“Lotta good that’ll do,” Nana mumbled.

  “It’s better than nothing,” I said.

  “Not by much.”

  “I’m hungry,” Jasmine said. “We have pizza in the fridge. How ’bout I start a fresh one? Supreme okay?”

  “Fine by me,” I said. “I’m sure your nana isn’t finished with me.”

  “I’ll take my tender ears to the kitchen.” Jas left, sock feet silent on the carpet.

  “I gave my word I’d keep the task-force business confidential, but there’s still a lot to tell,” I said. “Let me get my glass of wine and we’ll chat.”

  Nana grunted and rose to refill her glass. “Wine,” she grumbled. Nana thought a real woman should drink bourbon.

  When I returned to the rec room, I curled up on the couch and said, “If you think Jasmine is listening or you see her shadow at the door, let me know.”

  “She is a nosy little thing.”

  “She’s a lot like you.”

  Nana smiled and seated herself back in the lounger. “Flattery will get you nowhere. Spill it.”

  So I did. I left out a lot, but most of that Nana could figure out. “They still think the kidnapper is one of us, don’t they?”

  “This family’s a handy target. Cooperate. As soon as they rule us out, they’ll move on to likelier suspects. But wear your gun, okay?”

  Nana lifted her shirttail to reveal a little .38 in a belt holster. ’Nuff said.

  I saw Nana off, her lithe form striding through the woods. I watched until the security light came on at her house, and went off again. When the house phone rang I answered it, her number on the display. “I’m safe,” she said. “From now on, we stay in better contact. You get called in to work, you let me know. E-mail me your schedule.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Night.”

  The phone clicked off. Nana wasn’t much on unnecessary niceties. When the phone rang much later, my daughter and I were having a picnic on my bed, the pizza stone on a pad of towels, her cola and my wine on the nightstands. This time it was Jim. As I answered, I took a quick peek at the TV. Letterman was on, but the little Amber Alert icon was still up in the corner of the screen.

  “Hi. How’s it going?”

  “Not well,” he said. “You know we got an Amber Alert out.”

  “I have the TV on. Any progress?”

  “The kid’s pet dog chased the car. It just dragged in, half-dead of exhaustion. Tracker dogs are on the way to follow the dog’s scent. Maybe it’ll give us a direction.”

  “The girl in the hospital?” I asked, careful not to say Mari’s name in front of Jas.

  “Crying. Not talking. The parents were on vacation at the beach. We just got them and they’re on the way. DSS let us talk to her, but she’s not cooperating until her parents get here.”

  I could hear the frustration in his voice and felt a twinge of remorse. I had been responsible for DSS getting to Mari. But she had needed legal protection. She was just a kid. Had they suggested she not talk to the cops? If I hadn’t gotten in the way, would the cops know the identity of the kidnapper? Would the latest little girl be snuggled down in her bed?

  Guilt snaked its way through me. Before I could reply, Jas slid her piece of pizza back onto the stone and took the phone right out of my hand. “Jas!”

  “Hey, Mr. Big Tough Cop. My mama’s name and picture made the evening news. I don’t know anything about being a feeb, but that just seems stupid. Now the whole world knows who she is. A quick Internet search will show her address and heaps of personal information. You can even get an aerial shot of the house and farm. Who’s gonna protect her if this nut job decides to go after her?”

  I ripped the phone from Jas and glared at her. Hard. She just glared right back. Jas was once again trying to protect me. Which felt weird, but at the same time gave me a glow. “Sorry about that,” I said into the phone.

  “Don’t apologize. She’s got a point. But there’s not a lot I can do about it.” I heard the phone muffle and then he said, “Listen, I gotta go. When you’re in town, let’s do lunch. Call me.”

  “Do lunch?” I repeated.

  And he clicked off.

  “Men,” Jas said, disgusted. I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing.

  He watched the news off and on, late into the night, the Amber Alert, the police updates, the flyovers by the TV news helicopter, its camera shooting not much of anything except dark homes and streets. They didn’t have a clue. Not one. He had bandaged his ankle and was holding an ice pack on his knee, alternating ibuprofen and Tylenol for the pain and swelling. Sitting there, the sound muted, he mostly watched for shots of her. Blond, a bit plump for his taste. But…A mother of a daughter. A widow. Ashlee Davenport. She had to be lonely. Had to be.

