Nora Roberts - Suzanna's Surrender

With a laugh, Holt hoisted him up, relieved and delighted when Alex slung a friendly arm around his neck. “Tell me that in ten years.”

“I like it,” Jenny insisted, and tugged on his leg. “I like it now. Kiss me.” He hauled her in his other arm and kissed her tiny, waiting lips. She smiled, big blue eyes beaming. “You kissed Mom different.”

“That's 'cause she's the mom and you're the kid.”

She liked the way he smelted, the way his arm supported her. When she rubbed a hand over his cheek, she was a little disappointed that it was smooth today. “Can I call you Daddy?” she asked, and Holt felt his heart lurch in his chest.

“I – ah – sure. If you want.”

“Daddy's for babies,” Alex said in disgust. “But you can be Dad.” “Okay.” He looked over at Suzanna. “Okay.”

Holt wished he could have spent the day with them, but there were things that had to be done. He had a family now – it still dazed him – and he meant to protect them. He'd already put in calls to his contacts in Portland and was awaiting the rundowns on the four names from Trent's list. While he waited, he put in calls to the Department of Motor Vehicles, the credit bureau and the Internal Revenue, stretching it a bit by giving his old badge number and rank.

Between information and instinct, he whittled the four names down to two. While he waited for another call back, he read over his grandfather's diary.

He understood the feelings beneath the words, the longing, the devption. He understood the rage his grandfather had felt when he'd learned the woman he loved had suffered abuse by the hands of the man she'd married. Was it coincidence or fate that his relationship with Suzanna had so many similarities to that of their ancestors? At least this time, the tale would have a happy ending.

Suzanna's diamonds, he thought, drumming his fingers on the pages. Bianca's emeralds. Suzanna had hidden her jewels, the one material thing she felt belonged to her from the marriage, as security for her children. He had to believe Bianca had done the same.

So, where was the equivalent of Jenny's diaper bag? he wondered.

When the phone rang, he snatched it up on the first ring. Before he hung up again. Holt had little doubt he had his man. Going into the bedroom, he checked his weapon, balancing the familiar weight in his hand. He strapped it to his calf.

Fifteen minutes later, he was walking through the chaos of construction in the west wing. He found Sloan in what was a nearly completed two – level suite. There was a smell of new lumber and male sweat Sloan, in a tool belt and jeans, was supervising the construction of a new staircase.

“I didn't know architects swung hammers,” Holt commented. Sloan grinned. “I got a personal interest in this job.”

Nodding, Holt scanned the crew. “Which one's Marshall?” Alerted, Sloan unbuckled the tool belt. “He's up on the next level.” “I'd like to have a little talk with him.”

Sloan's eyes flashed, but he merely nodded again. “I'll go with you.” He waited until they were out of range of the crew. “You think he's the one?”

“Robert Marshall didn't apply for a Maine driver's license until six weeks ago. He's never paid taxes under the name and social security number he's using. Employers don't usually check with the DMV or IRS when they hire a laborer.”

Sloan swore and flexed his fingers. He could still see Amanda racing along the terrace pursued by a man holding a gun. “I get first crack at him.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but you'll have to strap it in.”

The hell he would, Sloan thought, and signaled the foreman. “Marshall,” he said briefly.

“Bob?” The foreman pulled out a bandanna to wipe his neck. “You just missed him. I had him drive Rick into Emergency. Rick took a pretty good slice out of his thumb, figured he needed stitches.”

“How long ago?” Holt demanded.

“'Bout twenty minutes, I guess. Told them to take the rest of the day, since we're knocking off at four.” He stuffed the bandanna back into his pocket. “Problem?”

“No.” Sloan bit down on temper. “Let me know if Rick's okay.” “Sure thing.” He shouted at one of the carpenters, then lumbered off. “I need an address,” Holt said.

“Trent's got the paperwork.” They started out. “Are you going to turn it over to Lieutenant Koogar?”

“No,” Holt said simply. “Good.”

They found Trent in the office he'd thrown together on the first floor, a stack of files at his fingertips, a phone at his ear. He took one look at the two men. “I'll get back to you,” he said into the phone and hung up. “Who is it?”

“He's using the name Robert Marshall.” Holt pulled out a cigarette. “Foreman let him go early. I want an address.”

Saying nothing, Trent crossed to a file cabinet to pull out a folder. “Max is upstairs. He has a stake in this, too.”

Holt skimmed the information in Marshall's file. “Then get him. We'll do this together.”

The apartment Marshall had listed was on the edge of the village. The woman who opened the door after Holt's third booming knock was bent and withered and out of sorts.

“What? What?” she demanded. “I'm not buying any encyclopedias or vacuum cleaners.”

“We're looking for Robert Marshall,” Holt told her.

“Who? Who?” She peered through the thick lenses of her glasses. “Robert Marshall,” he repeated.

“I don't know any Marshalls,” she grumbled. “There's a McNeilly next door and a Mitchell down below, but no Marshalls. I don't want to buy any insurance, either.”

“We're not selling anything,” Trent said in his most patient voice. “We're looking for a man named Robert Marshall who lives at this address.”

“I told you there's no Marshalls here. I live here. Lived here for fifteen years, since that worthless clot I married passed on and left me with nothing but bills. I know you,” she said abruptly, pointing a gnarled finger at Sloan. “Saw your picture in the paper.” Reaching to the table beside the door, she hefted an iron bookend. “You robbed a bank.”

“No, ma'am.” Later, Sloan thought, much later, he might find the whole business amusing. “I married Amanda Calhoun.”

The woman held on to the bookend while she considered. “One of the Calhoun girls. That's right. The youngest one – no, not the youngest one, the next one.” Satisfied, she set the bookend down again. “Well, what do you want?”

“Robert Marshall,” Holt said again. “He gave this building and this apartment as his address.”

“Then he's a liar or a fool, because I've lived here for fifteen years ever since that no – account husband of mine caught pneumonia and died. Here one day, gone the next.” She snapped her bent fingers. “And good riddance.”

Thinking it was a dead end, Holt glanced at Sloan. “Give her a description.”

“He's about thirty, six feet tall, trim, black hair, shoulder length, big droopy moustache.”

“Don't know him. The boy downstairs, the Pierson boy's got hair past his shoulders. A disgrace if you ask me. Bleaches it, too, just like a girl. He's no more'n sixteen. You'd think his mother would make him cut that hair, but no. Plays the music so loud I have to bang on the floor.”

“Excuse me,” Max put in and described the man he had known as Ellis Caufield.

“Sounds like my nephew. Lives in Rochester with his second wife. Sells used cars.”

“Thanks.” Holt wasn't surprised the thief had given a phony address, but he was annoyed. As they came out of the building, he dug a quarter from his pocket.

“I guess we wait until morning,” Max was saying. “He doesn't know we're onto him, so he'll show up for work.”

“I'm finished waiting.” Holt headed for a phone booth. After dropping in the coin, he punched in numbers. “This is Detective Sergeant Bradford, Portland P.D., badge number 7375.1 need a cross – check.” He reeled off the phone number from Marshall's file. Then he held on with a cop's patience while the operator set her computer to work. “Thanks.” He hung up and turned to the three men. “Bar Island,” he said. “We'll take my boat.”