake, you want me happy. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand.” She forced herself to breathe. She had to do something. Anything. Spotting the Memo button on the answering machine, she pushed it. At least she could get Smythe’s voice on tape. She’d have proof of his threats. “After I tell Dex, then what?”
“I’ll call.”
“Can’t you tell me more now? Can’t I do something? Please.” She couldn’t just sit and wait. Not while Patrick was in the hands of this monster. Not while her baby was hungry and cold and wanted his mother. Not while Smythe might—
She bit the inside of her cheek until the coppery taste of blood tinged her mouth. She couldn’t think about what Smythe might do to Patrick. She couldn’t function if she thought about that.
“You just let Harrington know he has a son. I’ll be in touch.”
“Please. You can’t do this. Give him back to—”
The line went dead.
ANDY SMYTHE pulled his sweet, red Corvette to the curb in front of the little ranch house and killed the engine. Alyson Fitzroy’s questions and challenges still rang in his ears. Damn. A woman’s mouth was only good for one thing, and it sure as hell wasn’t talking. He couldn’t stand women who talked too much. Especially the smart, superior types like Alyson Fitzroy. He would have loved to do what he’d gone to her house to do. He would have loved to grab her by her long red hair and put her in her place. He had been looking forward to it.
But then he’d seen the baby.
He glanced at the sleeping bundle next to him on the passenger seat. His little pajama-clad body. His nearly white hair that barely covered his scalp.
Andy had learned a lot about Dex Harrington while he’d been stewing in that hellhole. A lot about him. He knew Harrington and the redhead had been tight. They’d almost been married, the private investigator he’d hired had said. That’s why Andy had chosen her as his first after getting out of prison. That coupled with the fact that she’d performed the DNA test that had gotten him out of prison seemed too ironic a combination to pass up. But seeing the kid had thrown him. He’d figured the kid had to be Harrington’s.
Just as his chat with the redhead had confirmed.
Andy gathered the sleeping kid in his arms. Throwing the strap of the bag filled with baby things he’d swiped from the bedroom over his other shoulder, Andy climbed out of his Vette. He carried the child to the door of the house and rang the bell.
A light blinked on in the bedroom. Great. Nanny had been asleep. She wouldn’t be happy with him for waking her, but it couldn’t be helped. As soon as she saw the baby, she’d forgive him. Nanny never could hold a grudge.
The frilly white curtain over the front door’s small window lifted and a withered eye peered out. It widened in surprise. The curtain fell and the door rattled then opened.
“Do you know what time it is, Andy?” Nanny stood in the doorway watching him with stern yet gentle eyes, the way she used to every day when he was growing up.
For a moment he felt like a puny little kid again, crawling to Nanny for comfort after his mother had treated him to another of her cruel and belittling tirades.
He shoved the feeling aside and stepped past the old woman and into the house. He would never be puny and weak. Never again. And neither Dex Harrington’s scathing words nor Alyson Fitzroy’s superior tone would make it so. Tonight he hadn’t come for Nanny’s comfort. He’d come for her help. He walked into a tiny living room jammed with so much furniture it would have looked like a warehouse if not for the crocheted doilies covering every surface.
Nanny followed him on tottering legs. “What do you have there? A child?”
He turned his best pitiful expression on her. “My child, Nanny. His mother doesn’t want him. She abandoned him as soon as I was freed from prison.”
“Your child? That child is too young. You were in prison when it was conceived.”
“Haven’t you heard of conjugal visits? They arrange them for prisoners, you know.”
She nodded as if this was a totally plausible explanation.
Andy laughed to himself. If she bought that story, this was going to be easier than he’d thought. “I was in love with his mother. I wanted to marry her.” He dropped his head as if he were ashamed. “Unfortunately she didn’t feel the same way.”
Pity and concern washed over Nanny’s wrinkled face.
“I need your help, Nanny. I need you to take little Bart.”
She frowned.
“You know me,” he continued, “I can’t take care of myself, let alone a baby.”
“Well that’s true enough.”
“Besides, I want my son to have the best care a boy can have. I want him to have the only thing that was good about my childhood. I want him to have you.”
Nanny’s old face softened into a smile. Amazing. Sometimes he didn’t even have to come up with a lie to manipulate people. Sometimes he had only to tell the truth.
She held out her arms for the baby. “Give him here. I hate to see you worrying about your poor child, Andy. Not after all you’ve been through. You’re right. He’s better off with me.”
Andy placed the baby in her arms and set the bag on the floor. Then he slipped his wallet from his pocket and pulled out a wad of hundreds and set them on a crocheted doily.
The old lady eyed him, hardness stealing back into her face. “I’m not taking your money, boy.”
“The baby needs things. I want my son to have the best. This money is for him.”
She paused then nodded, her thin, wrinkled lips stretching into a smile once again. “You’re a good daddy, Andy, taking care of your baby this way. I’m proud of you.”
Andy couldn’t keep the grin off his face. A good daddy. That was him. A regular chip off the old Smythe block. He stifled his laugh until he bade the old woman goodbye and closed the door behind him.
The baby would be safe and well cared for with Nanny. Contrary to what he’d told the redhead, he had no intention of hurting the kid. He wasn’t a sicko, unlike some of the scumbags he’d done time with. And he was no baby killer, either. The baby was safe.
But the father? Not a chance. The baby would give Andy just the leverage he needed to turn Dex Harrington’s life into a living nightmare. And in the process, he’d see he got a piece of the oh-so-superior redhead, too.
Revenge would be sweet.
ALYSON GRIPPED the wheel with white-knuckled fingers and struggled to quell the trembling that claimed every nerve. Stomping on the accelerator as hard as she dared, she steered her Volvo around sharp corners and down quiet streets. She trained her eyes on the road ahead, keeping her gaze from wandering to the rearview mirror, to the reflection of the empty child’s safety seat belted in back.
