Apb: Baby. Julie Miller

I first moved in. That’s when I told you I was a social worker—that I’ve seen some pretty awful things, too. But my bodies weren’t dead like yours. Just damaged in one way or another.” Her mouth was rambling ahead of her brain. “I’m sorry. But you can tell me. Is this a crime scene? Is that why I can’t go in there?” She touched the blood on his sleeve again. Although it was dry, its presence was disturbing. “Is this Diana’s? Don’t feel you have to spare my feelings. I’ve been sick out of my mind with worry all day. I just need a straight answer about what’s happened. I can deal with anything—I’m good at that—as long as I know what I’m facing.”

      “You can deal with anything?” He angled his head to the side and his eyes narrowed, as if her plaintive assertion baffled him. Then he shook his head. “There is no dead body,” he answered starkly. “I don’t know who Diana is. This blood is my grandfather’s. He was shot yesterday afternoon at my sister’s wedding.”

      “Shot? Oh, my God.” Lucy’s fingers danced over the ticklish hair of his forearm, wanting to act on her instinct to touch, to comfort, to fix the hurts of the world. “Is he okay? I mean, clearly he isn’t. Getting shot is really bad. I’m sorry. Is he going to be all right?” His brusque answers explained the remnants of the James Bond getup, as well as the stains on what had once been a neatly ironed shirt. But what any of that had to do with the break-in or her or possibly Diana, she hadn’t a clue. Lucy curled her fingers around the strap of her shoulder bag and retreated a step. “You don’t need to worry about my problems. You should be with your family.”

      “Miss McKane.” They were back to that now, hmm? “I’m sorry if the blood upset you—I haven’t had time to change since coming home from the hospital.” He scraped his palm over the dark stubble dotting his chin and jaw before sliding his fingers over his hair and literally scratching his head. “I can see I haven’t explained myself very well. Your sympathy is appreciated but misplaced. My grandfather’s condition is serious, but please, before you go off on another tangent, would you come inside? I do have a problem that concerns you specifically.” He glanced toward the end of the hallway. “And I don’t think we should have that conversation here.”

      She remembered the retired couple down the hall and nodded. “The Logans. I suppose it would be rude to wake them at this hour.”

      A man with a wounded grandfather, a gun and a badge, and an inexplicable sense of urgency could take precedence for a few minutes over her suspicions and the futile desperation that might even be unfounded. Lucy hadn’t seen Diana Kozlow in months. Perhaps she’d read too much into the telephone message at the office this morning. She was probably chasing ghosts, thinking that Diana had really needed her. Roger Campbell hadn’t needed her for anything more than sex and a punching board. The only reason her own mother had needed her was to ensure her own meal ticket. How many times did she have to repeat that codependent mistake?

      Inhaling a deep breath, Lucy pulled off her left glove and cap and stuffed them into her pockets, too, as Niall opened the door for her to precede him. “So what concerns me specifically besides a busted front door...” She tried to smooth her staticky curls behind her ears. “Oh, hello.”

      At this late hour, she was surprised to see another man—a stockier version of Niall Watson, with a peppering of silver in his short dark hair—rising stiffly from a recliner as she stepped into the living room.

      She extended her hand because she was that kind of friendly. “I’m Lucy McKane from across the hall. Sorry to visit so late, but Dr. Watson invited me...” The older man angled his body to face her, and she saw the blanket with tiny green and yellow animals draped over his arm. “You have a baby.”

      “Can’t put anything past you,” the tall man teased in a hushed voice, in deference to the tiny infant sleeping contentedly against his chest. “Thomas Watson.” He easily cradled the child in one arm to shake her hand. “I raised three boys and a girl of my own, so I’ve had some practice. I’m Niall’s father.”

      “I could tell by the family resemblance. Nice to meet you. You seem to be a natural.” Lucy stepped closer to tuck the loose blanket back around the tiny child’s head. The newborn’s scent was a heady mix of gentle soap and something slightly more medicinal. A tightly guarded longing stirred inside her, and she wanted to brush aside the wisp of dark brown hair that fell across the infant’s forehead. She wisely curled her fingers into her palm and smiled instead. “And this is...?”

      Niall’s crisp voice sounded behind her. “I was hoping you could tell us.”

      Lucy swiveled her head up to his as he moved in beside her. “I don’t understand. Isn’t the baby yours?” She glanced at Niall’s father. He was older, yes, but by her quick assessment, still a virile man. “My apologies. The baby is yours.”

      “No, ma’am.”

      The older man grinned, but Niall looked anything but amused when he reached across her to adjust the blanket she’d tidied a moment earlier. “I broke into your apartment, Miss McKane.”

      “You? To steal twenty dollars? Why on earth would you do that?”

      “I wasn’t the first intruder. I found a screwdriver that had apparently been used to break into your place.” He pulled a tiny gem from his pocket and held it up between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it until she could see the fracture in the clear red glass. “I believe this came off it.”

      “A screwdriver?” Lucy clutched at her purse strap, the bittersweet joy of seeing the baby momentarily forgotten. Diana was in trouble. “A pink one with glitter on the handle?”

      He picked up a bag marked with numbers and the scratch of his signature from the coffee table and folded the excess plastic out of the way so she could see the contents inside. “This one.”

      “Oh, my God.” Lucy plucked the screwdriver from his open palm and turned it over in her hand. The room swayed at the instant recognition. Diana hadn’t wanted jewelry or dolls for birthdays and Christmas. She’d been a tomboy and tough-kid wannabe from their first meeting. Diana had wanted a basketball and running shoes and a toolbox, although she’d seemed pleased with the bling on this particular set. Lucy blinked away the tears that scratched at her eyes and tilted her face to Niall’s. “Where did you get this?”

      “Is it yours?”

      “Answer my question.”

      “Answer mine.”

      “Niall,” Thomas gently chided.

      A deep, resolute sigh expanded Niall Watson’s chest before he propped his hands at his waist again in that vaguely superior stance that emphasized both his height and the width of his shoulders. If it wasn’t for his glasses and the spiky muss of his hair that desperately needed a comb, she might have suspected he had an ego to go with all that intellect. “Apparently, someone jimmied the locks on your door several hours before I got home, and I suspect they used that tool to do it. I let myself in when I heard this child crying in distress. I thought, perhaps, you weren’t being responsible—”

      “With a child?” He thought...that she... Lucy didn’t know whether to cry or smack him. “I would never. My job is to protect children.”

      “I know that.” Her burst of defensive anger eased as he continued his account.

      “But then I suspected that you might be in some kind of distress yourself. I entered the premises to make sure you were all right.” He plucked the screwdriver from her fingers and returned it to the table along with the shattered bead and another bag that appeared to be holding the beginnings of the gray scarf she’d been knitting for a coworker. She could see now that the markings meant he’d labeled them all as evidence. “I found it on your kitchen counter beside the baby. I brought him here since there didn’t seem to be anyone else watching him. We’ve given him food, clean clothes and a bath. Other than a nasty case of diaper rash, he seems to be healthy.”

      That explained the medicinal smell. “It’s a boy?” She turned back to the older man cradling the sleeping infant. “He was