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 โ 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 โ 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 โ definitely out of place in an
environment that typically smelled of leather attachรฉ
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 โ maybe one who'd gotten
into an alley fight โ 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 โ 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 โ 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.
"Rodriguez."
"A.J." Dwight hadn't even considered the time, but the
sleepy sound of a woman's voice in the background reminded
him. "Damn." Dwight planted his feet and filled his deep
barrel chest with a cleansing breath as he gathered his
wits about him. "Sorry to call so late. I didn't mean to
wake you or your wife, but I need a detective's expertise."
A subtle rustle of movement told Dwight that A.J. was
moving out of bed.
"The ADA doesn't call at twelve-thirty in the morning
unless there's a problem. What's up?"
"I'm at the office."
"You work too much, amigo."
"I wish this was about work. It might be. I came in to
check messages and... Hell, I don't know. I've probably
already compromised the crime scene."
"Crime scene?" The sudden gravity of A.J.'s voice was
drowned out by the renewed fussing of the infant two rooms
away. "Is that a baby? Madre dios. What's going on?"
Dwight turned and walked away again. "You once said that
you owed me one after helping you and Claire take care of
that incident at Winthrop Enterprises last year."
"I meant that. Most of KCPD owes you a favor, counselor."
A.J.'s hushed voice was insistent now. "Tell me what you
need."
"I need to call in that favor."
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