Racing Against Time. Marie Ferrarella

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      Sympathy flooded through her as she said, “Your housekeeper was killed this morning.”

      Brent stared at her as if she’d just spoken in tongues. He’d just seen his housekeeper, what, two, two and a half hours ago. How could she possibly be dead?

      “Delia? Killed?” he echoed in blatant disbelief. “How?”

      Beneath the composure she could see that he was genuinely upset. Was it just shock? Or was there something more going on between the judge and the crumpled woman who had been reduced to a chalk outline by the cruel whimsy of fate?

      “Hit-and-run.”

      The words were only marginally sinking in. And then fear sprang up, huge and hoary, seizing him by the throat.

      Rachel.

      “What time?”

      Callie blinked, thinking she’d misheard the question. “Excuse me?”

      “What time?” he demanded again, his voice rising, booming about the small chambers. “What time was she killed?”

      Callie thought back to the coroner’s estimation. “Approximately eight o’clock.”

      Approximately. Delia always liked to be early. Had the housekeeper gotten his daughter to school before eight and been on her way home when the car had struck her?

      Or—

      His mind couldn’t, wouldn’t go there. Not if it didn’t have to.

      As if he were poised on a spring, Brent suddenly turned from the woman in his room and began dialing the phone on his desk. Halfway through, he realized he’d transposed two of the numbers. Swallowing a curse, telling himself that everything, at least for Rachel, was all right, he began dialing again.

      “Judge, who are you—”

      Callie didn’t get a chance to finish her question, to ask the judge who he was calling. The expression on his face as he looked up at her stopped her dead, sucking out her very breath.

      There was controlled terror in his eyes.

      “She was taking my daughter to school. I want to find out if Rachel is in her classroom.”

      Very gently Callie placed her hand over his to stop him. The man needed more information before he called anyone. He deserved it.

      Callie hated this, absolutely hated this. But he had to be told. “We found your daughter’s backpack at the scene.”

      Brent could feel the blood draining out of his face as he looked at the woman who was discharging the nail gun straight at his heart.

      “Where is she?” Everything inside of him was shaking, and it was all he could do not to allow it to take complete control.

      Was he going to go into shock? She looked toward the chair behind him. Maybe she could get him to sit down. “Your Honor—”

      He felt like shaking her, grabbing her waist and squeezing out of her the words he needed to hear. Why was she putting him through this? Why this torture in slow motion?

      “Where is she?” he demanded again, his voice bouncing along the walls of the small, austere chambers like captive thunder.

      Callie hated this feeling of helplessness. She knew everything took time, that good police work was far removed from magic or the quick solutions that the public was spoon-fed via TV dramas. But that didn’t keep her from wishing she had answers for this heart-broken father standing before her.

      She curbed the urge to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, knowing it wouldn’t be appreciated. Knowing he’d push it away.

      “We don’t know,” she told him honestly. “We think she might have run off when she saw your housekeeper struck by the vehicle.”

      Brent shut his eyes, searching for strength, for resolve. He shook his head. “She wouldn’t do that.”

      But even as he said the words, his brain demanded: How do you know? How do you know what a traumatized five-year-old would do? He knew he was operating on hope and nothing more.

      Get hold of yourself, man. She’s fine. She probably ran off to school. It’s Delia who you should be concerned about.

      Brent thought of the bright young woman who’d formed such a bond with his daughter. Delia had come to him with excellent references and a real hunger to make a difference in someone’s life. Rachel had been that someone.

      Still, denial was part of survival and it was strong. He looked at Callie, a kernel of hope popping up. Maybe there was some mistake. “Are you sure it was my housekeeper?”

      She knew what he was asking, what he was hoping. Her heart went out to him. He hadn’t had an easy time of it, and she admired the fact that he was a single father. Like her father had been for the past fifteen years.

      Grimly, Callie took out the plastic-encased wallet that the CSI agent had inserted into a bag at her request and given to her. Delia Culhane’s wallet had been placed inside, opened to the woman’s driver’s license. Callie held it up for the judge’s benefit.

      “Oh, God.” He took it into his hands, staring at the woman’s face through the plastic. The license hardly did her justice. It didn’t capture the sparkling eyes, the laughter that his daughter was so quick to respond to. “Did she suffer?”

      Callie continued to watch every nuance that passed over the judge’s face. She felt like a voyeur and hated it, but this was her job. To read people and look for telltale signs that gave them away. She didn’t have to like it.

      “Coroner said she died instantly.”

      At least that was something. Brent nodded, handing the bagged wallet back to her, his eyes on the telephone on his desk. He was dialing again the moment Callie took the wallet from him.

      Callie tucked the wallet back into the wide pockets of her jacket. She indicated the telephone. “Are you calling your daughter’s school?”

      He nodded, then raised his eyes to hers. Maybe she was right. Maybe Rachel had run off, hurrying to the school to notify someone about what had happened. She was a bright little girl, a feisty girl, far older than her young years. Rachel would know that Delia would need help. He pressed the last button on the keypad.

      “It’s all I can think of.”

      It was a logical next move. “Where does she—”

      He heard the question begin, but his attention suddenly shifted to the voice that was coming from the other end of the receiver. A high, sweet voice that was asking him how she might direct his call.

      “Principal Walsh, please.” He struggled to sound calm. “Yes, this is an emergency.”

      Brent shut his eyes as a click and then silence greeted him. The operator had placed him on hold. Placed his very life on hold.

      He СКАЧАТЬ