Carmella.”
Like the small terrier she had as a pet, Carmella hung on. “Judge, does this have to do with that police detective this morning? Is anything wrong?”
Natural instincts had him wanting to say no, that everything was fine, but the news would be out soon enough. He tried to convince himself that this was for Rachel’s good. The more people who actually knew, the better. It was just that it was so hard for him to admit that he was not in control of a situation and this time, he was so out of control it scared the hell out of him.
“My daughter’s—” What could he say? Missing? No, she was more than missing, she was stolen. No amount of denial was going to change that. He began again, his mouth dry, the words sticking to the roof like bits of white, dampened bread. “My daughter’s been kidnapped, Carmella.”
“Oh, my God, Judge.” The receiver echoed with her concern. “I…I don’t know what to say. Is there anything I can do?”
Yes, find my daughter. Show me the bastard who did this so I can kill him for ever touching my little girl.
Brent had no idea how he managed it, after the admission he’d just made, but he kept his voice calm. “I’ll let you know.”
“I’ll call the other judges right away,” the woman promised. “And please, let me know the moment there’s news. I’ll pray for her.”
“Thank you.”
Brent hung up. His secretary’s promise meant nothing to him. Prayer. What good was that? He couldn’t pray, couldn’t take solace in thinking a merciful God was listening. A merciful God wouldn’t have allowed Rachel to be taken in the first place. Wouldn’t have looked the other way while Delia’s life had been snuffed out like a candle.
The study echoed an all pervasive silence.
God, but he missed her. Unless it was late at night, even with the door to his study closed he could always hear Rachel. Her laughter would snake through the vents and find its way to him. He’d taken that for granted. It was one of those small joys of life that you didn’t realize was there until it no longer was.
He couldn’t stay here, he decided abruptly. Couldn’t just mark time, waiting for the phone to ring, for some kind of word to trickle down to him. If he stayed here like this any longer, he was going to go crazy.
Brent reached for the telephone again.
Callie blew out a breath as she sank down at her desk. She was tired, but at least something had been accomplished. The nanny had checked out. If Delia Culhane had a life beyond taking care of the Montgomery child and house, it was better hidden than that of a double agent’s.
The past few hours had been spent talking to the teachers at Rachel’s school, to Rachel’s pediatrician and to the woman who ran the ballet classes that Rachel attended twice a week without fail. Everyone had nothing but glowing words to say about the woman who, until this morning, had taken care of her. Delia Culhane had no vices, no bad habits, apparently no outside friends. Her only hobby seemed to be watching musicals. There was a full library of old MGM musicals, both videotapes and audio CDs in her room.
Callie had one of the people on the task force get her a record of all out-going and in-coming calls from the Montgomery residence for the past three months. Every one checked out. Nothing unusual. A couple dozen calls to or from the courthouse, a few calls from what she surmised were Rachel’s friends and one call to the pediatrician.
It didn’t appear that the judge had much of a social life, either, unless he conducted all his calls by cell phone. She was going to have to remember to get those records, as well.
Callie frowned, making a notation to herself in her well-worn notepad.
This pretty much did away with the nanny connection. Eliminating Delia meant that the woman’s death had been an accident. The nanny was probably killed trying to protect Rachel, possibly running after the vehicle when the driver had suddenly surprised
Like the small terrier she had as a pet, Carmella hung on. “Judge, does this have to do with that police detective this morning? Is anything wrong?”
Natural instincts had him wanting to say no, that everything was fine, but the news would be out soon enough. He tried to convince himself that this was for Rachel’s good. The more people who actually knew, the better. It was just that it was so hard for him to admit that he was not in control of a situation and this time, he was so out of control it scared the hell out of him.
“My daughter’s—” What could he say? Missing? No, she was more than missing, she was stolen. No amount of denial was going to change that. He began again, his mouth dry, the words sticking to the roof like bits of white, dampened bread. “My daughter’s been kidnapped, Carmella.”
“Oh, my God, Judge.” The receiver echoed with her concern. “I…I don’t know what to say. Is there anything I can do?”
Yes, find my daughter. Show me the bastard who did this so I can kill him for ever touching my little girl.
Brent had no idea how he managed it, after the admission he’d just made, but he kept his voice calm. “I’ll let you know.”
“I’ll call the other judges right away,” the woman promised. “And please, let me know the moment there’s news. I’ll pray for her.”
“Thank you.”
Brent hung up. His secretary’s promise meant nothing to him. Prayer. What good was that? He couldn’t pray, couldn’t take solace in thinking a merciful God was listening. A merciful God wouldn’t have allowed Rachel to be taken in the first place. Wouldn’t have looked the other way while Delia’s life had been snuffed out like a candle.
The study echoed an all pervasive silence.
God, but he missed her. Unless it was late at night, even with the door to his study closed he could always hear Rachel. Her laughter would snake through the vents and find its way to him. He’d taken that for granted. It was one of those small joys of life that you didn’t realize was there until it no longer was.
He couldn’t stay here, he decided abruptly. Couldn’t just mark time, waiting for the phone to ring, for some kind of word to trickle down to him. If he stayed here like this any longer, he was going to go crazy.
Brent reached for the telephone again.
Callie blew out a breath as she sank down at her desk. She was tired, but at least something had been accomplished. The nanny had checked out. If Delia Culhane had a life beyond taking care of the Montgomery child and house, it was better hidden than that of a double agent’s.
The past few hours had been spent talking to the teachers at Rachel’s school, to Rachel’s pediatrician and to the woman who ran the ballet classes that Rachel attended twice a week without fail. Everyone had nothing but glowing words to say about the woman who, until this morning, had taken care of her. Delia Culhane had no vices, no bad habits, apparently no outside friends. Her only hobby seemed to be watching musicals. There was a full library of old MGM musicals, both videotapes and audio CDs in her room.
Callie had one of the people on the task force get her a record of all out-going and in-coming calls from the Montgomery residence for the past three months. Every one checked out. Nothing unusual. A couple dozen calls to or from the courthouse, a few calls from what she surmised were Rachel’s friends and one call to the pediatrician.
It didn’t appear that the judge had much of a social life, either, unless he conducted all his calls by cell phone. She was going to have to remember to get those records, as well.
Callie frowned, making a notation to herself in her well-worn notepad.
This pretty much did away with the nanny connection. Eliminating Delia meant that the woman’s death had been an accident. The nanny was probably killed trying to protect Rachel, possibly running after the vehicle when the driver had suddenly surprised
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