She couldn’t give in to the panic, the rush of loss that threatened to overwhelm her. She had to stay rational. She had to reach Dex. She had to get Patrick back.
And whatever that took, she’d do it.
The roofline of Dex’s sprawling old bungalow loomed on the edge of the lake, a dark shadow against the moonlight-kissed waves beyond. Alyson swerved onto the dead end street, pulled to the curb and scrambled from the car.
Built into the bank of Lake Mendota, Dex’s house was his pride and joy. Alyson could still picture the satisfaction on his face the day he’d bought the scarred old former fraternity house and started putting his renovation plans into motion. It was as if he’d finally arrived, finally proven he had transcended his desolate upbringing.
Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the lapping of the waves against the shore. The humid June air clogged her throat. She climbed the stone steps and stepped onto the porch. A light shone from the back of the house. Pressing a trembling finger to the doorbell, she held her breath.
A chime sounded through the old structure. Footsteps thudded on the hardwood floor inside. The door opened.
“Alyson.” Dex stood silhouetted against light glowing behind him. But even in the shadow she could see his brow furrow, the muscles along his cleft chin hardening in unswerving judgment.
Some things never changed. But his judgment of her didn’t matter. Not anymore. The only thing that mattered now was Patrick. Alyson forced her voice to function. “I need to talk to you.”
Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his midnight-blue eyes seemed to grow darker, harder. He took in a deep breath and expelled it. “I suppose you heard about the governor’s pardon.”
“Yes.”
“Is that what you need to talk about?”
“In part, yes.”
“Is it something about the testing you did? Something I should know?”
After Smythe’s pardon today it was logical Dex would assume she was coming to see him about the DNA test she’d done—the test that had sprung the rapist from prison. “No. It’s not that. The testing was accurate. The two samples were a match.”
His gaze raked over her, as if trying to determine her true motive for showing up on his doorstep.
“I need your help.” Her words trembled with barely controlled panic. “It’s urgent.”
As if hearing the edge in her voice, he gave a succinct nod and backed from the doorway, allowing her inside.
As she stepped into the house, a shiver stole up her spine. Sights, smells and feelings from the past washed over her. The tickle of dust in her nose as she and Dex hauled box after box of ancient junk from the attic after he bought the house. The scent of paint, varnish and wallpaper paste as they reclaimed the scarred walls and floors. The sound of hers and Dex’s laughter mingling and filling the empty halls. Memories of happy times, before her father’s crimes, before she learned exactly how precarious her position was in Dex’s heart.
She shut the memories out of her mind. They were merely sentimental longing. And she didn’t have time for sentiment. “Can we sit down?”
His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “You can’t tell me here?”
Her knees quivered. “Please. I need to sit down. And so should you.”
He raised his brows at her last comment. But instead of grilling her further, he mercifully turned and led her through the house.
She followed, forcing her eyes to move over her surroundings. Forcing her mind to focus on something safer than the panic thrashing inside her, threatening to shred what little control she had.
Dex had changed things since she’d helped him decorate following the renovation. He’d replaced the simple curtains she’d chosen with wood-slat blinds. He’d furnished the rooms with heavy leather instead of the light-fabric couches and chairs she’d helped him select. It was as if he’d obliterated her from his life. As if she’d ceased to exist in his world.
And of course, she had.
But he’d never disappeared from her world. His presence went far deeper than blinds and furniture. She felt his presence every time she looked into Patrick’s blue eyes or kissed that tiny cleft chin.
Patrick.
Panic rose in her throat like bile. Choking it back, she followed Dex into the glassed-in porch they used to sit in together watching thunderstorms come in off the lake. He gestured to a wicker chair. She took her place among the cushions.
He lowered himself into a chair facing her. “We’re sitting. What is it?”
She tangled her fingers together in her lap and took a deep breath. There were so many things that had been said between them. And even more things that had not been said. Before she told him about Patrick, she had to give him some idea why she hadn’t told him about his son. She had to make him understand. “I tried calling you. Several times. After my father was killed. You refused my calls. And you didn’t call back when I left messages on your machine.”
Dex’s brows snapped low over his eyes. “I didn’t want to talk to you, Alyson. I don’t want to rehash the past. I hope that’s not why you came here tonight.”
“You turned your back on me, Dex. And my only crime was that I loved my father.”
He stood and paced the length of the sunporch. He stopped, his back to her, his shoulders obviously tight under his crisp white dress shirt. Slowly he turned to look at her with hard eyes. “Your father was a criminal. The worst kind of criminal. He used his title of district attorney to sell justice. He perverted the entire system. And you defended him.”
“He was my father. I didn’t believe he could do something like that.”
“You didn’t want to believe it. You didn’t want to believe me.”
She swallowed into a dry throat. “That’s why I called. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I was wrong about my father. That I was sorry I didn’t believe you when you first told me what you suspected. But that’s not the only thing I wanted to tell you.”
“What are you saying? Why are you here, Alyson?”
“I wanted to tell you I was pregnant.” She rubbed clammy hands over her jeans and willed herself to look at Dex, to meet his gaze. “I gave birth to our son seven months ago.”
Dex didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to breathe. “I have a son.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.
“Yes.”
He folded himself into a chair. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed a hand over his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You wouldn’t take my calls, remember?”
“You could have come to see me. You could have made me listen.”
She could have. She’d known it then, and she knew it now. If she’d really wanted to tell Dex, she wouldn’t have let anything stop her. “I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid you would take him away from me.”
A muscle tensed along his jawline. “Why the hell would you think that?”
