Marie Ferrarella - In Broad Daylight

Dax grinned at the jive. He bore about as much resemblance to the Washington Irving character as a sunset bore to a light bulb. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a small waist that came from more than a passing acquaintance with the department’s gym, Dax had his mother’s emerald-green eyes and his father’s black hair, quick smile and chiseled features.

Women, much to his partner’s wistful envy, threw themselves at Dax. He was good at catching them, then setting them down. Life was too unsettled for the kind of long-term commitment a relationship would have asked of him. Besides, he was enjoying himself and in no hurry to have that part of his life over. If he felt the need for family, hell, there were his siblings and his cousins to turn to. At last count, the younger Cavanaughs numbered eleven. There was always family to spare as far as he was concerned.

Nathan checked his pocket for his pad. “Think this was all a mistake, like the fire?”

Dax shook his head. “No.”

The expressions he observed on the teachers’ faces looked too worried, too concerned. It went beyond just trying to keep track of the children closest to them until they were herded back into the building and their classrooms.

Just before he reached the headmaster, a stately looking man whose iron-gray hair made him appear older than his chronological years, a young woman got into his line of vision.

The instant she did, his eyes were locked on her.

For a second Dax almost forgot to breathe; she was that startlingly beautiful. The kind of beautiful he would have fully expected to see on the cover of one of those magazines that populated the checkout area of his local supermarket. The kind of beautiful he wouldn’t have believed was real, or could be achieved without a great deal of powder and paint; both of which would have been visible in person.

Except it wasn’t. The young woman before him with the spun-gold hair appeared to be all fresh-faced and natural.

As air returned to his lungs, he felt his pulse quickening the way it did whenever he was confronted with a life or death situation. But this was neither. Gorgeous or not, she was just another person who was there, he reminded himself.

And he had a job to do. There was a little girl who was presently unaccounted for.

“Mr. Harwood?” Dax’s deep voice cut through the din as easily as a sword cut through butter.

Matthew Harwood looked away from the young woman he was talking to, proper concern etched with stately precision on his square face. He looked weary as well as wary.

“Yes?”

“I’m Detective Cavanaugh, this is Detective Brown,” Dax nodded behind him, doing his best to ignore the woman on Harwood’s left. “You reported a missing little girl.”

“I reported it,” the woman who had altered his breathing pattern responded before Harwood could say anything. “Her name is Annie Tyler and she’s in my class.”

Which placed her in the first round of questioning. He’d hit a jackpot at a time when he couldn’t afford to be distracted, Dax thought. And if ever there was a woman who was distracting, this was one.

Nodding at the information, he looked around. “Is there somewhere where we can go and talk? Somewhere a little less noisy?” he asked.

As if second-guessing him, Harwood was already waving over an aid. “Mrs. Miller, could you take over Mrs. York’s class?”

Mrs. York.

She was married.

Droplets of disappointment, materializing out of nowhere, rained over him. But maybe it was better this way. He was good at perpetually keeping several balls in the air at the same time, but the law of averages was against him. Someday, one of those balls was going to drop and he couldn’t allow for it to be one associated with his work. He loved being a cop, loved making a difference. Loved the rush when a crime was finally solved, or a perpetrator was brought to justice.

Or a child was recovered, he underscored. That meant focusing exclusively on the job.

Focused or not, glancing at the woman’s hand seemed only natural.

There was no ring on the appropriate finger.

Widowed?

Divorced?

Not his concern, the same harsh voice that had long ago been assigned the role of his personal devil’s advocate whispered within him.

Mrs. Miller was a pleasant-faced, full-figured woman who radiated enthusiasm and sunshine as she approached. She also radiated concern as her eyes shifted to the blonde. “Oh, I hope we find her.”

We. As if they’d somehow misplaced the child. Was the little girl given to pranks? To disappearing from sight, only to watch from a secret hiding place as pandemonium ensued? Was this a bid for attention? So many of these kids hardly cohabited with their parents at all and were desperate for attention.

“I’m sorry, you are…?” Nathan was asking the blonde before he could.

“Brenda York.” Brenda put out her hand. When Dax took it, he thought it felt icy. As if she was worried. Or afraid. “I teach first grade.

His own first grade teacher had been a Mrs. Flack, a short, squat woman with bottle-orange hair. She’d favored shapeless smocks, sensible dark brown shoes and smelled of peppermint because she always seemed to be sucking on the candy, something her students, unfairly he thought, weren’t allowed to do. Had Mrs. Flack looked remotely like Brenda York, he might have discovered the pleasure of learning a lot earlier than in high school.

“This way,” Harwood directed, pointing toward the front entrance.

Behind them, the last of the firefighters were getting onto a truck. The first truck had already pulled away. The din that had been humming since before their arrival was gradually fading into the warm May air. It amazed Dax how quickly order was restored. Each and every student seemed aware that it was time to go back to the world they had vacated for such a brief amount of time. The excitement of the fire, real or imagined, was over. The teachers had obviously done their level best to keep the news of the possible abduction from spreading and reaching any young ears.

Dax glanced over his shoulder, watching the students as they resumed a tight formation before they literally marched back into the building.

Hushed whispers hummed in the air like june bugs, all, he guessed, centering around his and Nathan’s recent arrival. He returned one child’s gaze and smiled before turning back around.

His eyes met Brenda’s completely by accident. Hers were a deep crystal blue. Intense, shining like two blue lights, they seemed to penetrate his very soul. He could have sworn there was some kind of electrical shock that had gone through him.

She lowered her eyes and turned back away.

Dax felt like a survivor of a train wreck who hadn’t been aware that the train had even gone off course until the impact had hit.

Behind him, Nathan stood up on his toes. “One step at a time, buddy, one step at a time.”

He gave Nathan a dirty look. Nathan gave him a knowing one.

They entered the building. The floors were polished to a high sheen, but were amazingly non-slippery. Lawsuits obviously were the scourge of even a place like Harwood. Well-cared for wooden doors lined both sides of the corridor like timeless, learned sentries. The headmaster brought them to the far end of the hall.

“We can talk in here,” Harwood was saying.

Opening a door, he led them into a somber room whose walls were lined from floor to ceiling with books. The only break in the decor were two windows that somehow managed to filter out the light and allowed only gloom into the medium-sized room, and the door which seemed to shyly claim a space amid massive bookshelves.

Once the door was closed behind them, all noise, soft or otherwise, from the outside world ceased to exist. For a moment, the only sounds evident were the individual breaths that they took.