The Detective's Dilemma (3 page)

She squeezed her hands tightly on her lap. “I have my reasons. I admit some are selfish. I want Peter for myself. If they got him into their care, they’d find some way to keep him, no doubt using the law and policemen.” She gave him a pointed look he didn’t appear to notice. “They’ll keep me away from him. They’d carry through on the threat to have me put in an asylum or in prison or some such thing. They have money and are used to getting their way.”

She tried to remove the whine of fear from her voice. Long ago, she learned that any sort of emotion in a female would be interpreted as hysteria, and therefore she must make her voice as dry as possible.

He said, “Those are selfish reasons. Would you truly hurt your son’s chances in society? You’d be ruined, but he would be as well.”

He sounded interested, rather than censorious, so she risked telling him the rest, the words coming out in a rush. “As he lay dying, my husband told me things about his family that made my blood go cold. The things he told me…” She shook her head. “Some of it, I can barely bring myself to think about, and I won’t repeat it.” She wouldn’t break her promises to James until she had to.

Walker sat back in the chair and folded his arms over his chest.

Something at the front of the house creaked, and fear swept through her. Could Isabelle return so early?
Please no. Stay at the park.

The clock’s tick marked several seconds before he answered. “I have an imagination,” he said. “It has been fed horrific images from my work. Yet to say such a thing about the Winthrops—that’s hard to believe.”

He didn’t sound angry, and he had said hard, not impossible.

“You’ve been asking questions, now I have one for you, Detective. Do you think I would live like this, with no money, encountering opposition from people like you, if I didn’t believe the Winthrops are people I must keep away from my child?”

He paused before answering. “You might be wrong.”

“I’m not.”

“And to answer your question, yes, I do think some people would rather live in poverty than capitulate to any outside attempts to control them. I don’t think they always make the best choice.”

“Nevertheless, it is theirs to make.”

“Unless a small child or some other victim is involved,” he said gently. “A child no one means to harm.”

Her chest tightened, and she felt dizzy with sudden understanding. This reasonable, calm man, seemingly a gentleman, had no intention of listening. He only gave the appearance of paying attention to her in order to make her more cooperative.

She had to get him out before Isabelle and Peter returned. They might come home any minute now. “It’s probably time for you to go, Detective Walker. We are not going to convince each other—”

“No.” He pulled a watch from his vest pocket, looked at it, and snapped it shut. “I’m afraid I’m the advance guard. I’m to wait here with you. The Winthrops will see Peter today.”

She rose to her feet, heart pounding. She’d been a fool to stay in the house. If she’d disappeared into the city, if she’d gone to Mrs. Calder’s apartment early, they wouldn’t have found her.

“What are you supposed to do now that I was foolish enough to let you in?” About time she asked that question, she reflected bitterly.

“We would have entered the house even if you hadn’t opened the door to me. We’d like to keep this civil.” He’d stood too. “If we wanted to treat you like a criminal, we’d have gotten uniforms to rush the place. It would send the wrong message to the neighbors, frighten the child, and add drama to a situation that doesn’t require that kind of—”

“It does! You don’t understand. His parents, the way they treated him, it killed James. I won’t let them do that to his child.”

He glowered at her, his firm mouth tight, and she flinched—actually felt a shudder run through her. She hadn’t intended to tell anyone her husband committed suicide until she had to.

She prayed this had been the right moment.

“Now I know you’re not telling the truth, Mrs. Winthrop. Your husband was an adult, living miles apart from his parents. Living with you. He died of a heart condition.”

“I exaggerated.” She had done it again, become too upset and emotional. She steadied her voice. “They didn’t put the poison in his cup, but they certainly filled his mind with it. And no, it wasn’t his heart that killed him. He did. He took his own life. He’d been sick for years, yes, but he took his own life.”

She had wondered if she could convince him that James hadn’t killed himself to escape their marriage. But apparently she hadn’t even convinced him that James had done the deed at all.

His face returned to flat indifference. “I was curious enough about the case to look up the police report. I know the cause of death was heart failure due to an obvious ongoing problem with his heart valves.”

