Search And Seizure

He was close enough to lean into.

Near enough to touch.

She should back away. She should stop staring at the inviting vee of skin where the base of his throat met the sturdy ridge of his collarbone. She should stop wishing she could bury her nose there and have his strong arms wrap her up and keep the terrors of the world at bay.

Maddie lifted her gaze to his. “Why are you here? You said you wanted nothing to do with me or my family.”

Edged with shadows she didn’t understand, those gray-green eyes looked deep into hers. “Some fights a man can’t walk away from. No matter how much he wants to.”

Search and Seizure

Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Thanks to Kimberly McKane and Scott E. Miller for answering all my DFS questions.

For two bright, talented young people who are near and dear to my heart—Emily and Darin Binger. Thanks for being a part of puzzles and poker, Easter egg hunts and dinosaurs, family reunions and cool movies. The bond you share as brother and sister is an amazing thing to see, and reminds me of the bond I share with my brothers. Work hard, use your brains, listen to your heart and make a difference. The world is waiting for you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Dwight Powers—Justice’s staunchest ally. This tough-as-nails prosecutor has a reputation for winning inside the courtroom. The last thing he wants is a woman and child around to remind him of everything he’s lost outside of court.

Maddie McCallister—A child’s truest friend. This full-figured teacher will risk her life to protect the niece and grandnephew placed in her care. But does she dare risk her heart on a man with nothing but law and order flowing through his veins?

Katie Rinaldi—She made a deal with the devil to help a friend. Reneging on the bargain could get her killed.

Joe Rinaldi—Katie’s father. Dwight put him away in prison.

Roberta Hays—The family services case worker only wanted to help.

The Hulkster and Stinky Pete—Who are they working for?

Cooper Bellamy—The Fourth Precinct cop assigned to the case. Not your typical babysitter.

Roddy—Talent scout from New York City.

Tyler—Only a few weeks old, he can bring down an entire criminal network.

Alicia and Braden Powers—Will the memories of one lost family haunt Dwight forever?

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Prologue

“Excuse me, have you seen this girl?”

Madeline McCallister swallowed her fear and approached the tall, dark-skinned woman standing beneath the street lamp. She averted her eyes from the amount of skin revealed by the woman’s tight shorts and sequined halter top and concentrated on the dark eyes framed by sparkly lashes.

The black woman looked right past her, straight through to the cars that were cruising by on Tenth. The slow parade of headlights briefly illuminated the shadowed alleyways and door stoops, exposing the dangerous, sick, sad and soulless creatures of the urban night before driving past and giving them back to the darkness.

No-Man’s-Land was a foreign world to Maddie. But she had no intention of leaving until she had answers to her questions.

Holding up the worn photograph she carried like a shield, Maddie took a deep breath and made herself taller. “Excuse me, could you take a look? Her name is Katie.”

The black woman, who wore a rhinestone pendant in her cleavage that said Cleopatra, blinked once, sparing a glance at the photo. “Move along, sugar. You’re bad for business.”

No doubt. Of all the women Maddie had seen thus far, walking the streets of the neighborhood that the KCPD had dubbed No-Man’s-Land, none of them had been of the plain and sturdy variety. Certainly none of them was wearing anything resembling the loose denim jumper and tailored blouse she had on. And not one of them seemed to be affected by the August heat and humidity the way she was.

Cleopatra turned her back on Maddie and struck a pose with one hand on a very round, very revealing hip. “Sugar, go away. You’re not a cop, you’re not the competition, but you don’t belong here.”

“Neither does my niece.” Maddie darted around the other woman to stop her from walking away. “She ran away from home a couple of weeks ago. She’s pregnant. I need to find her.”

Cleopatra twirled around on her white patent leather boots with an annoyed huff. “Your girl’s pregnant? Find her boyfriend.”

Maddie fell into step beside her. “He hasn’t seen her. He’s already signed away his parental rights. They haven’t been together for months.”

“Typical man.”