She shot him an incredulous look. What she’d done had been wrong, cowardly. But she’d had reason. “Because you hated me, Dex. You were so hard and uncaring and judgmental. You shut me out of your life and wouldn’t give me a second chance. And after what my father did, there isn’t a judge in Dane County who wouldn’t be biased against me in a custody fight, wrong or not.”
“So you thought I would use your father’s sins to convince the court you were an unfit mother?”
“I couldn’t take the chance.”
His face flushed with anger. Cords of muscle stood out along his neck. “First you believed I was lying about your father, then you believed I would rob my son of a mother. What kind of a rotten SOB do you think I am?”
“I don’t— I didn’t— I was afraid.”
“You should have trusted me to do the right thing. You should have damn well told me.”
She sat still and let his anger buffet her. He was right, she’d known it in her heart all along. She should have told him. Despite her fear. Despite the risk. “I’m here now. I’m telling you now.”
“Why are you here now, Alyson? Why did you pick tonight of all nights to tell me I have a son?”
“Because…” She forced the words through the thickness in her throat, through the fear tightening her lips. “Because he’s gone.”
Chapter Three
“Gone?” Dex’s heart stuttered in his chest. He shot up from his chair, muscles tensed to fight. “What the hell do you mean?”
Alyson took in a shaky breath as if trying to hold back tears. “I went into Patrick’s room to check on him, and Smythe grabbed me. He pressed a chloroform-soaked cloth over my face. When I woke up, Patrick was gone. Smythe took him.”
“Smythe? Are you sure?” Dex had been living and breathing Andrew Clarke Smythe in the months since the DNA match had been made. But to now learn he had a son, and that Andrew Clarke Smythe had kidnapped him, was too surreal to absorb.
“Smythe called me. Somehow he knew you were Patrick’s father. He took our baby to get back at you for convicting him two years ago.”
Rage, pure and hot, surged through Dex’s blood. Smythe had kidnapped his son. His son. If the son of a bitch wanted to make things personal, he’d succeeded. And he’d soon wish he hadn’t. If Dex had anything to say about it, the scum would be strung up before daybreak. Crossing to the door in three strides, he left Alyson huddled on the porch. His footsteps thundered down the hall, echoing on the hardwood floor like the beat of war drums. Reaching the library, he circled his desk and reached for the cordless phone perched on the credenza.
“Wait.”
Finger poised over the number pad, he looked up into Alyson’s emerald eyes.
“Smythe told me if we got the police involved, I would never see Patrick again.” Her voice broke. Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t let them wind down her cheeks. “If you call the police, he’ll find out. He said he has sources. He could have someone watching us right now.”
She was probably right about Smythe’s sources. Heir to Smythe Pharmaceuticals, the poor little rich boy had endless money at his disposal. And money could corrupt even the purest police department. Or district attorney’s office. Dex had seen it happen.
Expelling a long breath, he set the cordless phone on the desk and studied her face in the library’s bright light. Fine lines framed her mouth and eyes. Shadows lurked in the hollows under her cheekbones, making her normally smooth face appear almost gaunt. He’d seen these signs of stress many times in his work. Hell, he’d grown up surrounded by desperation. “So what else did Smythe say?”
“I have a tape. I recorded part of what he said.” She pulled a tiny cassette from her pocket and held it out to Dex with shaking fingers.
Dex took the tape from her hand. After rummaging through his desk, he produced a microcassette recorder and slipped the tape inside. He pushed the play button.
Andrew Smythe’s voice wound through the library, smooth as a snake’s hiss. Dex had heard it many times in press conferences after court, in pleas from prison, and it always sounded the same. No fear. No pity. Nothing but an unfeeling smugness that set Dex’s teeth on edge.
Much more striking was the sound of Alyson’s voice. So naked. So desperate.
Dex tried to steel himself against the vulnerability in her voice. He tried to focus on Smythe’s words. On what he was saying. Only when the tape ended did he allow himself to look at her.
Her eyes searched his, desperate for answers. Answers he couldn’t give.
He ejected the cassette. “That’s Smythe, all right. But there are no threats on the tape. Nothing I can use to convince a judge to grant an arrest warrant.”
Her gaze fell to the desktop. “I must not have pressed the button soon enough.”
“What did Smythe say? Exactly. Think.”
“He said I should tell you that Patrick is your son.”
He gritted his teeth. If Smythe hadn’t demanded she tell him about Patrick, he never would have known. That was clear enough. And that knowledge stabbed into him with the force of a sharp blade in malevolent hands.
He clamped down on the bleeding. What Alyson would or wouldn’t have done wasn’t important anymore. “What else did he say?”
“That he’d be in touch with us. And he’d let us know what to do next.”
Dex grimaced. That’s what he was afraid of. Leveling her with hard eyes, he shook his head. “I’m not playing a part in any twisted puppet show Smythe has planned.”
Her eyes widened. Leaning toward him, she gripped the edge of the desk. “If we do what he says, he’ll give Patrick back.”
“Smythe has no intention of returning Patrick.”
“But he said—”
“I don’t care what he said. He’s not going to give Patrick back to us, even if we play by every one of his damn rules. Smythe wants to humiliate me, to dominate me, to win. That’s what he’s about. Not fairness. Not keeping his word.”
“He’ll—” She swayed, clutching the desk for balance.
Dex circled the desk. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and propped her up.
After guiding her a few steps, he lowered her into a chair. The soft scents of chamomile and roses surrounded him, a bittersweet memory. Love. Trust. Things he’d once hoped they had together. Things they’d never really had at all. Finally he straightened, spun away from her and paced across the floor.
She gripped the chair’s leather arms and held on. “We can’t take the chance, Dex. We have to do what he says. I can’t lose my baby.”