“You tell me, Detective Walker. Would a family like the Winthrops really allow the truth to come out? They would never want the world to know that their son committed suicide. They’d go out of their way to make sure the truth was hidden. Do you see? They lie. And lie.”

“Aw, goddamn it,” he said.

She blinked at the harsh curse, though she was glad he finally showed some response to her other than stony disinterest. But then she saw him slowly raise his hands and realized he wasn’t upset at the story she told.

She whirled. Behind her, Brennan held a revolver pointed at the detective. Several thoughts raced through her head. Was her old friend insane, threatening a police officer? What did he think they would do next, shoot the man? But her main thought was
Thank God.
We can keep Peter safe.

Chapter Two

The gun in Brennan’s hand seemed enormous. Julianna had trouble looking at anything else.

“He said police are coming, so we should leave. We’ll get Isabelle and take off,” Brennan said.

“They’ll find you,” Detective Walker said, unemotional again.

“We’ll tie him up and go,” Brennan growled.

Julianna longed to run to her son, but forced herself to remain still and think. “No. He said the reinforcements are getting here soon. The moment they find him tied up, they’ll be after us. He’ll have to come with us. Wait, wait.”

She ran from the room to her bedroom. The black-and-silver drawstring bag hanging on the door of her armoire would fit the weapon—and already held all of her money.

Downstairs again, she inched over to Brennan. “Give me the gun.” In a louder voice she added, “I know how to use this. I’m quite a good shot.”

Lies, of course.

She thrust the gun into the satin bag. Her hand clutching the weapon inside the beaded satin bag from her more prosperous days looked preposterous. And the silver embroidery on the satin certainly didn’t go with her faded cotton chintz gown. Such a fashion faux pas—and just to disguise a weapon. The black metal object would better match with a watered silk.

She swallowed her nervous giggle and looked daggers at the detective. He smiled back at her, his hands palm out at the level of his broad shoulders, which were relaxed. Hers were huddled near her ears.

“Let’s go quietly, Mr. Walker. Recall you and your cohorts don’t want to create a scene. Brennan, you go ahead of us. Please find Isabelle and Peter.”

Brennan came to her, and, without taking his eyes off their unwelcome guest, he leaned close and murmured, “I don’t want to leave you alone with him.”

“I don’t want to bring him or a gun into the park. In fact… Oh, heavens. This is awful.” Juliana whispered, “I don’t want Peter to see this idiot or the gun. You take Peter and Isabelle. Somewhere safe.”

“The apartment?” he whispered.

“No. Don’t tell me where. In one day, assuming I stay out of prison, I’ll meet you.”

She looked at the captive, who stood with his hands shoulder high, fingers slightly curled. He appeared more bored than ever.

Brennan said, “Mrs. Winthrop,
I
should stay with this guy, not you.”

This was her mess, not Brennan’s. She’d break the law. “No, we both know you can do a better job protecting Peter and Isabelle. You must do this.” She could still summon up a trace of her old imperiousness.

“Are you two going to chitchat much longer? May I put my hands down?” the detective called over to them.

“No,” Juliana and Brennan said in unison.

She inched closer to Brennan and breathed, “I’ll find you tomorrow at the rooms. Your old ones.”

“Truly? You won’t mind?”

“Of course not,” she said. She hated that place, but sentimentality would have to wait for another occasion.

“Be careful with this guy.”

She nodded.

“I’ll keep Peter safe, no matter what. I promise.” Brennan squeezed her shoulder, then pulled a small leather-bound notebook from his vest pocket. She’d seen the top of it poking from there before and she knew he always carried the book. He asked, “Do you have a pocket in your skirt?”

She nodded. To make her busy life easier, she’d sewn pockets into many of her gowns. Her clothes were so out of fashion, she barely minded making them frumpier.

Brennan moved to her side and slid the notebook into her pocket. The policeman wore a smug expression as he watched Brennan’s intimate movement.

“What is that?” she asked in a low voice.