  15

  Wednesday Morning

  J as landed on the bed, waking me just before seven with a blare of the television. “Wake up, Mama. Jim’s on TV.” I rolled over and shoved the hair out of my mouth and face. A sexy sleeper, I’m not.

  I rubbed my eyes and focused on the set in the armoire across from the foot of the bed. I expected to see a press release, Jim giving a statement. Instead I saw aerial footage of cops in SWAT gear and plainclothes cops in vests, cars with blue lights flashing, all surrounding a small house in the pale light of dawn.

  Jas slid from the bed and pointed to a tiny figure in the corner of the screen, kneeling in weeds, protected behind an old Jeep on cement blocks. My heart leaped into my throat. It was Jim. He held a long-barreled gun across the hood, his head bare in the early light. “Don’t cops wear protective headgear?” I said, more insult than question. Idiots.

  “They’ve been in a standoff for half an hour in Blythewood,” Jas said, climbing back into the bed with me. “When they tried to storm the place, the guy fought back and shot a cop. He’s been taken to the hospital.”

  Blythewood was near I-77 and Carolina HealthCom, where any injuries would be taken. I picked up the phone and dialed directly into the Majors. Sharon, a nurse I knew in passing though we worked opposing shifts, answered. “Hey. This is Ashlee,” I said. “I’m watching the TV. You guys got enough coverage or you need me to come in?”

  “We got it covered, Ash. Dr. Rhea-Rhea is here and she’s got everything under control. It was a slow shift, till now.”

  “The cop?” I knew better than to ask. The federal crime of breaking patient confidentiality and all. But sometimes there were ways around a law.

  “We got a thoracic surgeon on the way in. We’ll call if we need you. Later.”

  “Bye,” I said as unnecessary adrenaline shot through me. Thoracic surgeon meant the cop had taken a chest shot. If he’d been wearing his vest—and I didn’t know any cops who went without these days—that meant the round or rounds had penetrated below the vest and traveled up through the gut into the chest, or that the round had hit at a downward angle through the shoulder. Worst-case scenario, the shot had penetrated under the arm and through from side to side. Usually such a shot damaged both lungs and a good part of the circulatory system.

  I wanted to be there. I wanted to help.

  But Jas snuggled up next to me and I patted her arm, taking comfort in the warmth of her body heat and the scent she wore, the same night-blooming jasmine from Revlon that she had given all her female relatives at Christmas. My gal’s signature scent.

  “He’ll be all right, Mama,” she said as she turned up the volume.

  I knew she was talking about Jim, and realized my eyes were on the cop as the news helicopter hovered over the scene. My heart was pounding an irregular rhythm; my skin felt clammy. It was an intense reaction, and it both startled and distressed me. When had I become so attached to Jim Ramsey?

  As if she felt my fear, Jas laced her fingers through mine and squeezed gently.

  The TV reporter’s face appeared as a small inset in the screen. “This is Jacqueline Omera at WIS, with an update on the breaking news in Blythewood. Police have traced a man who they are calling a person of interest in the kidnapping of several young girls in the Columbia area to this neighborhood. Charles Wayne Smith lives in the small house centered on your screen.” Jacqueline’s expression was taut with the tension of the moment, her eyes direct and piercing.

  “When police went to his house early this morning to bring him in for questioning, the man opened fire, injuring one officer, who has now been taken to Carolina HealthCom. According to one source, the local police believe Smith may have a young girl, kidnapped last night, in the house with him, which is why they have called in a hostage negotiator and FBI backup.” The reporter looked to the side and said, “We now have an update from our reporter on the scene at Carolina HealthCom. Let’s go to Jermaine Joiner at the scene. Jermaine?”

  The view from the helicopter vanished, replaced by a scene of the CHC parking lot, the ED entrance in the background. “Jermaine Joiner here, Jacqueline,” the smart-looking black man said, making me think of a singing duo—Jacqueline and Jermaine. “As you can see in the background, police and ambulance have arrived with the injured cop, whose name has not yet been released. We do know it was a uniformed officer, who was working the night shift.”