“We aren’t going to lose him.” Though his voice barely rose above a whisper, it rang with the determination he felt deep in his gut. “I know Smythe. And what I don’t know, I’m damn well going to find out. I’ll get our son back. If you want to help, you’ll have to trust me for once in your life.”
Alyson raised her chin. Tears glittered in her eyes, making them sparkle like emeralds. Her lips tightened. “Why? What do you want me to do?”
Just as he’d thought. She didn’t trust him any more now than she had the day he’d told her that her father was selling plea bargains. An ache crept up his spine and settled in his shoulders. More than a year had passed since he’d last seen Alyson. His feelings of bitterness and betrayal should be dead and buried by now. But they’d returned the moment he’d opened the door tonight and seen her distraught face. Smelling her scent and hearing the vulnerability in her voice had only deepened the ache.
And now to learn he had a son. They had a son. Together…
Pressure constricted his chest, tighter than a steel band. He shoved the thoughts and feelings aside. He couldn’t let himself think about what having a son might mean. He had to focus. He had to formulate some kind of plan. And the first part of that plan was to ensure Smythe didn’t have the opportunity to strike again. “I want you to go home. Try to get some sleep. I’ll arrange for plain clothes officers to watch your house. Smythe and his sources will never know they’re cops.”
Her eyes grew wide with alarm. “You can’t shut me out. I need to help find Patrick.”
“I’m not shutting you out. I’ll call as soon as I learn anything.”
She raised her chin in that determined way of hers and shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You need to be home in case Smythe calls.”
“I forwarded the calls to my cell phone. If he calls, I can answer wherever I am.” She dipped a hand into her pocket and pulled out a phone as an offer of proof. “I know you don’t want to have anything to do with me, Dex. For God’s sake, you didn’t before you knew I didn’t tell you about Patrick. But I can’t just sit at home knowing that monster has him. Surely you can understand that.”
He could understand far too much about how Alyson must be feeling, even after all this time. That was the problem. And it would be even more of a problem if Smythe had figured that out. And from all indications, he had. “If you stay home, I can arrange for protection. The police can turn your house into a regular fortress. If you don’t, you’ll make things much tougher.”
“Protection? For me?”
“Yes, for you. You said Smythe used chloroform on you when he broke into your house tonight.”
“Yes.”
“I’m betting he was also carrying rope.”
He could tell by her expression the answer was yes. She shook her head hard, her auburn hair lashing her cheeks. Obviously she’d guessed where he was going. And she didn’t want to hear it.
Tough. She had to face facts. He had. “Smythe isn’t a kidnapper, Alyson. He isn’t a man who targets children, either. He rapes women. He was planning to get his revenge on me by attacking you.”
Though she seemed to know what was coming, a shudder still shook her.
He fought the need to rush to her side again, to encircle her with his arm and let her lean against him. “Are you okay?”
Gripping the chair until her knuckles turned white, she nodded. “So you think he came after me and stumbled on Patrick.”
“That’s what I’m guessing. He must have figured out Patrick was my child, and that kidnapping him would present an even greater opportunity for revenge.”
“But if that’s true, why didn’t he rape me, too?”
“Do you remember what he did to those other women?”
She pulled back in her chair as if flinching from her own thoughts. “He kidnapped them.”
Dex nodded. “He took them to a private place—a place no one would discover them—and he raped them for hours. His last victim was attacked for days. I’m sure he wanted to do the same to you, but he couldn’t handle kidnapping both you and Patrick at the same time.”
“So he settled for Patrick.”
“For now.” Dex looked her straight in the eye. He hated being this blunt, but Alyson had to face the facts. Smythe had Patrick, and she was next. And who knew what other targets Smythe had on his list? No one or nothing Dex had ever cared about was safe.
“But how did he know about us, Dex? We didn’t exactly announce our relationship from the rooftops. How would he know that you and I were once involved? That Patrick was your child?”
“That’s one of the things I’m going to find out.”
Straightening her spine, she set her chin. “So where do we start?”
“We keep you safe. I’ll post officers outside your house twenty-four seven. And I’ll look into getting you an alarm system. I’ll keep you updated on everything I learn. I promise.”
“No. I’m not going to stay trapped in my house. I don’t care what Smythe is planning. I have to do something to get my baby back.” Tears spiked her lashes, but her voice carried a note of determination.
“Alyson—”
“I mean it, Dex. If you don’t let me help you, I’ll figure something out on my own.”
The thought of Alyson by his side made his shoulders ache like a son of a bitch. But he couldn’t let her walk around without protection.
Thrusting himself to his feet, Dex paced across the room. Damn Smythe and his sick revenge. Damn the governor and his pardons. And damn Alyson for failing to tell him he had a son until the baby was kidnapped.
But most of all, damn him for letting her latest betrayal wound him all over again.
He strode for the door without looking at her. He couldn’t. Looking at her would only make him want to take her into his arms again when he would be far better off to run in the other direction. “There are fresh sheets in the guest room closet. We’ll leave for the prison where Smythe was incarcerated first thing in the morning.”
LOCATED IN GRANT COUNTY, a skip and a jump from the Mississippi River, the Grant Correctional Institute loomed on one of the few plateaus in an area of sharp hills and sweeping gorges—Wisconsin’s unglaciated region. Alyson had always thought the area was beautiful. But today she hardly noticed the scenery whizzing past the car window. She hardly noticed anything except the man sitting next to her, his hands gripping the steering wheel.
Tall and fit, he looked every bit as appealing as the first time she’d met him. The pull of attraction had reached into her chest and grabbed her by the heart when her father had introduced her to his protégé, the newest assistant district attorney in the office. But it wasn’t until she’d talked to him later that night, until she’d seen his intelligence and humor and idealism that she’d lost her heart.
And she still hadn’t recovered it. Of course now it was bloody and wounded. Damaged goods. As was she. Especially in Dex’s eyes.