“Probably nothing useful. That’s why I held on to it rather than…” He didn’t finish the thought but squeezed her shoulder again. “Take care.”

He turned and walked to the detective, who watched with mild interest. Julianna gave a squeak of alarm when Brennan began patting the man all over.

Brennan backed up, then gave her his standard stern look. “He has no weapons, but take care you don’t let him near you,” he said and quickly left the room. She liked that about Brennan. He’d voice his concern, and then, once they’d decided what to do, he’d get to work at once.

She wanted to be moving, running away, but she made the detective wait in the foyer to give Brennan enough time to head down the street and around the block and out of sight. After she counted to one hundred slowly, she motioned to the front door.

“Us now. We will walk. Calmly.” She knew her voice trembled, the opposite of composed. She said the word again to make it real. “Calm. You walk in front of me, please.”

He didn’t move.

“Now,” she ordered.

“You and your friend Brennan are insane.” He sounded almost pleased.

“Yes, do keep that in mind. Walk faster. Keep your hands in sight, please, behind your back.”

They went out the front door and paused on the steps. She looked up and down to make sure she saw no sign of Brennan. How would they fare if they couldn’t return home? They had no clothes, nothing. At least she had her bag that held all the money they had—two hundred dollars—and, of course, she had that convenient deadly weapon.

Dizziness struck her. Kidnapping a police detective was utter madness. What on earth could she do with the man? Not haul him about like a stuffed toy on a string. A laugh bubbled up at that ridiculous picture.

He glanced back at her, expressive eyebrows quirked in inquiry, and she jerked her head to indicate he should walk.

She could somehow lock him in the dreary rooms she’d planned to rent soon. No one in that building would pay any heed to the detective’s shouts. She could meet her son and the others outside.

“At the bottom of the steps, go right,” she commanded. “Just walk at a reasonable pace. Do not attempt to escape from me.”

“Of course not,” he said in an agreeable tone.

She didn’t trust him, but at least he didn’t scream or lunge for the gun. His lack of aggression was the one thing that had gone right in the last half hour.

Her heart threatened to launch itself out of her body with the terror of what she’d set in motion. She sent up a private prayer to her late husband. If the spirits of the dead walked among them, an idea she didn’t believe, now would be a good time for him to tell her she wasn’t wrong to do this.

Walker strolled down the stairs, trying to remember which park lay to the left of the house. She’d demanded he turn right, so obviously Brennan had taken off in the other direction.

Never mind. As long as he stayed with her, he’d eventually get the boy, which was the point of the day’s exercise, after all. He was to help rescue a poor mistreated child from his desperate, out-of-control mother.

Desperate, yes. Out of control? He wasn’t inclined to think so, but he wondered how much he had been influenced by those hazel eyes and her odd but intriguing behavior—she alternated between being a hostess and an aggressive mother attacking anything she thought threatened her child.

To think he’d expected to be bored by this assignment.

She did seem to hold the gun, a Colt revolver, without a trembling hand. That was reassuring. He could probably get it away from her fairly easily. She kept her distance, but if he charged her, he’d get it before she managed to raise and fire the weapon. She couldn’t keep it aimed at him for long—her hand would get tired.

No, Walker would wait. He felt dire curiosity about what they’d do now. He looked back at her to see how far behind she walked.

“Why are you smiling?” she hissed.

Christ, she was right. No wonder his mouth felt odd—he grinned like a maniac as he walked along with a crazy woman.

“What are your plans?” he asked.

“Keep you out of the way until Isabelle and Peter are safe.”

He ought to make a token effort to get away. “If I promise not to speak of your plans, would you release me?”

“I’m going to release you. I have no interest in hurting you unless you force my hand. If we can stay calm, this will turn out well.”

He understood that she spoke aloud to convince herself. No need to tell him to be serene. He felt surprisingly lighthearted. He began to hum.

“Please stop making that noise,” she said.

“All right, but only because you said please.”

“How can you be so…so silly about this?”

“Silly? Ha. I’m not the one risking my freedom, my good name, and my son’s life. I’m not running off without a plan in my head.”

