Operation Bassinet. Joyce Sullivan

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СКАЧАТЬ been returning Riana Collingwood to the nursery after a late night feeding, with a stun gun.

      Within minutes the kidnapper had bound the nurse and made his escape with the baby through a hole he’d cut in the second floor window to circumvent the hospital’s state-of-the-art alarm system and the high-tech baby identification bracelets equipped with receivers.

      By the time the staff realized the Collingwood heir had been stolen, the kidnapper had been long gone.

      “I’ve already assigned some men to do a background check of the family. I’ll ask them to dig up what they can on the husband’s death. Brad Shelton would have been in a perfect position to switch the babies. If a man walked into a hospital carrying a baby, who’d question him if he walked out carrying one?”

      “We’re on the same wavelength, G.D.”

      “Will you be able to get the husband’s DNA sample?”

      “I’m on it.”

      “Excellent. We don’t want any doubts as to the identity of the child the kidnapper has. I’ll be waiting for you and Mrs. Shelton at the hotel.”

      The Guardian disconnected the call, but not before Mitch heard the distinct cry of a baby in the background and the soothing murmur of a woman’s voice.

      That was odd. He hooked his cell phone back onto his belt and went to check on Stef. Had The Guardian been with another client? Or did G.D. have a personal life?

      G.D. was a man cloaked in mystery and Mitch was determined to at least learn his name. A man who didn’t know who he was working for was a fool of an employee.

      He’d already had a buddy in L.A.P.D.’s Scientific Investigative Division lift G.D.’s fingerprints from the paper on which he’d written his ridiculously high offer to Mitch. But all he’d discovered was that The Guardian’s lily-white fingerprints weren’t on file. Figured.

      Mitch walked down the hall and found Stef and Keely in the tiny master bedroom, which was crammed with a walnut double-bed, a matching chest of drawers and a sewing machine in a cabinet. Keely was petting scraps of orange fur on the floor near the sewing machine and calling them “kitty” while Stef rummaged through the closet.

      Mitch took in the intriguing view of Stef’s jeans-clad bottom as she reached for the jumble of clothes, luggage, shopping bags and shoe boxes piled up on the closet shelf. “Careful,” he warned as Stef stood on her tiptoes and tugged on a shoe box.

      Too late.

      A landslide of shopping bags, sweaters and shoe boxes slid off the shelf in slow motion, raining down on her.

      Keely giggled and clapped her hands. “Oopsie, doopsie, all fall down, Mommy!”

      Stef rolled her eyes and Mitch heard the tears hovering in her voice. “It’s not supposed to all fall down on Mommy, Kee. Now we have a real mess on our hands.”

      Shoulders hunched, Stef plucked a royal-blue ball cap from the debris field and held it out to him, her face flooded with color that made her seem even more vulnerable. Mitch was consciously aware he was treading into no man’s land, becoming too hypersensitive to her emotions. He gave himself a mental kick in the butt.

      “Will this do? Brad wore it for company ball games.”

      Careful to allow her some dignity, he kept his gaze averted from her moist eyes and examined the inner headband of the Office Outfitter’s cap. It was stained with sweat. “This’ll do.” He gestured at the mess on the closet floor. “Since you’ve already got your luggage out, pack a bag for you and your daughter.”

      “Why?”

      Mitch made the mistake of looking at her. Her green-gold eyes were as dangerous as a riptide and fringed with long sooty lashes. He was none too happy that he was making personal observations about the length of her eyelashes. He was too seasoned a cop to let himself get sucked in by a pair of pleading eyes. The anguish in Teresa Lopez’s eyes when he’d informed her that her granddaughter was dead would haunt him to his dying day.

      Don’t think about Carmen or Theresa, he told himself. This is another case. Another chance to save a child.

      Cold detachment firmed his voice. “You’re coming with me. Keely’s the Collingwood heir. You’re both under my protection until this is over.”

      THE KIDNAPPER WAS CAREFUL to arrive after dark to avoid being seen. Aunt Helen and Uncle Fred’s farmhouse was set back from the road, but you couldn’t be too careful.

      Aunt Helen answered the door, her worn face brightening into a smile. “Well, this is nice, two visits in a month. I was just washing up the dinner dishes. Let me cut you some cake. It’s chocolate with butter-pecan frosting. Emma put the pecans on all by herself.”

      “Then I definitely want some. Where is she?”

      “Helping Fred feed the rabbits out back.” Aunt Helen stopped in the dingy hallway papered with faded blue windmills and folded her gnarled fingers in prayer, her voice a fervent whisper. “Have you heard from him?”

      “Sorry, but I got an e-mail from Emma’s mother’s sister. She was looking for her sister and didn’t know about Emma.”

      “Did she offer to take her?”

      “I didn’t ask in so many words, but I told her about Emma and offered to send a picture. I’m hoping once she sees her she’ll be open to the idea of looking after her.”

      “That would be wonderful. I can’t understand how adults can just abandon their children and their responsibilities. Fred and I love her dearly but we won’t be able to take care of her forever. Fred’s getting more and more forgetful. Yesterday he forgot he’d turned the kettle on and nearly started a fire.”

      The kidnapper made sympathetic noises. What Aunt Helen didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Killing her son had been an unpleasant, but necessary precaution. And frankly, the world was better off without that shiftless SOB. “I’m sure he will turn up eventually. You know I’ll do whatever I can to help with Emma’s expenses. I’m just sorry I can’t come by more often.”

      Aunt Helen shook her head. “We know you’re busy.” She made shooing motions toward the kitchen. “Now come sit down and tell me what’s going on in your life.”

      The kidnapper winced, the question striking too close to home. Everything would work out according to plan as long as The Guardian cooperated with the ransom demand. “Didn’t you say something about cake?”

      Aunt Helen cut a thick wedge of cake and served it on a chipped china plate.

      The fork rattled as boots clomped up the back steps and the rear kitchen door burst open.

      Emma, barely as tall as Uncle Fred’s knee, entered first in a navy-blue jacket, her blue eyes glowing beneath a dark fringe of bangs and her cheeks like polished apples. “Gamma, we’re ba-ack.”

      “So you are, little duck. Take off your jacket and your boots,” Aunt Helen said with a smile, rising to help her. “And come say hello to your daddy’s cousin.”

      “Quack-quack,” Emma sang back vociferously.

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