Enright Family Collection by Mariah Stewart

expectantly.
    The detective wrote it down on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “India, I really don’t think—”
    “Look, Barry, it won’t hurt for me to talk to her. I want this guy.” She dialed, then looked up at him. “I’m not going to try to talk the parents into letting their son testify, if that’s what you’re worried about. I would not jeopardize a child’s welfare for the sake of a conviction. I just want to talk to him, maybe get just enough information so that we won’t need to have him on the stand—Hello, Mrs. Powell? This is India Devlin, Paloma district attorney’s office. I’d like to stop in this afternoon to speak with you about Axel Thomas …”
    By seven-thirty that evening, India had met with the Powells and, through careful questioning, discovered that there may have been another witness. The Powell boy had described a woman who had been leaning out the second-floorwindow of an apartment overlooking the park at the same time that he had seen Thomas take off with the little girl. India called Singer and asked him to try to track her down and see if he could get a statement.
    Returning to her office, she read through piles of statements that had been taken while she had been in Devlin’s Light pertaining to yet another case before pulling out the files on the Thomas case. She would need to refresh herself on the facts if she was going to go to trial on Monday.
    Welcome back. India rotated her neck in a full circle to unkink it and glanced at the clock. Eleven-forty. The night had gone by in a blur. It was too late to call Aunt August and Corri. She would have to call them first thing the next morning. She packed three files into her already overstuffed briefcase. Frowning when she could not get the brown leather satchel to close, she pulled out one file, tucked it under her arm and hoisted her shoulder bag over her head to hang from her neck, thereby freeing up both hands for carrying.
    The hallway was darkened except for the lights over the doors and the exit sign. Walking past the double doors leading to the annex housing the city morgue always gave India a severe case of goose bumps, and tonight was no exception. Her heels made muffled popping sounds on the old tiled floor as she struggled down the hallway to the elevator, where she pressed the button for the lobby with an index finger. The old lift groaned as it slowly ascended, reminding her once again that the slowest elevators in Paloma were, in fact, in City Hall.
    “Can I give you a hand there, Miss Devlin?” Paul, the night guard, who pronounced her name Dev-a-lin , rose from his wooden chair, which stood right next to the elevator, halfway between the front and back doors of the building.
    “Oh, I’ll make it to the car if you can open the back door for me.”
    “Certainly, Miss Devlin.” He nodded and walked briskly, with purpose and importance, to the back door, his heavy ring of keys clanging loudly in the silent building.
    “Thank you.” India smiled at him gratefully as he held the door open for her to pass through. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
    “I’ll just wait here till you get to your car.” Paul stood on the top step, his right hand on his gun, as if daring some unseen felon to jump out at India. As she reached her car, he called to her across the quiet night: “Miss Devlin …”
    “Yes?” she called back as she hit the security button on her key ring to open the car door with a “beep.”
    “I was sorry about what happened to your brother.”
    “Thank you, Paul. So was I. Thank you for remembering him.” India opened the rear door on the driver’s side and threw her heavy bundles onto the seat and slammed the door. She slid in behind the wheel and turned the key. Waving to Paul, the silent, shadowy sentinel who still watched from the top step, she pulled out of the parking lot and onto the rain-slicked streets of the city that had been her home for the past five years.
    Paloma was a