Night Sins (26 page)

She tensed even more as he settled his hands on her shoulders. He stood close behind her, bent his head down close to hers, close enough that he could catch just the faintest hint of perfume on her skin. The scent was so soft, so thin, it seemed almost imagined, as if she put on just enough that only she would know, as if it were only for that secret self she kept so carefully locked inside—the soft Megan, the feminine Megan, the Megan who liked pink walls and flowered sheets and little china statues of cats.

He let his hands slide down from her shoulders and slipped his arms around her. She held herself as straight as a post, unforgiving, unyielding, unwilling to surrender any more of her pride.

“The job is the job,” he murmured, his lips brushing the side of her neck. “What goes on between us in bed has nothing to do with it. It's a rotten night, a rotten case, a rotten motel—why can't we at least have this? Hmm? Why can't we give each other a little pleasure?” He flattened his hands against her belly, his fingertips massaging subtly, awakening the fire inside her.

“Just go,” Megan said. She didn't want his tenderness. Anything else she could have fought off, but she had no defense against tenderness. God help her, she couldn't defend against something she'd craved all her life.

“Go,” she said on a trembling breath.

“No,” he murmured, tracing the tip of his tongue behind her ear.

She called on anger to save her. “Go!” she shouted. “Get out!”

“No.” He pulled her so close against him she couldn't hurt him and she couldn't escape him. “Not now. Not like this.”

“Damn you,” she mumbled against his chest, her voice breaking as the tears fought for release and the frustration choked her. She struggled against him, tried to kick him, but her heart wasn't in it.

He tipped her chin up so she had no real choice but to look at him. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don't want this,” he said darkly, his breath coming harder as desire pooled warm and heavy in his groin.

Megan glared at him, hating the way her body was heating and humming with awareness pressed to his. “I don't want this,” she said defiantly.

His nostrils flared. Amber fire flashed in his eyes. “Liar,” he said, but he let her go.

Megan stood at the foot of the bed for a long while after the door clicked shut, knowing what he'd said was too true for comfort.

D
AY
5
12:11
P.M.
         16°

M
ick says he'll make a hundred thou this year.”

“Good for Mick.”
And did you ask your loving son why he never sends you a dime of it when he knows you eat beans and wieners twice a week because your pension check doesn't stretch and your daughter—who pays half your bills—is just a cop and doesn't get paid shit compared to a hotshot investment broker from L.A.?

Megan didn't ask the question. She knew better. They had played out that scenario more than once. It didn't ease her own resentment. It only got Neil's blood pressure up. Yet it never ceased to amaze her that the child her father still doted on and bragged about could care so little, while she, the unwanted reminder of the faithless Maureen, the child who could have grown up alone in an alley somewhere for all Neil O'Malley cared, was the one who remained behind, chained to memories she hated by a man who had never loved her.

As if it would take her mind away from the memories, she looked around the tiny kitchen with the garish turquoise walls and the checked curtain that was stiff with the starch of age and airborne grease. She hated this room with its cheap, chipped white tin cupboards and enormous old dingy cast-iron sink. She hated the smell of lard and cigarettes, hated the gray linoleum and the chrome-legged table and chairs where her father sat. It was an ugly place, stripped bare of life and warmth—not unlike her father himself in some ways.

Not that Neil O'Malley was physically ugly. His features were sharp—had once been handsome—and his eyes were a brilliant blue. But time and bitterness had stolen their sheen as they had stolen the color from his hair and the vigor from his body. The man she remembered as a small block of muscle in a cop's blue uniform had shrunk and sagged. His right hand quaked as he raised his drink to his lips.

Megan stirred the thick roux in the Dutch oven on the old gas stove. Lamb stew. The same thing she always made when she came to visit on Sundays—not because she liked it, but because Neil would grouse about anything else. God forbid she should do something to displease him. She sniffed at that. She had never in her life done anything that
pleased
him.

“Have you talked to Mick lately?” she asked.
Of course not. Mick doesn't call you, even though he knows what it would mean to you. He hasn't visited since the year the NCAA basketball tournament finals were held in the Metrodome and he managed to weasel a ticket out of a wealthy client from L.A.

“Aw, no.” Neil waved it off as if her question were nothing more than a cloud of bad gas. “He's busy, you know. He damn near runs that outfit he works for. Probably would if it weren't for the goddamn Jews—”

“You want a refill on that beer, Pop?” She had no desire to hear for the millionth time his anti-Semitic diatribe or his anti-Black diatribe or his anti-English diatribe.

He lifted the bottle of nonalcoholic brew and grimaced at it while he hacked up a rattling glob of phlegm. “Christ, no. This stuff tastes like shit. Why don't you bring me something decent to drink?”

“Because your doctor doesn't want you drinking at all.”

“Fuck him. He's a fucking fascist. He's not even American, y'know.” He pulled a cigarette from the pack of Kents on the table and shook it at her. “That's half of what's wrong with this country. They let in too many goddamn foreigners.”

“And where did
your
father come from?” The sarcasm slipped out against her better judgment, but she couldn't help herself. If she held it all in, she figured she would die of something akin to uremic poisoning.