No matter what had happened between them, she could never regret their time together. She couldn’t even regret her shattered heart. Because if it weren’t for Dex, she wouldn’t have Patrick. And any kind of pain was worth enduring for one moment of holding her little boy in her arms.
Patrick. Her arms ached to hold him. When she’d awakened this morning, she’d felt more alone than the day her father died. Even the months of hiding her pregnancy, going through childbirth and waking at night to care for Patrick hadn’t been as hard. Now Patrick was gone. Now she had no one. And no way of ensuring that her baby was safe and fed and cared for.
She focused on the road ahead. “What are we looking for at the prison?”
“Someone helped Smythe smuggle his blood out. That’s the only way it could have ended up under that woman’s fingernails—the woman who claims she was raped.”
“So we check the prison sign-in sheet?”
“And phone logs. I want to see who he’s been talking to.”
“I assume you’ve questioned the alleged rape victim?”
“The police talked to her when she reported the rape. But she disappeared right after your lab discovered the blood was a match with Smythe’s. Area sheriffs’ departments have been looking for her ever since. That leaves only the person who smuggled Smythe’s blood out of prison.”
“Maybe that person was her. What was her name?”
“Connie Rasula. And it’s doubtful she did the smuggling. The police found nothing to tie her to Smythe. And they looked hard, believe me.”
She could imagine. No one in law enforcement liked to be thrown a curve ball like the one they’d been tossed. If they couldn’t clear up the question about Smythe’s DNA double, DNA evidence could be called into question in courtrooms across the country. But to her, that possibility paled in comparison to the prospect of never seeing her son again. “So we find out who visited him.”
Dex nodded, his gaze glued to the twisting road ahead. “And hope we come away with some answers.”
“Hope? That isn’t very reassuring.”
“It’s all I have. If you have a better idea, spit it out.”
Alyson bit her bottom lip and stared out the windshield as Dex pulled the car up to the outer gate of the prison. Rolls of razor wire glinted in the sun. Sharp and brutal and unforgiving.
She shivered. Just the thought of venturing inside the gates with the kind of men she did her part to put behind bars every day—men like Andrew Smythe—made her skin crawl. But if it meant finding a name on those visitor logs or phone records that would lead them to Patrick, she would walk a gauntlet through the cell blocks alone.
She glanced at Dex. Jaw set and eyes narrowed, he looked ready to fight the world. Despite his anger toward her, despite his judgment of her, despite all that had happened between them, he was with her now. And he would fight with her to find their son.
For the first time in over a year, she didn’t have to fight alone.
DEX LEANED against the stainless-steel counter in the prison vestibule and paged through the visitor’s log, scanning for Smythe’s name in the Inmate Visited column. Alyson stood beside him, close enough to read the names scrawled on the battered pages. Too close. Her body heat made the already warm day that much warmer. Her sweet scent teased his senses. And when she moved her head, wisps of auburn hair trailed across his arm.
Having her sleep under his roof last night had been pure torture. Even though the master bedroom was on the main floor of his house and the guest bedroom was upstairs, she’d been far too close to afford him any semblance of a night’s sleep. And even when he did manage to shut his eyes, dreams of the son he’d never seen haunted him.
He forced his attention to the names in the sign-in book. He had to concentrate. He had to find a lead, any lead, that would take him to Patrick. They’d found nothing of note in the prison’s telephone logs. Only an occasional call to Smythe’s lawyer. He prayed these pages would reveal something. Because they had nothing but Smythe’s word that Patrick would be safe. And Dex knew just how little Andrew Clarke Smythe’s word was worth.
Alyson grasped Dex’s hand before he could turn the next page, her fingers clamping around his. “There.” She pointed to Smythe’s name on the form. Tracing her finger along the page, she landed on the name of the visitor. She exhaled. “Oh. Lee Runyon again.”
Dex nodded, noting several more entries for Runyon on the following pages. “He must have been working on an appeal.” As Smythe’s attorney, Runyon had flooded the appellate court with a constant stream of paperwork on Smythe’s behalf. All the appeals money could buy. It was no wonder he had to telephone and visit his client often.
“That doesn’t mean Runyon isn’t helping Smythe in other ways. Making contacts for him. Helping with arrangements,” Alyson said.
Dex had never liked Runyon much. No district attorney did. He won far too many cases he should lose. He had a way of charming the jury and creating a smoke screen around his client that blurred the truth. And he had an overactive ego. But that didn’t mean he was a criminal. Or that he would cross that line, even for a client with as much money as Smythe. “I suppose it’s possible.”
“But not probable?”
“No. Not unless he has a damn good reason for risking everything he’s built.”
Alyson nodded, but the narrowed look of suspicion in her eyes didn’t let up.
Dex skimmed over the remaining entries in the visitor’s log. He flipped page after page until there were no more pages to flip. Besides Runyon, no other name showed up as a visitor for Smythe.
“Wait.” Alyson grabbed his hand again. “There’s a page missing from the book.”
Dex paged back. Sure enough. The page numbers skipped from twenty to twenty-two. He raised his eyes to the corrections officer behind the bulletproof glass. “There’s a page missing from this visitor’s log. Do you know anything about this?”
The stocky woman shook her head. “No, sir. But I’ll check for it back here.” She disappeared into the office where the visitor logs were archived.
“Wait a second. Maybe we can…” Alyson leaned over the book, straining for a closer look. A wisp of silky hair trailed across Dex’s hand. Her breast pressed against his arm. Heat stirred inside him. Heat he didn’t want to feel. He stepped back, allowing her free access to the log.
She examined the page, her freckled nose mere inches from the paper. Suddenly she shot up from the book and turned to him, her face animated, her eyes glowing like green embers. “There’s an impression of the writing from the missing page on this page. Look.” She moved to the side, allowing Dex to examine the paper.
