Finding Her Son(6)

“What did you do, Bradford?” Detective Dane Tanner, his temporary supervisor, stalked into the room. “You’re hobbling like an old woman.”

Mitch stiffened at the truth in Tanner’s words. “Nothing. Just a little twinge. What are you doing here this late? I thought high-powered detectives kept banker’s hours.”

“Ever hear of a police radio? I keep tabs on my guys, especially those wet behind the ears like you. I heard from dispatch about your adventures tonight—you bagged this guy, Ghost, for targeting young girls. Good job.” Tanner’s face twisted into a scowl. “Unfortunately, he broke out of holding. A couple of street thugs created a diversion and the perp fought his way out. Put two of our guys in the hospital.”

Mitch shot to his feet. “He got away? You get his prints?”

“No such luck, but we have an APB out on him.” Tanner shook his head. “He’s a dangerous guy. You took a big risk going in alone.”

“I tried to get backup.”

“Yeah, you had a fourteen-year-old kid call 911 and then try to find Vance—who’d just gone off duty, by the way. Better men than you haven’t walked away from psychos like Ghost.”

“Point taken,” Mitch said. His father, Paul Bradford, had been paralyzed in a shootout five years ago. Being a cop and carrying a weapon hadn’t protected him. And his dad hadn’t been trying to fight on an injured leg.

“I hope so. I understand investigating’s not your gig. But until you pass the SWAT physical, you’re stuck with us. You follow our rules. One of which is not to go in without backup. The other is not to reveal your identity to a suspect. In your case, Emily Wentworth.”

“Detective—”

“Don’t even try to tap dance. Lives were on the line. I get it, but you better comprehend how lucky you were.” Tanner crossed his arms, staring Mitch down with a warning the ex-special forces officer clearly expected to be heeded. “Did you at least salvage the Wentworth case?”

“She noticed my leg. She offered to help me with rehab, and I’ve got another angle I can work to stay near her.”

Mitch ran down the Kayla Foster situation, and Tanner smiled. “It sounds like you’re in. We might make a detective of you after all.”

“Over my dead body,” Mitch growled.

“I hope not. Your dad would kill me.” Tanner bent closer, his expression deadly serious. “I want this collar. Someone orchestrated Eric Wentworth’s death. His murder case was stone-cold until his mother discovered that bank account in Emily’s name. It’s a lot of money and puts a whole new spin on the investigation. I want to know how the wife’s involved, and I’m not backing down this time.”

“If Emily’s guilty, why would she offer to help me?”

“To gain an ally in the office. To get intel on what’s happening in the investigation. If she arranged the hit-and-run to take out her husband, then she’s willing to do anything—including slitting her own throat—to make herself look like a victim. You and I both know that’s not as uncommon as it should be.”

“You’re reaching. Emily almost died. Her voice will never be the same. And my neighborhood contacts don’t know squat about her being involved in anything, except she’s a do-gooder.” Mitch knew he’d been mistaken in the past, but he couldn’t get past his feelings about Emily. If he could trust them. “What if we’re wrong? What if she’s just trying to find her son?”

“Could be.” His boss’s jaw tightened. “But she knows something. And someone tried to kill her tonight. And that someone wasn’t Ghost. I want an explanation.” His eyes were cold. “There’s dirt there. I can smell it. Find the proof. Whatever it takes.”




NO MORNING SUN PEEKED through the winter clouds closing in on the cemetery. The day should be dreary. Nothing good should happen on December fifth. Ever again. Emily ran her fingertips over the engraved inscription on the wall of stone. Eric Wentworth. Beloved son and father.

“Beloved husband,” she whispered the words his family had denied her and wiped away a single tear.

She stood alone just inside the open archway of the Wentworth Family Mausoleum, the large marble temple as cold and unforgiving as Eric’s family. They’d made their feelings perfectly clear with his marker. They had never accepted her. They blamed her for Eric’s death and Joshua’s kidnapping. If only she could remember that night. Something more than headlights, screams and a hooded man.

A gust of icy winter wind buffeted against her, and she stuffed her hands in her pockets. She should know what happened to her child. The diaper bag had been left in the car, but Joshua and his car seat were gone. “I still haven’t found our baby, Eric,” she said in the husky voice her husband wouldn’t have recognized. “I’m sorry.”

A lonely bell tolled from afar, and just as the tones died, a rustle of grass fluttered. She tensed. She’d had a sense all morning someone was watching her—again. For weeks she’d fought her instincts, but after last night’s attack, she didn’t doubt the feelings.

A looming shadow crossed the side of Emily’s face. “You don’t belong here.”

Emily shivered at her mother-in-law’s sharp words and turned slightly. Victoria Wentworth looked the perfect, elegant role of grieving mother, her black veil hiding her expression and eyes Emily knew were accusatory.