  The scene refocused beyond Jermaine to the back of an ambulance where paramedics lifted a stretcher down to the tarmac. A fresh, unstained sheet had been placed over the body, and before the man’s head could be seen, a cop unfolded a blue plasticized paper sheet, to give him privacy. Other cop cars, lights flashing, raced into the lot and cops poured into the entrance. A distraught, dark haired woman was handed from cop to cop with care and she disappeared inside, too.

  The camera centered again on Jermaine. “Hospital spokeswoman Rebecca Cooke assures us there will be a press release as soon as possible, and we will be there to cover it. Back to you, Jacqueline.”

  The helicopter scene reappeared and the reporter rehashed all the breaking news, speaking in headlines, as if everything she said was capitalized and of world-shaking importance. Which, to me, it was. Jas muted the TV and put the remote in my hand. “Want some tea? Breakfast?”

  My daughter needed to baby me, so I nodded. “Sure. Tea. Cereal would be nice. And I diced some fruit a few days ago. If it’s still good, I’d like that, too.”

  “Coming up.” Jas clattered away, once again assuming the role of caretaker. Guilt flitted through me. A daughter wasn’t supposed to take care of her mother until the old lady hit eighty at least—and in the Chadwick family, eighty was young. But Jack’s death had changed the dynamics of our relationship and I still wasn’t sure how to change it back. Or even if I should try. I should probably watch Dr. Phil or Oprah or one of the other TV advice specialists.

  Jas returned a moment later, carrying a tray of cereal, hot tea in big mugs and fruit. We had breakfast in bed and watched the stalemate on TV until the helicopter had to refuel and the morning shows came on. Jas headed off to school, her little .32 in her glove compartment and her cell phone strapped at her waist. Unable to sleep, I got up and rambled around the house.

  I hated housecleaning and usually did little except straightening clutter, laundry and making the beds. The housekeepers came twice a month—which was tomorrow—and shoveled us out, but unfortunately, the clothes still piled up. I spent the morning putting things away so the cleaning crew could get at the filth, did laundry and kept an eye on the TV for news reports. I was staring at the screen when WIS interrupted a lunchtime soap with more breaking news.

  Jacqueline had given way to another well-coifed twenty something, this one blond and blue-eyed, standing before the news desk. “We are back with breaking news, a story WIS has been following all morning.” She quickly recapped. “We have been informed that police believe a young girl, kidnapped last night, may be inside the house. A source tells us—Oh!” She pressed her earpiece. “Police are moving in. The reporter from the scene sees white smoke from the window, perhaps tear gas. Can we get this uploaded to our viewers? Yes, we have our news chopper at the scene, and aerial footage is available.”

  The scene over the house in Blythewood appeared, the view from straight overhead in what had to be a perilous position for the camera person. On the ground, police moved toward the house, weapons outstretched in two-handed grips, knees bent to present smaller targets and to give them better balance.

  White smoke poured from a window at the front of the house. Two State Law Enforcement Department cops carried a battering ram. By the time they reached the back door, four SLED officers had hand-holds on it, and I saw the ram swing forward hard. Local and state cops in gas masks and SWAT gear disappeared inside. I was happy to see Jim behind the Jeep, where he was relatively safe. I knew that meant he was waiting for the all clear, which came faster than I anticipated.

  I muted the annoying newscaster and watched the scene unfold with only the sound of the dryer going and the screaming inside my head. Jim was seventh inside and second outside, a lanky male in tow. The man was thrown to the ground and cuffed at hands and feet, another cop staying with the prisoner while Jim ran back inside.

  I prayed they would find the kidnapped girl safe. Unharmed. But no one else came out of the house. No DSS van appeared on the scene. No ambulance moved in, lights flashing.

  I hit the mute button, restoring sound as the anchor’s face appeared again, her blue eyes wide and stern, a look an older woman might have pulled off but which made the blonde look about ten years old, a child playing TV anchor. “Our remote reporter, Jermaine Joiner, has left the hospital where veteran police officer Stanford Rickoff is still fighting for his life, currently in surgery to repair what we have been told are life-threatening injuries. Jermaine is now at the scene of the shootout. Jermaine?”