Maddie wouldn’t know. Her experiences with men ran from the extreme nightmare to nonexistent. “I’m sorry to bother you while you’re…working, but I’m asking everyone.”

Cleopatra finally stopped. She glanced at Maddie, glanced at the photo. “I ain’t seen her.”

“Look harder. Please.”

The taller woman waved and winked at a car that slowed down as it passed by. “I’m trying to work here.”

“Please.”

“Sugar, do you know how many kids come walkin’ down this street? Runnin’ away from a beating or trying to find their next fix?”

“Katie’s not like that.”

“Sure. They’re all good kids. They’re just lost in a world that doesn’t want them.” Maybe Cleopatra was speaking from experience.

But that wasn’t Katie’s story. “Please, ma’am—”

“Now, sugar, don’t you go ma’amin’ me—”

“I’m looking for one girl. One child. I have to find her.”

“Ain’t the cops lookin’ for her?”

“Yes. But they’re not having any success. She’s due to give birth this month. I can’t let her go through that on her own.”

“That’s rough.” Cleopatra lifted her gaze over the top of Maddie’s head and scanned up and down the sidewalks on both sides of the street. Then she held out her hand. “Give me some money.”

“What?”

“Give me somethin’. I can’t stand here talkin’ to you when I’m supposed to be workin’.”

“Oh, I see.” Maddie fished into the pocket of her jumper. One of the homeless men she’d talked to earlier had asked for money before sending her to Tenth Street to talk to the ‘ladies,’ as he’d called them. Maddie pulled out all she had left: a twenty.

Cleopatra snatched it from her hand and stuffed it inside the top of her boot. “Now give me the picture.”

Sparkly lashes fluttered against her dark cheeks as she studied Katie’s junior yearbook picture. Maddie prayed for a glimmer of recognition.

“I ain’t seen her.” Cleopatra pressed the photo back into Maddie’s hand. “She ain’t workin’ this street, at any rate. And the mission’s been closed for over a year now, so I haven’t seen her hangin’ around for a handout, either.”

Twenty dollars for another no.

Maddie lovingly straightened a bent corner of the photo before returning it to her pocket. She tried to focus on the reassuring notion that Katie hadn’t resorted to prostitution to support herself. Two weeks ago, Maddie never would have suspected a teenager who was eight months pregnant would be in demand on the streets. But she’d seen some disturbing things since she’d begun her search.

Still, the crushing disappointment of hitting yet another dead end kept her from feeling hopeful. “Thanks.”

It also kept her from sensing the large black man who’d walked up behind her.

“Zero!”

Cleopatra’s shout masked Maddie’s own startled yelp as two big hands closed around her upper arms. The first thing she saw was all the bling on each finger and wrist. The second thing she noticed was the stale smell of rum-soaked breath as the man’s lips brushed against her ear.

“I don’t know whether to cut you or kiss you.”

Cleopatra shoved at the man’s shoulder. “Back off, Zero. She’s just lookin’ for somebody.”

“Yeah, well, look somewhere else, sweetmeat.” He grabbed the hand Cleopatra had shoved him with and tugged and twisted. Even Maddie winced at the angle at which he bent the woman’s arm behind her back. “You. Get back to work. I don’t look out for you so’s you can shoot the breeze with no lady.” He pushed Cleopatra away. “Find a customer.”

With a proud tip of her chin, the black woman straightened what clothes she had on and sauntered across the street, leaving Maddie alone with the pimp.

Zero wrapped his arm around Maddie’s shoulders, pulling her tight against his side. When he forced her into step beside him, she knew a stark moment of wondering if she’d ever get back to her car, much less see her home again.

Still, the violence sickened her. How many times had her sister shown up at the house with a sprained wrist or black eye? “I was just asking her some questions. I paid her for her time. You didn’t have to hurt her.”

He squeezed her tighter, steering her toward a secluded archway beneath a concrete stoop. “Cleo’s been hurt worse than that. Now you tell me exactly what kinds of questions you were askin’.”

