The rockers drew his interest, and he crouched beside one of them, running his hands over the wood, looking it over. The workmanship was flawless, the design sleek yet homey. A carved inscription on one of the curved runners caught his eye. SAB.
Scarlett A. Bishop. She made these. ‘Shit,’ he whispered. ‘She’s really good.’
‘Thank you,’ she said from behind him.
He looked over his shoulder to see her standing there, her phone in one hand, the wrapped-up leash in the other. She’d shed the tactical vest and her weapons, leaving her in a thin top that showcased every curve. ‘What does the A stand for?’ he asked.
Her dark brows lifted. ‘You mean that didn’t come up when you ran my license plates?’
He refused to be embarrassed about that. ‘It probably did. I was so relieved that the Land Cruiser belonged to you that I didn’t ask for anything else.’
One corner of her mouth quirked up in an almost-smile. ‘Anne. The “A” is for Anne.’
‘Good Catholic middle name,’ he said, and was startled to see her almost-smile fade as her eyes went expressionless.
‘The Bishops are a good Catholic family,’ she said bitterly, then turned on her heel and disappeared down the hallway, leaving him to wonder what he’d said. Because he’d obviously touched a raw nerve.
He heard water running, and thirty seconds later she reappeared carrying a tackle box with FIRST AID neatly printed on the side. ‘Have a seat on the sofa and I’ll take care of your head. Then I really need to start working on finding Annabelle. I ran a search of all the churches within a two-mile radius around the Anders house. There are over forty of them, assuming Tabby attended a church nearby. If we expand the search area, we’re up in the hundreds.’
Marcus didn’t think he should tell her that he’d already tasked Gayle with calling the churches in the area, asking if they had a parishioner named Annabelle. Gayle had found nothing so far. But another thought had occurred to him during the mostly silent drive to Scarlett’s house. While she sat the tackle box on a scarred end table, he sat down on the blue couch as she’d directed, then took out his phone and brought up the website he used for background checks. But before he started his search, he noticed that the contents of her first aid kit would put most medics’ packs to shame.
‘Are you preparing for the apocalypse?’ he asked, pointing to the box.
‘Close enough,’ she said, taking out a pair of latex gloves. ‘I’m the babysitter of choice for all my nieces and nephews. They can play rough with each other, so I’m fully certified in CPR – adult and infant – and have taken the basic paramedic’s training. No kid’s getting hurt on my watch.’ She glanced at him as she pulled on the gloves. ‘Do you have any latex allergies?’
‘Nope. My body is one hundred percent latex tolerant. Especially the retractable parts.’ He waggled his brows, which made her laugh.
She looked over his shoulder at his phone. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I was thinking about Annabelle and Tabby, how their paths might have crossed and how Tabby would get in touch with her.’
‘They go to church together and she used that cell phone she was trying to reach when you found her.’
‘Maybe. Probably, even. But what if it’s simpler than that?’
She sat on the arm of the sofa, so close he could smell her hair. ‘What do you mean?’
He forced his mind to clear, a nearly impossible task with her so near. ‘Whoever took the Anderses – kicking and screaming – didn’t know to look for Tabby, which means Chip kept her a secret. Do you think he’d let her go to church?’
Scarlett bit her lower lip and Marcus swallowed a groan. She shook her head. ‘No, you’re right. Vince Tanaka had our resident Internet guru do a background on Tabby. I saw the email when I was out walking Zat. The search came back saying that Tabitha Anders’s last known address was outside Boston, but the address was obviously a fake. Chip was hiding her for some reason. So if she and Annabelle didn’t meet at church . . .’
‘Maybe her name is Church.’ He typed in Annabelle Church and the Anderses’ zip code. Fifteen seconds later, he had a match. Fifteen seconds after that, Google had given him the connection between Tabby and Annabelle. ‘Annabelle Church lives three blocks away from the Anderses and is a regular golfer at the country club.’ He turned his phone so that she could see the article and photo that Google had provided. ‘She won last year’s seniors’ tournament.’
Scarlett leaned closer to his phone, filling his head with her scent. But she didn’t seem to be aware of the effect she had on him, absorbed only in reading the article on Annabelle Church.
‘This says that she won the tournament despite suffering from a seizure disorder that’s left her unable to drive a car. She drives to the course in this tricked-out golf cart using the bike path.’ Taking off the gloves, Scarlett pulled up a map of the Anderses’ neighborhood on her phone. ‘The bike path runs through the trees behind the Anders house. You’re right. I guess I made that harder than it needed to be.’
‘It was only a guess, Scarlett.’
‘A damned good one. Let me get this name to Isenberg. She can send a squad car and someone from Children’s Services to get the baby and bring Ms Church in for an interview.’ She got up from the arm of the sofa and gave him a hard nod. ‘That was good thinking, Marcus. Thank you.’
Her approval warmed him inside even as he cooled on the outside when she stepped away from the sofa to make her call. He sighed heavily, knowing that he’d screwed his chances of getting close to her again as she tended the cut on his head.
Finding Ms Church had been the right thing to do, but too many times the right thing sucked ass.
Eighteen
Cincinnati, Ohio
Tuesday 4 August, 4.15 P.M.
‘That was good investigating,’ Lynda Isenberg said when Scarlett gave her Annabelle Church’s address.
‘I can’t claim credit,’ Scarlett told her. ‘Marcus O’Bannion found her.’
‘Oh. I see.’ A very long pause. ‘Anything you need to tell me, Detective Bishop?’
Scarlett winced. Lynda only called her ‘Detective Bishop’ when Scarlett had done something wrong. Kind of like being called ‘Scarlett Anne’ by her parents. Both pissed her off. ‘No, ma’am.’
‘I see. Are you sure? I understand he was there with you at the crime scene.’
‘Yes, ma’am, he was. And yes, I’m sure. I have no conflict to report.’ Not yet, anyway. All they’d done was kiss a little. Well, okay, that kiss wasn’t exactly little. But Marcus wasn’t a suspect and it wasn’t like they’d declared their undying love for each other. Either of those would be a conflict of interest. ‘I have to feed and walk my dog but I’ll be in the office by the time you have Ms Church brought in to CPD. See you then.’ She hung up before Lynda could point-blank ask her if Marcus was with her, only to have her cell phone start chiming with an incoming call.
Scarlett grimaced at the caller ID. When it rained, it poured. She hit accept and swallowed her sigh. ‘Hi, Dad.’
On the sofa, Marcus’s eyes widened with interest.
‘Scarlett Anne, are you all right?’ he demanded. ‘I heard you were shot at.’
Scarlett let the sigh out. Being part of a family of cops meant never having any privacy on the job. Her father had particularly good sources of information – he and Lynda Isenberg were old friends. ‘I’m fine, Dad. Not a scratch on me.’
‘I heard you were in the line of fire because of a reporter.’ Her father’s disdain was unmistakable.
‘He’s a publisher, not a reporter.’ It was a fine distinction, but a critical one. A publisher who did the right thing even when it meant losing a scoop. ‘And actually I don’t have a scratch because of him. He pushed me out of the way. Took all the flying splinters and rock himself, shielding me.’