“Don't get smart with me,” Neil warned. “My da was Irish and proud of it. He'd'a stayed in Connemara if it weren't for the goddamn Brits.”

He lit the cigarette, sucked in a lungful of smoke, and went through the ritual choking and hacking. Megan shook her head in disgust. His arteries were in worse shape than the seventy-year-old water pipes in the house—clogged with the crud of sixty-some years of fat, cholesterol, tar, and nicotine. It was a pure wonder a drop of blood made it to his brain—which, she supposed, could explain a lot. He had already suffered one small stroke, and his doctor warned that the big one was imminent if Neil didn't change his lifestyle. The doctor could have saved his breath on the antismoking speech as well. Despite the warning signs of lung disease, Neil went on with his habit as if he thought the congestion and shortness of breath were merely incidental to his smoking.

“You shouldn't smoke, either,” Megan grumbled, hefting the stew pot off the stove and carrying it to the table.

“And you, girlie, should mind your own goddamn business.”

She made a rude noise. “Don't I wish.”

She stared down at the stew she had dished herself and pushed the plate away. She hated lamb. Her father chewed vigorously and sopped up a puddle of gravy with a chunk of butter-coated bread.

“So, have you heard about the big case I'm working, Pop? That child abduction down in Deer Lake?”

“World's full of perverts.”

“It's a tough one. Hardly any leads at all. We've been working practically around the clock—my guys from the bureau, the sheriff's department, the police department. The chief is an ex-detective from the Miami PD. We've even got a team of computer experts from Harris College working on it.”

“Worthless boxes of wire,” he grumbled, forking up another cube of lamb. “They can't match good old-fashioned police work. Footwork—that's how cases get solved. And not by a bunch of college-boy pricks-up-their-butts detectives, either.”

“I'm the agent in charge, you know,” she went on doggedly. “There was an article in the
Tribune
. You might have read it.”

Good for you, honey. I'm so proud of you. . . . Yeah, right.

Neil looked down at his plate, spit out a piece of gristle, gave a muffled snort, and shook his head. “Worthless rag. I take the
Pioneer Press
. Always have.”

“God, would it kill you to say something nice to me just once?” she snapped, knowing it wasn't worth the effort. “Would it be so hard? I'd settle for anything, you know—‘congratulations,' ‘good stew,' ‘nice shoes.' Even a noncommittal hum would do,” she said sarcastically. “Anything to keep me from wondering why in hell I bother to come here. Do you think you could manage that just once, Pop?”

Neil's face flushed an unhealthy shade of maroon. He shook his fork at her, flinging little specks of gravy onto the table. “You watch that smart mouth, girlie. You're just like—”

She cut him off with a violent wave of her hand. “Don't you dare. Don't you
dare
! I'm
nothing
like her. She had the good sense to leave you twenty-six years ago!”

Her father's mouth tightened into a knot as he stared at his plate.

With angry tears stinging her eyes, Megan shoved her chair back from the table and went to stare out the window at Mrs. Gristman's backyard, where her ancient poodle, Claude, had dotted the snow with little piles of shit. The neighborhood was drab and ugly, like everything about this house was drab and ugly. She wished she could stop coming back here, but she wouldn't. Because he was her father, her responsibility. She wouldn't shirk her duty to him the way he had done to her.

Unbidden, unwanted, an image of Mitch came to her. Mitch and Jessie, teasing and tickling over a Happy Meal at McDonald's.

She sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. She said nothing as she pulled her coat off the hook by the back door, giving Neil a chance to redeem himself. He didn't. He never would.

“Don't forget to take your medication,” she said tightly. “I'll get back when I can . . . for all you care.”

CHAPTER 20

D
AY
6
7:00
A.M.
         -18°         
WINDCHILL FACTOR
: -55°

M
onday morning dawned rudely with a blast of air sweeping down from the Arctic and bringing a temperature of eighteen degrees below zero. A howling wind out of the northwest chased the windchill factor to a brutal minus fifty-five. Megan's spirits dropped in direct correlation. She lay in her bed at the Sheraton, dreading her meeting with DePalma, listening to the radio disc jockeys delight in telling Twin Citians that exposed skin could freeze in as little as sixty seconds.

Sunday had been a bust all the way around. Preliminary tests on the tape of the phone call had been inconclusive. No usable prints had been lifted from the notebook. Dinner with Jayne Millard, the agent who worked up suspect profiles, had netted Megan nothing but commiseration for having so little to go on and congratulations for breaking the glass ceiling that had heretofore kept women out of the field.

She lay in bed, staring at her reflection in the mirror above the dresser, thinking about the way some people perceived her as a heroine and others as a troublemaker. She felt curiously removed from the issue, as if the Megan O'Malley those people were looking at were nothing more than a hologram. She didn't want to be their champion or their demon. She wanted to do her job. She wanted to find Josh.

Hung over from fatigue and muscle relaxants, she dragged herself out of bed and into the shower. She dressed for her meeting with DePalma in the one change of clothes she'd thrown into the car—a pair of slim charcoal trousers and a soft black turtleneck that emphasized her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes. She thought she looked like a zombie or a coffeehouse refugee, but there was no hope for better.