She snapped, “No, you’re the one threatening my child’s safety.”

They turned onto a deserted street, no person or horse in sight in any direction. He’d had his fun. Now he would find out what was going on.

He slowed and listened to her steps coming closer behind him. Closer. He waited and then twisted around fast.

Walker reached out and grabbed her, seizing her shoulder. He hesitated too long as he considered what to do. Should he bring her down hard? But then she proved as slippery and swift as any street-raised hoodlum, because she dropped down enough to wiggle and slither from his grasp, agile and fast. She raised the bag holding the gun. Now her hand trembled, and he waited for the shot to ring out. Killing him was a solution for her—the one person who knew she was running away would be eliminated.

The only sound he heard was her panting breaths. He tried to calm his racing heart with the thought that the gun probably wasn’t loaded.

“I’m not going to allow you to win,” she said, still having trouble catching her breath but more confidence in her voice. “I am in charge here. You won’t do anything else stupid, or I will—I will shoot you.”

Giddy relief swamped him. She wouldn’t pull the trigger. He nodded. “I understand.”

She waved the ridiculous satin bag at him. “Go on. You just go.”

Walker turned and continued down the street. He’d been an idiot. He hadn’t tackled her or smacked her into the pavement, because he hadn’t wanted to hurt her. He had also underestimated her. Mrs. Winthrop, the fine lady, had the escape instincts of a smash-and-grab man.

Walker felt a rise of anger. He was a trained police officer who’d failed to prevail over a lady raised in the hothouse atmosphere of upper-class New York. He knew females like her, and they wilted when the real world touched them.

She wasn’t wilting. Her gumption seemed to be just fine—admirable even—if she hadn’t dragged him along.

You inserted yourself into her life; don’t blame her for responding to a threat.
Hey, he could and would blame her. But he’d try to get the upper hand using another method.

Years earlier, a seasoned roundsman who had talked people out of these situations told Walker to pose as the kidnapper’s friend.
“If you get them talking, it’ll less likely end in violence,”
he’d advised.

“Thanks for not shooting me.” He spoke over his shoulder after they’d passed several brownstones and a sleepy cat on a stoop. “You know I had to try that.”

Silence except for her footsteps behind him and the distant cry of a knife sharpener coming closer—so if Walker wanted to move on her again, he’d have to do it soon.

“You’re so casual, as if you are held at gunpoint every day of your life.”

Usually something far worse than a woman with a gun held him hostage. That explained why this incident felt slightly exhilarating. As an actual prisoner, he decided he was allowed to ignore all other problems.

He shook his head. “Nope, this is the first time.”

The knife grinder came into sight, pushing his small cart, which rumbled over the cobblestones. His call echoed down the street, but no one came out of the houses.

Walker tried to make conversation. “I didn’t know this street was so quiet. It wasn’t on my old beat.”

No answer. She walked in the street at several arms’ lengths distance, giving him frequent wary glances.

To entertain himself, he pondered what she’d do if he ran away. Shoot him? Give him holy hell?

She said, “You’re smiling again. It worries me.”

He grinned wider then. “Are we going to walk the streets all day and through the night until tomorrow? We should go indoors. Maybe a restaurant or a library. I promise not to make a scene in front of other people.” He lied, of course. If he could steer her to Broadway, he knew a couple of the uniforms—the handsome tall cops who walked that beat. He could get her over there, shout
Police! Drop your weapon
and get some help from those boys.

He said, “We might do better to head toward the busier streets. Two people would be forgotten in a crowd.”

“You think we should stroll down Broadway?”

He didn’t answer.

“I wish I’d worn one of my old morning calling gowns instead of this sack,” she muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“We are supposed to be a pair. Your suit is considerably better made than my gown. You and I are not a match.”

She thought they should look like a pair, eh? Intriguing notion. “You look good to me,” he said. True, her hair was coming loose and there was flour on her sleeve, but she had that fine posture. And though it hung on her rather than fitted her form tightly, the blue of her plain gown looked good against her skin. He had a notion that she should have a bustle, more lace or furbelows and whatnot.