Adrienne Giordano - The Rebel

The child had survived.

Ben had not.

And Amanda’s gift to his widow and their children was now worthless. At least in Amanda’s mind. Had the flaring nostrils been that obvious on the photos she’d been given? Later, when she arrived home, she’d swing into her studio and check. Just to satisfy herself.

Darn it .

Sitting back in her chair, she eased out a breath and made eye contact with Lexi, her interior designer friend who’d originally suggested she attend this fund-raiser and meet Pamela Hennings and Irene Dyce, both politically connected—and extremely wealthy—women. Amanda’s idea to donate the sculpture had come after seeing an interview with Lieutenant Broward’s wife and children. She couldn’t give them the man back, but maybe the sculpture would bring some sort of peace. Not exactly closure because Amanda didn’t buy in to that whole closure thing. What did that even mean? Tragedy was tragedy and she doubted Ben’s family would ever fully recover.

Mrs. Hennings leaned closer to speak over the chatter and the sound of clanging silverware filling the room. “Amazing likeness, dear.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Dyce said from the other side of Mrs. Hennings. “Beautiful work, Amanda.”

“Thank you.”

Not that she believed it after spotting her mistake, but coming from Mrs. Hennings, the wife of Chicago’s most brilliant defense attorney, a woman notorious for her good taste, Amanda, as she always did, graciously accepted the compliment, allowing it to momentarily smother her doubt.

At least until she looked at that nose again. Would the widow notice? Would she see the blunder every time she chose to look at the piece? Would it drive her insane? Gah.

The woman couldn’t spend years looking at a nose butchered by the artist. Amanda couldn’t allow it. She’d redo the piece. That was all. She’d make time to fix her mistake.

Done.

Over.

Move on.

A waiter slid a slice of cherry cheesecake in front of her. Any other day, she’d happily indulge, which of course wouldn’t help her lose that extra ten pounds, but a girl had a right to sugar. Simple fact. But after the beating she’d just given herself, she wasn’t sure her stomach could handle a rich dessert. Gently, she nudged the plate away, opting instead for a sip of water.

“Evening, Miss LeBlanc.”

She glanced up to where a large, barrel-chested man, late fifties perhaps, stood behind her. “Hello.”

“I’m Detective Larry McCall. Chicago PD. Homicide.” He gestured to the vacant chair next to her. “Mind if I sit?”

Oh, boy. What was this?

Whatever it was, she was thankful he wasn’t the man who’d been sitting beside her all evening. That man, a financial planner from one of the city’s big banks, had disappeared more than thirty minutes ago after she flatly told him, no, she was not interested in doing “hot” things in his bed. What an idiot. With any luck, he’d found a woman willing to take him up on his offer.

She held her hand out. “Of course. Someone was sitting there, but he’s been gone awhile.”

Hopefully, for good.

The detective glanced across the table to where Lexi sat with her boyfriend, Brodey, another Chicago homicide detective and also the brother of one of the Hennings & Solomon investigators. Seemed to Amanda that the Hennings clan had a connection to just about everyone in this city.

“Junior,” Detective McCall said, nodding a greeting.

“Lawrence,” Brodey drawled.

And how amusing was this? Clearly these two were in some kind of twisted male peeing match, and Amanda did everything in her power not to roll her eyes.

Detective McCall dropped his bulky frame into the chair beside her. “I’ll move if he comes back. Sorry if I’m interrupting.”

“Not at all. What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I checked out your bust.”

Amanda bit her lip, stifling a smile as the detective replayed in his mind the last seconds—wait for it. There .

He smacked himself on the head, then did it again, but he laughed at himself all the same. Instantly she liked him, liked his ability to find humor in embarrassing situations, liked his acceptance of his blunder without making a fuss.

“I apologize,” he said. “This is what happens when you put a guy like me in a place like this. I insult nice women.”

And he had the rough-around-the-edges grit of one of those throwback detectives she liked to watch on reruns of NYPD Blue .

“Well,” she said, “lucky for you I’m not easily offended. And what’s worse is that I figured out immediately you meant the sculpture and not my—” she looked down, circled her hand in front of her chest “—you know.”

“The sculpture. Yeah. It’s really good.”

Aside from the botched nose .

“Thank you.”

“No. I mean it’s really good. I knew Ben. Good guy. Great guy, actually. His wife is the daughter of...” He shook his head, waved it off. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. The sculpture is...accurate. Scary accurate.”

Hmm... Having been approached by detectives before, Amanda felt the puzzle pieces beginning to come together and she readied herself to ruin Detective McCall’s evening. “I had a few photos from different angles to work from.”

“Yeah, I guess that helps. Listen, do you ever do forensic work?”

And there it was.

As suspected, the detective wanted her help on a case. Probably doing an age progression on a missing child or working with a witness to identify an attacker. Because of budgeting woes and a lack of funds for full-time forensic artists, police departments sometimes hired outside the department.

None of it mattered. She’d have to turn him down. “I’m sorry, Detective. I do have an interest and have taken some classes, but it’s not work I feel comfortable with yet.”

McCall, apparently ignoring her refusal, leaned in. “I’ve got this case...”

He has a case. On countless occasions throughout her childhood she’d heard those very words from her mother, a part-time forensic artist. Amanda held her hand up. “I’d like to help, but I have little experience in forensic work. I’d do more harm than good.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Trust me. It’s a cold case. Five years now. No leads. All we have is a skull and some hairs found where it was dug up. That’s all that’s left of her.”

“Her?”

“The medical examiner thinks it’s a female. Maybe late teens or early twenties.”

“I see.”

“I actually found her.”

Amanda gawked. Couldn’t help it. “You found the skull?”

The detective shook his head as he let out a huff. “Craziest damned thing. I was out walking my dog in that vacant spot near Midway, and Henry started digging. I’ll never forget it. Whoever this girl is, she and I are a team. I made sure I kept her case. It’s mine.”

“That’s admirable, Detective. Really.”

He shrugged. “We have a sketch done by one of the department artists, but I don’t know. Maybe she got it wrong because no one is coming forward to claim this girl and we didn’t get any hits from DNA. I’m a father. It makes me sick.” He ran his hand over his thinning, gray hair as he scanned the ballroom and the people moving toward the exit. “I saw what you did with the sculpture of Ben and thought maybe you could help us out.”

Amanda glanced across at Lexi, hoping to grab her attention with the save me stare. No luck there because her friend was busy whispering in Brodey’s ear. By the look on his face, he liked what he was hearing. A flash of something whipped inside Amanda. At odd times, she missed the comfort, the familiarity, the knowing of an exclusive relationship. Casual dating didn’t provide any of that.