As she had so many times over the past two weeks, Maddie ignored her own terror and pulled out the photo to show him. “I’m looking for my niece.”

Zero snatched the photo from her hand. “Now she’s a fine girl.”

“Have you seen her?”

“You paid Cleo for an answer. You have to pay me.”

“I’m out of money.”

Zero stopped, laughed, crumpled the photo in his fist and spun Maddie around so that he could back her into a brick wall and press his thighs and hips and other vile things against her. “You gotta pay me somehow. That’s how things work around here.”

Maddie’s blood chilled in her veins, despite the humidity that lingered so long after sunset. She stared at the thick gold chain around Zero’s neck. “I can’t do that.”

He slipped one hand behind her to squeeze her butt and tangled the rest of his fingers in her hair. “You need a serious makeover, darlin’. But I like some meat on my women. And hair this color of red could be good for business.”

“Let me go.”

Her flare of panic only made him laugh. He pulled the hair from her ponytail and draped it over her shoulder, dragging his palm over her breast. “Uh-huh. Lots of meat.”

Maddie swallowed her gag reflex and batted his hand away. “My niece is pregnant. Don’t you have any heart in you to help her?”

Zero rubbed her reddish gold hair against his nose and sniffed. “Word’s out about a clinic in town that helps young girls who get knocked up. They’ll take the girl in until she delivers. Then, in exchange for the baby, they’ll pay a nice price. I thought about letting one of my girls go off the pill just to see how much money we could get off that scam.”

Revulsion aside, Maddie lifted her gaze to Zero’s hooded eyes. “They buy the girl’s baby?” She shook her head in disbelief. “Katie wouldn’t do that.”

“I’m just tellin’ you what I heard.”

“Does this clinic have a name?”

“Sweetmeat, you don’t pay me or flash a badge, you don’t get an answer.”

In a surprisingly quick move, he grabbed her arm and slung her toward the street. Maddie stumbled off the curb and smacked into the fender of a parked car. But she ignored the pain radiating through her hip and elbow. Katie could be suffering something far worse. Maddie had no right to complain.

“Please,” she begged, throwing pride and safety to the wind. “Tell me what you know.”

Zero laughed and tossed the crumpled photograph at her. “You ain’ worth it, sweetmeat. Now get off my street and go home where you belong.”

Chapter One

Assistant district attorney Dwight Powers loosened the knot on his paisley silk tie and unhooked the top button of his wilted broadcloth shirt as he rode the elevator up to his eighth-floor office.

Night should have cooled the air and tempered his mood. But the midnight humidity had captured the day’s heat radiating off the concrete and asphalt of downtown Kansas City. It steamed through his pores and into his blood, melting into a suspicious tension he couldn’t quite shake.

The three-hour drive from the state penitentiary in Jefferson City had given him plenty of time to think about the parole hearing he’d attended. Plenty of time to consider the crocodile tears in Arnie Sanchez’s eyes as he apologized to Dwight for the death of his family—without ever admitting any responsibility or connection to Alicia’s and Braden’s murders.

He’d had plenty of time to replay the high-priced words that Sanchez’s lawyer had used to claim that his client was being cruelly and unusually punished by a prolonged sentence. The KCPD and the Kansas City district attorney’s office had a personal beef with his client. Sanchez’s business had suffered. His wife had divorced him. His grown sons were feuding over property entitlements, and his grandchildren were growing up without ever knowing him.

Sanchez had paid his back taxes and court costs, the lawyer claimed. He had a spotless record of good conduct during his incarceration. The State of Missouri had no right to punish a man for crimes that had only been attributed to him—crimes that the KCPD and other law-enforcement agencies had never proven. They claimed locking him up under maximum security for another five years was harsh and unfair.

Dwight scraped his palm across the blond stubble that peppered his jaw and rolled his neck to ease the weary kinks from his body.

It had taken him all of five minutes to present himself to the parole board and outline in succinct terms the crimes Sanchez had been convicted of. He’d explained in remarkably cool, detached logic that Sanchez’s ex-wife and grandchildren could visit him in prison any time they so desired. Even if parole was never granted, after twenty years he’d be free to spend as much time as he wanted with his family.