Sure enough, inkless lines had been etched into the page by the force of the pen writing on the now missing page. Adrenaline spiked his blood. He opened his briefcase, located a pencil and tore a blank piece of paper from a legal pad. Placing the paper over the log page, he traced across it lightly with the pencil until the etched impressions came into focus.
Although the lines jumbled with other writing in the log, he could make out the name “Smythe” in the middle of the page. He kept tracing. Another name took form in the visitor column of the log. His jaw clenched.
“What?” Alyson looked from his face to the book. “What do you see?” She leaned close.
Dex gritted his teeth. “There might be a logical explanation. There had better be a logical explanation.”
Alyson turned wide eyes on him once more. “For what? I can’t make it out. Whose name do you see?”
Dex traced the name with his finger. “John Cohen.”
Alyson’s eyes widened.
Of course she would know the man. John Cohen had worked in the district attorney’s office longer than Dex had. Nearly as long as her father, Neil Fitzroy. And John and Fitz had shared political affiliations.
Alyson swallowed hard and shifted her feet, soles scraping against waxed tile. “Why would John Cohen visit Smythe?”
Dex shoved memories of Neil Fitzroy’s scheme to sell justice to the back of his mind. For now. Maybe John had a good reason for visiting Smythe. Maybe there was also a good reason for the page with his signature on it to go missing. Maybe. But the ache in Dex’s shoulders said something different. “That’s what I’m damn well going to find out.”
Chapter Four
Alyson walked through the door Dex held open and into the jumble of aromas and laughter in the Schettler Brew Pub. Her stomach knotted with tension. She clutched her hands together in front of her to keep them from trembling.
She scanned the crowd of faces. A pair of dark eyes met hers. Eyes that belonged to the receptionist at the district attorney’s office. Maggie Daugherty had joined the district attorney’s office only a year before Alyson’s father died, but she had always been so open and friendly, Alyson used to think of her as a sister. Or at least a friend. But judging by the way Maggie narrowed her eyes at the sight of Alyson and Dex together, Alyson’s fears about venturing into the brew pub were more than justified. No doubt other D.A.’s office employees would lose their smiles when they spotted her. The pariah. Neil Fitzroy’s daughter.
She shouldn’t have come here. Shouldn’t have come to the spot Dex said had become the afterwork hangout for A.D.A.s—assistant district attorneys. She should have done as Dex wanted and let him handle questioning John Cohen.
No.
She raised her chin and stepped forward into the pub. She would face whatever scorn she had to, to find Patrick. Even the contempt of the whole damn town. And if John Cohen was carrying on her father’s legacy, if he had helped Smythe in exchange for money, she would face that, too.
Dex leading the way, she marched across the hardwood floor and wound through tables and patrons until they reached a vacant spot at the bar. Jovial laughter and conversation jangled in her ears. Laughter and conversation that stilled as she bellied up to the bar.
Trying to appear oblivious to the stares, she focused straight ahead. Two men worked behind the gleaming oak bar, tapping the famous Schettler beer and chatting with patrons. But one of the men wasn’t a bartender by trade. Not by a long shot. The tall, dark-haired Texan serving drinks and hobnobbing with his fellow district attorneys after work was one of the best and most dedicated prosecutors in this or any other county. And he used to be her father’s right-hand man.
The man her father had tried to kill.
“It’s about time you joined us down here, Dex.” Dillon Reese’s smoky drawl rose over the laughter and hum of voices in the bar. “You haven’t been in here since my wedding.”
Dex gave him a nod. “I don’t want to do too much socializing with the troops, you know. Bad for the image. Pretty soon they’ll start seeing me as human.”
“No one would make that mistake.” Dillon lowered one lid in a teasing wink.
Alyson was surprised by the camaraderie forged between the two men. They hadn’t seen eye-to-eye on anything before her father’s death. Of course, her father had nurtured the rift between them.
Dillon gave Dex one last grin before focusing on her. The smile fell from his lips. “Howdy, Alyson.”
Somewhere she found the strength to nod. “Dillon.”
A thousand beats of her heart passed before he spoke again. “The Hefe Weizen is wonderful. You should try it. Jacqueline really outdid herself on this one.” His lips stretched into a gentle smile. An accepting smile. “On the house.”
Alyson’s breath escaped in a tortured whoosh. Dillon Reese had a heart the size of his native state if he could welcome her after what her father had tried to do to him and the woman he had since married. “Thanks, Dillon.”
As if she’d heard Alyson’s thoughts, Jacqueline Schettler Reese rounded the corner into the bar, flashing her husband a wide smile. Even though she was dressed in a boxy apron, the round shape of her pregnant tummy was clearly visible.
Neil Fitzroy’s crimes against Jacqueline were the worst of all. He and his accomplice, Buck Swain, had tried to kill Jacqueline’s daughter to keep her quiet after she’d witnessed her own father’s murder. Alyson had never met Jacqueline. And even after Dillon’s reaction, she didn’t want to meet her now.
“Dillon, I have to go pick up Amanda from her gymnastics class. Can you hold down the fort until the night shift gets set up?”
“Sure thing, darlin’.”
Jacqueline’s gaze landed on Dex. She gave him a big smile and poked her husband in the shoulder. “Haven’t you gotten Dex a beer yet, Dillon? It isn’t often we have the district attorney himself here. How are you doing, Dex?”
Dex returned her smile. “Nice seeing you again, Jacqueline.”
Jacqueline’s gaze moved to Alyson. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Alyson held her breath. She would give anything to crawl into a hole about now.
Dex didn’t even flinch. “This is Alyson Fitzroy.”