  Jermaine was already speaking when his face appeared and the sound kicked in. “—is no indication that a hostage has been found. Police are swarming through the house, and we can hear the sound of walls and doors being kicked in. The officers are all over the property, searching both outbuildings and fanning out through the low scrub around the house.” An officer appeared, one hand out to shield his face or to block the camera and we heard him ask Jermaine to move twenty yards farther down the street. The camera remained rolling as the news crew complied. In the background, other news vans were briefly visible, also rolling down the street.

  Jim raced from the house to an unmarked car with a man in the driver’s seat, radio to his ear. The car started and Jim left the scene, still talking, now on a cell phone. He turned away from the camera as the car passed, but the crew caught the side of his face, his expression clear. Fury. Failure. I knew no girl had been found. Frustration flowed over me.

  I turned the television off and finished the laundry before dressing for the scheduled task-force meeting. I wondered if they would let me in, or if the cops would appear on my doorstep to harass me again first. Not that I really minded. My words to Nana the night before had been trite but true. As soon as the cops ruled out my family, they could move on to more likely suspects.

  I made it to the FBI building on Westpark Boulevard by 2:45 for the 3:00 meeting, parked a block down the street and went inside. On the way, I spotted Steven’s SUV parked on the street and Jim’s Crown Victoria behind secure fencing in the employees’ lot.

  At the desk inside, I presented ID to the woman behind the glass and waited. And waited. And waited. And finally got mad. At 3:15, I dialed Jim’s cell. He answered, and before he could speak, I said, “It would have been a kindness and just plain old good Southern manners to let me know I was banned from the meeting.”

  Jim said, “Uhhhh.”

  “Well, that’s a lively rejoinder. I am banned from the meeting, I take it?”

  I heard a door close and the ambient noise quieted. “Sorry. Ash, I’m really sorry. Someone was supposed to call you.”

  “Uh-huh. Bow-tie Emma tell you that?” Without letting him answer, I went on. “I have better things to do than to be jerked around by a woman with jealousy issues.”

  “Simmons and I have never—”

  “Not jealous about you and me. Emma is jealous about any woman stomping on her turf. You tell her I said so. And you tell her she better stop wasting my time.” I snapped the phone shut, nodded to the officer, who was hiding a smile, and shoved open the door to the outside. I was nearing the sidewalk when my phone rang again. I glanced at the display and flipped the phone open. “She got me an apology yet?”

  “Dinner at the Cock’s Feathers at five?” Jim asked, naming a restaurant in an old building down in Five Points, a new one that catered to the alumni crowd of the University of South Carolina, whose football team mascot was a fighting cock. “I missed lunch and I’m starving.”

  “Emma?”

  “Will not be joining us. Something about her dinnertime repartee gives me indigestion.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

  “That’s better. I’m sorry about Simmons. I’ll speak to her. Now, how about dinner? To make it up to you?”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll meet you there. But I’m on call, so if something comes up I may have to cancel.”

  “Same here. Check your messages. Bye,” Jim said.

  Feeling lighter of heart, I got in my old SUV, wasting the quarters still in the parking meter and drove out toward I-77. Twenty minutes later I was walking into the disinfected confines of CHC’s Majors Emergency Department, knowing I could finish paperwork if I needed an excuse to be here. It was my good luck that Lynnie Bee was working. She had been pulling double shifts to deal with what she described as “a small debt crisis,” and lately I had found her working in the ED more often than not. Lynnie would dish the dirt. I stuck my head in her door and asked, “How’s our patient?”

  Lynnie jerked her head in a “come in” gesture. Closing the door behind me, I came inside and sat down. “Mari Gabrielle Bascomb is resting quietly after a morning of hysterics and a parade of cops that would make Macy’s proud,” Lynnie said, putting down her pen and sipping from a cup. She made a face and I knew her coffee had gotten cold. “That boy they caught? If he’s a kidnapper, I’m Herbert Hoover.”