Page 69 of Suzanna's Surrender
“That’s ’cause she’s the mom and you’re the kid.”
She liked the way he smelled, 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 Service, 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 devotion. 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.