Jacqueline’s blue eyes widened. “Alyson—”
“Fitzroy.” Alyson pulled herself up, ready to take Jacqueline’s contempt square in the face. “I’m sorry for the hell my father put you through.”
Jacqueline took a deep breath. When she exhaled, a polite smile lifted the corners of her lips. “Thank you. I’m sorry for the hell he put you through, as well.”
Alyson’s throat closed. Since her father’s death she’d felt ostracized from her former life, her former friends. People who knew she was Neil Fitzroy’s daughter had cooled toward her as if her father’s sins had tainted her. She’d lost more than Dex and her father the day Neil Fitzroy died. She’d lost who she was—who she used to be.
Never had she expected to be welcomed by Dillon and Jacqueline. Never had she dreamed she’d be welcomed back into the fold by the two people her father had hurt most. “Thank you.”
Dex looked down at her.
A chill sank into her bones.
Jacqueline’s and Dillon’s acceptance was small comfort when faced with the hard line of Dex’s mouth and the judgmental glint in his eye. She’d lost so much. So much that she’d never get back. No matter how much kindness strangers showed her, she could never regain the relationship that had meant the most to her. She could never undo the choices she’d made.
“SO WHAT will it be? Dex? Alyson?” Dillon drawled. “Two pints of Hefe Weizen have your names on them.”
Dex held up a hand. He really should take Dillon up on the offer sometime, try to do more to smooth over the rift that had been between them. But now wasn’t the time. “We’ll have to take a rain check, Dillon. I need to talk to Cohen. Thought he might be down here. Have you seen him?”
Dillon nodded and pointed to a booth in the corner. Tall and thin, John Cohen hunched over a beer alone. Perfect. He nodded his thanks to Dillon and started across the pub.
Alyson walked close enough behind for him to catch the ghost of her scent, even over the aromas of cigarette smoke, fried food and beer. He’d tried to talk her out of coming to the Schettler Brew Pub. As angry as he was with her, he didn’t want to see her hurt. And he’d been sure coming here, digging into old wounds Fitz had left in his wake, would only hurt her.
He blew a relieved sigh through tense lips. Leave it to Dillon and Jacqueline to push aside their hatred for Fitz to embrace his daughter. Now if Dex could only push aside his concern for Alyson and focus on getting answers from Cohen, maybe they would get somewhere.
Reaching his destination, Dex folded himself into the booth, opposite Cohen. He moved over enough for Alyson to slide in next to him. “Hello, Cohen.”
Cohen looked up from his beer. A smile touched with the fine edge of cynicism spread over his lips. “Dex. Finally coming down from your ivory tower to join in the fun?”
Cynicism wasn’t uncommon in the district attorney’s office. God knew they dealt with enough nasty people doing nasty things to one another to get a bit jaded over the years. But John Cohen elevated cynicism to an art form. Dex gestured to the bar. “The fun looks like it’s going on over there, Cohen. Not here.”
“Are you saying I’m not fun?” Cohen shrugged. “What else is new?” Cohen’s gaze flicked to Alyson. He sized her up with deep brown eyes that had no doubt melted a few women’s hearts along the way. This time, the smile that spread over his lips was one of pure amusement. “I’ll be damned. I haven’t seen you in a long time, Alyson.”
Alyson smiled and nodded. “We have some questions for you, John.”
Cohen crooked a brow and glanced from Alyson to Dex. “So the two of you are a ‘we’ again?”
“No,” Dex said without looking at Alyson. He couldn’t bear to see the hurt look on her face. He leveled a pointed stare on Cohen. “We just came from the prison in Grantsville.” Dex paused, watching Cohen’s eyes.
If Cohen had any reaction, he hid it well.
Dex pushed on. “It seems you’ve been out there recently, as well.”
“And you want to know why?” Cohen’s gaze darted away from them and landed on a waitress walking toward him with a plate stacked with a burger and thick wedges of fried potatoes. “About time. I’m famished.”
The waitress served the food. “Would you like to order?”
“No. Thank you,” Dex said without taking his eyes from Cohen.
Next to him, he could feel Alyson shake her head. Satisfied everyone was taken care of, the waitress left.
“So why were you at the prison, Cohen?”
Cohen paused, seemingly sorting through his memory. “What prison was that?”
Dex balled his hands into fists beneath the table. If the A.D.A. didn’t start giving him some straight answers, he’d either have to charge him with conspiracy or beat him to a bloody pulp.
“The one near Grantsville. Grant County,” Alyson supplied.
“Oh, yeah. I went there to talk to Smythe, your rapist the governor just let loose.” He eyed Dex, one corner of his lips crooking into a cynical grin. “But of course, that’s why you’re asking, isn’t it?”
“What did you talk to him about?”
Cohen took a bite of burger. “Damn. I forgot to ask for ketchup. I can’t stand being without ketchup.” He set the burger on his plate and opened the briefcase set beside him on the table. Reaching inside, he pulled out a handful of foil packets containing ketchup. Ripping open a packet, he spread the condiment on his burger. He ripped open another packet.
One more evasion and Dex would have to risk an assault charge. “Put down the damned ketchup, Cohen.”
John Cohen raised surprised eyes to his face.
“What did you talk to Smythe about?”
Sighing, Cohen set down the ketchup and shook his head. “Nothing earth-shattering. Same old, same old. Remember that assault case where one convict jumped another in the county lockup? Just about killed the guy?”
“I remember.”
“Smythe was a witness. It happened a while ago, back when he was still in jail, before he was transferred to Grantsville.”
Dex leaned forward in the booth. “The page you signed in on in the visitor’s log was missing. Do you know anything about that?”
Cohen bit into his burger. When he finished chewing, he shrugged. “What is all this about, Dex? You think I helped Smythe stage that recent rape? Shades of Fitz?”