Dwight had neither option. His family was gone.

Permanently.

Courtesy of Arnie Sanchez.

The light for the seventh floor lit up and the elevator began to slow its ascent.

The parole board had voted quickly, without debate. They thanked Dwight for his time, denied Sanchez’s petition and moved on to the next hearing.

On the drive back to Kansas City, Dwight had had plenty of time to recall the cold, black fury in Sanchez’s eyes and wonder why that unspoken threat hadn’t fazed him. Maybe he was hoping that Sanchez would blow any chance for an early release by giving voice to that threat in front of witnesses.

Or maybe it was because a threat was useless against a man with nothing left to lose.

The number eight lit up, the elevator dinged and Dwight switched the briefcase to his right hand to dig the keys out of his left pocket as the doors slid open.

As soon as the elevator closed behind him, Dwight sensed trouble. Not the Arnie-Sanchez-is-beating-the-system kind of trouble. But something was off-kilter, out of place.

He peered into the long, deserted tunnel of marbled walls and shadows, letting his eyes adjust to the dim glow of the security lights illuminating the hallway. His soft-soled oxfords made no noise on the marble tiles as he headed toward his office.

The emptiness was no surprise. By this time of night, even the die-hard workaholics like himself would have gone home. And he’d passed most of the cleaning crew outside at the utility entrance, taking their first break of the night.

He listened to the cranking, whooshing sounds of the air conditioner regulating the building’s temperature against the August heat. Perfectly normal.

And yet…

Dwight crinkled up his nose. Maybe it was the whisper of cigarette smoke. Someone had broken the rules of the smoke-free building. But that wasn’t what nagged at him. Beneath the tobacco pungency that lingered in the air, he detected something fresher, sweeter—definitely out of place in an environment that typically smelled of leather attaché cases and disinfectant.

He wasn’t alone.

But he didn’t for one moment think that a friend had dropped by to pay a surprise visit. The people he called friends knew he didn’t do surprises anymore.

A slice of light cutting across the hallway diverted his attention to the emergency stairwell, where the door stood ajar. He paused in front of the inch-wide gap to listen but heard nothing beyond the usual creaks and moans of the old steel-and-limestone building that had adorned the skyline of downtown Kansas City since the Truman era.

Dwight pulled off his tie and stuffed it inside his suit jacket pocket. He’d never considered himself any kind of paranoid alarmist. But he’d learned a thing or two about survival over the years. Not just in the courtroom, but in life. He took note of details, no matter how small or insignificant they might seem. Then he processed them until they made sense.

This didn’t make sense.

Did the open door mean someone had escaped? Or snuck inside?

The roar of the air conditioner fans shut off as the thermostat leveled off. But instead of the eerie silence Dwight had expected, he heard a low, mewling noise somewhere in the dark interior of one of the offices down the hall. Had a stray cat gotten trapped inside the building? But how could a streetwise feline account for that sweet, oily scent?

His gaze dropped to a fleck of crimson, almost unnoticeable on the mottled gray-and-black pattern on the marble floor. How did he account for that?

Crouching down on his haunches, Dwight touched the dot of color. The floor was icy cold beneath the tip of his finger. But the spot was wet, sticky and definitely fresh.

Blood.

Suffused with a wary energy that heightened his senses and put him on guard, Dwight stood, balancing himself on the balls of his feet and prepping for whatever adversary lurked in the shadows.

A muted howl turned his attention back toward the hallway. The glow from the stairwell spotlighted another drop of blood. And another. The irregular pattern of droplets zigzagged across the floor, as if whoever was bleeding had staggered from side to side. Had the wounded creature struggled to get into the building? Or to reach the exit?

Dwight overruled his instinct to close the stairwell door behind him to protect his back. If the eighth floor had become a crime scene, the CSI team would want everything left just the way he’d found it.

