Nora Roberts - High Noon

"He buy that?"

"He did not. But he loved her."

She sat at a light. Over the hum of the car's AC, she heard the clipclop as a mounted cop turned into the park.

"He'd also seen the news reports on this stolen baby girl, and put it together. He tried to talk to his wife-Brenda Anne Falk, age thirtyfour. She wouldn't listen. Couldn't he see how that baby had her eyes?

He called her sister, whom she had never seen on that trip south, and her parents, who were frightened and concerned. Then, not knowing what else to do, he tried to take the baby away from her."

Phoebe stopped in front of a tidy office building. And continued when Sykes joined her on the sidewalk. "She got her husband's thirtytwo revolver, pointed it at his head and told him to put her baby down, that it was time for her nap."

"Off the tracks."

"Well off." Inside the building, Phoebe pushed the button on the elevator. "He was afraid the baby could be hurt, so he put her down, tried to reason with his wife, who proceeded to shoot him."

"Off the tracks and over the cliff."

"Yes. Fortunately, she hit the meat of his bicep for a through-and through. She locked herself in with the baby, shoved the dresser in front of the door. He called the hotline number he'd seen on the TV bulletins. And shortly thereafter, I came on as negotiator."

"The baby make it through?"

"Yes, the baby came out fine. Screaming-hungry by that timebut right as rain." She could hear it, Phoebe realized, she could hear that baby crying in her head. "Brenda Anne Falk, however, did not make it through. After over two hours of negotiations, of believing I was getting through to her, she told me that she thought it was time she gave up after all. And by giving up, she meant putting that thirtytwo to her temple and pulling the trigger."

She stepped off the elevator, checked the names on the doors along the corridor, then opened the one marked COMPASS TRAVEL.

It was a small operation with two desks on opposite sides of the room and a long counter at the back. Stands held a bounty of brochures, while the walls were decorated with large posters of exotic locales.

She recognized Falk immediately, though his hair had thinned some, and there were glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He tapped keys on a computer, but Phoebe shook her head at the woman at the counter and stepped over to Falk's desk.

"Excuse me, Mr. Falk?"

"That's right. I'm happy to help you if you don't mind waiting. Or Charlotte can help you now."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Falk, but I need to speak with you." Phoebe palmed her badge so he could see it.

"Oh. Well, w h a't…"

She saw it come, carving slowly through the puzzlement, that recognition, and the shock. And the shadow of old grief.

"I know you," he said. "You were… you were talking to Brenda when she-"

"Yes, I was. I was with the FBI at that time. I'm Phoebe MacNamara, Mr. Falk. I'm with the Savannah-Chatham Police Department. This is Detective Sykes."

"What do you want?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Falk, is there somewhere private we can talk?" He took his glasses off, set them on the desk. "Charlotte? Would you put the 'Closed' sign up and lock the door? Charlotte and I are engaged. I don't need to be private from her. She knows everything about what happened with Brenda."

Charlotte locked up, came immediately to Falk's side. She was a pretty, sturdy-looking woman, and Phoebe judged her to be in her early forties. Her hand, with its simple, round-cut diamond ring, lay supportively on Falk's shoulder.

"What's this about?" she demanded. "You're getting married?"

"Two weeks from Friday."

"Congratulations. Mr. Falk, I know you went through a very, very difficult time. You did the right thing, and I wasn't able to help you."

"I did the right thing?" His hand came up to squeeze Charlotte's. "No, I didn't."

"Pete-"

"No, I didn't," he repeated. "I didn't get help for Brenda. I knew how much she wanted a baby… I thought I knew," he corrected. "But I didn't get help for her. I didn't see, didn't want to see, didn't look. We had a good life, didn't we? That's what I kept telling her. I bought her a kitten, like that was a substitute."

"Oh, Pete, don't-"

But he shook his head. "We were married eight years, and together nearly two before that, and I didn't know what was inside her. That awful need. I didn't see that what was inside her snapped. Going to her sister's for a few days, well, hallelujah. That's what I thought. She'd stop moping around one minute and rushing around the next. Shouldn't I have seen something was broken in her?"

"I can't tell you that, Mr. Falk."

"Something was broken in her, and I never tried to fix it. She couldn't live that way, couldn't live with what was broken, knowing you were going to take the baby away."

"Rough," Sykes commented when they stepped out into the thick air. "It's a crappy thing to do, taking him back through that."

"It's a crappy thing to do, blowing some poor bastard to juice." Sykes winced. "Sorry, Lieutenant, I forgot for a minute."

"It's all right. What's your take on Falk?"

"He didn't make you when you walked up to him, and our guy would. Maybe he's a good actor, but it didn't play for me. He's got a nice woman, a decent business, what I'd say was a decent life. I don't see him screwing it all for revenge."

"Agreed." She dug out her sunglasses. "Next on my list, geographically, is a casualty from a bank robbery. A spree-three men hit a couple of banks heading down from Atlanta, then tried for one here, where they ran into trouble. Radio car made their plates from an APB, called it in. There was gunplay in the initial phase, and a woman was hit. A few hours into negotiations I managed to talk them into letting us take her out. But it was too late. She was DOA before she made it to the hospital."

"How's that on you?"

"She died, and that's enough." She dug into her bag again when her phone rang. And frowned at the Unknown Caller display. "Phoebe MacNamara."

"Hi there, Phoebe."

She signaled Sykes, who quickly stepped off to use his own phone to call in for a triangulation. "Who is this?"

"Your secret admirer, sweetheart. It sure was nice of Roy to have your cell phone logged into his. I wanted to check in, see how you were feeling. You looked upset when you left the station house this morning." Cupping the phone between her ear and shoulder, she dug in her bag for her notebook. "Aren't you the bold one, coming around all those cops."

Georgia cadence. Sounds satisfied, sarcastic.

"That doesn't worry me. You know, Roy said you were a hell of a good lay."

"You call me just to talk dirty, or do you have something to say?" Sweetheart. Good lay. Intimidating the female.

"Just passing the time. Oh, you don't want to waste yours trying to trace this. Isn't it something, this age we live in, when you can walk into a place and buy some toss-away phone already loaded up with minutes? Didn't see that pretty little girl of yours go into school this morning.

Hope she's not sick."

Her pad shook in her hand, dropped onto the sidewalk. She had to bite back the rage, the absolutely blinding red flash of it. "Spying on little girls? That seems low for a clever man like you."

Fighting to keep her voice cool, she squatted to pick up her book, and crouched there, continued writing notes.

Watching the house, the family. Wants me to know.

"Why don't you and I get together and have a real conversation? Get down to the nitty."

"We will, I promise you. We'll have us a nice, long talk. You won't know when or how or why until it happens."

"Who was she? Did you love her? How'd she die?"

"We'll talk about all that. You know, I could've taken out your boyfriend that night you had your romantic dinner on his boat. I had the shot. Maybe I'll take it next time. Maybe I'll give myself the green light on that. Bye, Phoebe."