Dex tried not to notice Alyson squirm beside him. She raised her chin in that damned determined way of hers. “Did you?”
Cohen turned his smile on her. “Although I can almost understand Fitz using the system for his own profit, I do still have enough scruples left not to unleash a rapist scumbag like Smythe on the public. To answer your question, no, I didn’t help Smythe.”
Dex narrowed his eyes. He wanted to believe Cohen. But then what one wanted to believe and what was true often weren’t the same thing. God knew, he should have learned that lesson long ago. He’d had enough teachers.
He glanced at Alyson. Her forehead knotted with worry. Her lips tightened into a line.
Following Dex’s gaze, Cohen watched her, as well. “Sorry to disappoint you, Alyson. But I guess I’m not as bad a guy as you thought.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that, John. We just need to find out who did help him.”
“Hmm. Maybe I can help, after all.”
Dex tensed. He leaned over the table. “Spit it out, Cohen.”
“There was a hearing for the jail assault case a week ago, and I had to spring Smythe for a day to testify. He had a girlfriend in the gallery. At least, she seemed like a girlfriend, smiling at him, lots of eye contact when he was on the stand. Sick woman.”
“Who was she?”
“That’s the interesting part. I ran into her one other time this week. She testified in one of my cases. Her name is Jennifer Scott.”
Alyson gasped.
Dex turned to her. “Do you know Jennifer Scott?”
Alyson nodded and swallowed hard, as if trying to find the courage to face something she didn’t want to face. “She’s a forensic chemist. She works with me at the crime lab.”
“HAVEN’T YOU HEARD?” Valerie D’Fonse looked down her generous nose at Alyson, a conspiratorial grin on her face.
Alyson wasn’t in the mood for guessing games. Last night had been hell. She’d spent it in Dex’s guest room again after he’d refused to let her stay in her home until a security system was installed. She’d have rather stayed alone. He hadn’t said two words to her all night. He’d merely retreated into his library with the telephone. So much for his promise not to shut her out.
She bit the inside of her bottom lip. She didn’t know if she could stand one more night without Patrick safe in her arms. She needed answers. And fast. She’d come straight to Valerie for just that reason.
A brilliant but lonely forensic chemist, Valerie had made other people’s business her hobby. She spewed gossip the way Fourth of July fireworks spewed sparks. And that’s why Alyson was circulating in the crime lab’s break room to learn what she could learn. “I’m so out of the loop, Valerie. I haven’t heard anything. What happened?”
Valerie’s eyes sparkled as if all the gossip she packed into her mind was gunpowder and by asking the question, Alyson had just set flame to fuse. “Jennifer Scott doesn’t work here anymore.”
Alyson’s heart plummeted. “Why not?”
“She quit two days ago. Didn’t even give notice.”
“Two days ago?” How coincidental that Jennifer should quit the very day Smythe was released from prison. “No notice?”
“Not a peep. I didn’t even know she was going to quit. But that’s not the good part.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward Alyson over a table littered with candy wrappers and a paper bag lunch. “You’ll never guess where she got a job.”
Back to guessing games again. “Where?”
“Think big company, lots of bucks. And they don’t hand out jobs like candy at a parade. Let’s just say she must have an in.”
“Where, Valerie? Where did Jennifer get a job?”
Valerie grinned, her whole body tensed with the excitement of being the keeper of gossip in demand. “Smythe Pharmaceuticals.”
The name hit Alyson like a well-aimed fist. Now they were getting somewhere.
DEX COULD TELL Alyson had news the moment she poked her head into her lab where he was sitting in front of her computer, waiting for her. Her eyes sparkled like emeralds under a jeweler’s glass. Her cheeks flushed with color. The way she used to look, back when their biggest troubles were deciding which restaurant to choose among the dozens flanking State Street.
So different from the drawn look of fear she’d worn for the past few days.
She motioned him across the hall and into the vacant trace evidence lab and shut the door behind them, leaning back against the barrier.
“So?”
“Jennifer Scott quit two days ago. She has a new job.”
The news zinged along his nerves like an electric charge. “Don’t tell me. Her new job is with Smythe Pharmaceuticals.”
“Bingo.”
Dex reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “Do you have a number for them?”
Alyson nodded. She disappeared from the lab for a few moments then reappeared with the Madison phone book.
Dex paged through the thick book to locate the number and punched it into his phone.
“Smythe Pharmaceuticals,” a professional-sounding woman’s voice answered.
“I’d like to speak with Jennifer Scott, please.”
A pause stretched over the line. “I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name.”
“Are you saying a chemist by the name of Jennifer Scott doesn’t work there?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Thank you.” Dex punched the end button and slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket. “Damn. Is your gossip guru known for inventing stories?”
Alyson watched him, the sparkle gone from her eyes, a furrow between her delicate brows. “No. Usually she just sticks to repeating them. But why would Jennifer tell Valerie she had a job at Smythe Pharmaceuticals if she didn’t?” Alyson stuffed her hands into her pockets. “Unless Jennifer expected to be offered the job but the offer never came.”
“We won’t know until we find her.”
“So now we have two missing persons. Jennifer Scott and the alleged rape victim, Connie Rasula.”
He nodded. “That’s what it looks like.”
“I suppose we’d better get looking.” She turned and grasped the doorknob, but didn’t pull it open. “Wait.”
“What is it?”
She spun to face Dex, the sparkle back in her eyes. “Maybe we don’t have to find Jennifer to learn whether she stole that sample of Smythe’s blood from the crime lab.”
“I’m listening.”
“When we take a blood sample for DNA or serum testing, we have to add a preservative to it so the liquid blood doesn’t coagulate and start to decompose like blood normally would. The preservative is called E.D.T.A.”
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