But if it was just a stupid cat—maybe one who’d gotten into an alley fight—he wasn’t waiting for the police to find out and make the ADA their joke of the week.

Dwight followed the trail to his office and cursed. He could hear music now, something instrumental and indistinct. Had a maid left a radio on? Cut herself on a sharp object and run downstairs for help? Why not take the elevator? Why not use the crew’s walkie-talkies and call for assistance?

An image of Arnie Sanchez’s cold, black eyes popped into Dwight’s head. Just because the bastard was locked away in Jefferson City didn’t mean he couldn’t make a phone call, didn’t mean he couldn’t make arrangements to add to Dwight’s misery.

Dwight slipped his key into the outer door, but, already unlocked, it drifted open. This wouldn’t be the first time someone had broken into his office. But he had a feeling that what awaited him on the other side of the door was far more dangerous to him than any burglar or maid or injured stray.

Dwight crept through the set of cubicles that served his secretary and department clerks. The music was louder here—he could make out the wordless melody from a children’s movie now. The tune was punctuated by discordant wails from… Please, God, be that damned cat.

Clenching his jaw with a tightness that shook through him, he narrowed his gaze to the trail of crimson dots along the gray carpeting. There was a smear on the wall beside the door to his inner office, as if someone had tried to wipe it clean.

Dwight hurried to the thick walnut door that separated his work space from the others. He didn’t even bother with his keys. He pulled out his handkerchief and, as he suspected, the doorknob turned without protest and he stepped inside.

The full force of that soft, powdery scent, tinged with the odor of something slightly more pungent, caught him off guard and sucker punched him in the gut. He gripped the knob tightly, just short of snapping it off in his fist. This was a bad dream. Another one of those damn nightmares.

Only he was helplessly awake. “Son of a bitch.”

In four strides, he’d dropped his briefcase, circled his desk and taken note of the bloody palm prints on his telephone receiver and on the note tucked beneath the music box that played beside it. “No way. No friggin’ way.”

But the blood didn’t scare him half as much as the bundle sitting squarely on the middle of his desk, bawling through toothless gums and batting at the air with helpless fists.

Dwight’s jaw hurt with everything it took to keep himself from crying or cursing in front of the tiny, abandoned baby.

With shaky fingers, he unfolded the blood-stained blanket, unhooked the straps on the carrier and checked the infant. He was small, fragile and clean. Dwight’s hands were big and out of practice—and afraid. He quickly re-buckled the straps. Thank God. No visible signs of injury. The blood had another source.

“You’re okay, kid. You’re not…” His breath stuttered and caught in the tightness of his chest. The baby wailed in earnest now, and the sound shivered along Dwight’s nerves, chilling him and awakening dark things inside him.

The kid was stinky. Hungry, no doubt. Alone.

And Dwight couldn’t do a damn thing to help him.

He curled his fingers into his palms and pulled away as his vision blurred behind a sheen of tears. The tiny, blue knit cap and appled cheeks were too similar, too much of a reminder of his own son’s sweet, angelic face. A face that had been bruised and pale and still the last time he’d seen it.

“Stop that.” Dwight turned away, not sure if he was talking to the infant or the nightmare. He smashed the knob on the music box with his fist, silencing the repetitive tune. Then he picked up the folded note, scrawled on a sheet of his office stationery.

Depositing a baby in his office was too cruel to consider any type of joke. And if this was some kind of sick message to remind him about his own son… If this was the manifestation of that unspoken threat from Sanchez…

Dwight opened the note and read the short message scribbled inside. “Son of a bitch.”

He turned his back on the baby, embarrassed to have cursed in front of the kid. “This can’t happen.” He almost crushed the paper in his fist but, at the last moment, remembered the whole concept of untainted evidence. He tossed the paper back on top of the desk. “I won’t let it happen.”

More at home taking action than dealing with emotions, Dwight pulled the cellphone from his belt and strode out of the office, leaving the smells and softness and memories behind him. He was out in the hallway, pacing the length of the cool, dark corridor before the number he’d punched in answered.