She fantasized about an FBI assignment in Tampa as she zipped her parka, clamped on earmuffs, and wound her scarf around her head and neck. Florida shimmered in her mind like a distant mirage that was swept away the instant she stepped outdoors and the wind hit her like a brick in the forehead. No less than a dozen cars in the parking lot had their hoods open—the northland symbol of surrender—waiting for service trucks to show up and jump dead batteries. Two minutes later, Megan popped the hood on the Lumina and stomped back inside the hotel, muttering her cold weather mantra. “I
hate
winter.”

9:00
A.M.
         -18°         
WINDCHILL FACTOR
: -55°

D
ePalma paced behind his desk with his hands on his hips and his head ducked down between his shoulders. He looked like Nixon doing Ed Sullivan.

“We've never had so many calls from the press,” he said, wagging his head.

“I'm a curiosity,” Megan pointed out. She stood on the opposite side of the desk. He hadn't asked her to sit. Bad sign. “They'll get over it. Pretend I'm no big deal.
I
shouldn't be a big deal. Their focus should be Josh, not me.”

“You made it difficult for them to ignore you, interrogating the father in front of them.”

“I asked him a few questions. He lost his temper, that's all—”

DePalma wheeled on her, incredulous. “That's all? Megan, the man has lost his son—”

“He deliberately withheld information from me! The man is holding something back. What am I supposed to do—act like a lady and shut my mouth or act like a cop and do my job?”

“You don't do that kind of a job with the press within shouting distance, and you damn well know it!”

Megan clamped her mouth shut. There was no weaseling out of this. She'd blown it with Paul Kirkwood. She wanted to say Paul Kirkwood had blown it for her, but life didn't work that way. Take no shit, make no excuses. She should have seen the potential for trouble, but she'd let her temper get the better of her. A good agent didn't do that.

“Yes, sir,” she murmured.

DePalma sighed as he slid into his high-backed chair. “Whether you like it or not, you've got a great big magnifying glass on you and this case, Agent O'Malley. Watch your step and watch your mouth. You're a good cop, but no one's ever accused you of being overly diplomatic.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And for God's sake, don't bring up that sexual harassment business from last fall. The superintendent about had a stroke—”

“That's unfair,” Megan charged. “I did
not
bring that up. It had nothing to do with me. Henry Forster opened that can of worms on his own—”

DePalma waved off her protest. “It doesn't matter. We're all under scrutiny. If you can't handle the pressure or your own temper, I won't have a choice; I'll yank you in.”

He let that hang for a moment as he slipped on a pair of half glasses and glanced at the top page of a mountain of paperwork neatly stacked beside the spotless blotter. Megan drew a breath to ask permission to leave, and he looked up at her, the expression on his bloodhound face softening.

“Do you have anything at all?”

“Puzzle pieces. Nothing fits yet.”

His dark eyes strayed to the photograph of his sons. “Make them fit. Make this case, Megan. Make it stick.”

11:13
A.M.
         -20°         
WINDCHILL FACTOR
: -48°

T
he weight of DePalma's ultimatums pressed down on Megan as she slipped into the law enforcement center via a little-used side door. The press were starved for any scrap of news on the phone call and she had none to give them. After her dressing-down, she wished fervently she could become invisible to media people, but she knew the only successful vanishing act around here was Josh Kirkwood's and it was her job to make him reappear.

The lingering aroma of cigars and air freshener hit her like an invisible wall when she let herself into her office. She made a mental note to buy an air-filtering gizmo.

The message light on her answering machine was flashing like a strobe. She hit the playback button, then unwound the scarf from her head. Paige Price wanted to do an interview.

“When pigs fly,” Megan muttered, prying off her earmuffs.

Henry Forster wanted a comment on the recorded phone call.

“Yeah, I'll give you a comment, you myopic old sack of shit,” she growled, unzipping her parka.

“Agent O'Malley, this is Stuart Fielding at NCIC. Please call me back ASAP. I've got a hit on your fingerprints.”

Olie Swain's prints
.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she whispered, her heart kicking into high gear.

She flung the parka in the general direction of the coat rack as she dove into her broken chair and grabbed the telephone receiver. Her whole body trembling, she punched in the number for FBI headquarters in Washington. Even her voice shook as she went through the usual rigmarole with receptionists. Finally, Stuart Fielding himself came on the line.

“Sorry it took so long for the search, but we couldn't get a match on the name or the prints in your geographical region. We had to enlarge the parameters of the search repeatedly. Finally got a hit in Washington State. Are you ready?”

“You can't know how ready. Shoot.”

“According to AFIS and the criminal history database, your guy is Leslie Olin Sewek. Born October 31, 1956. Served five years out of ten in the state facility at Walla Walla and was paroled on his birthday in 1989.”

“What was he in for?” Megan held her breath.

“He was convicted on two counts of child molestation. I'll fax you his rap sheet.”

Megan was vaguely aware of thanking Fielding and hanging up the phone. Her eyes burned as she stared at the notes she'd taken.

Olie Swain: AKA—Leslie Olin Sewek

5 of 10—Walla Walla

Child molest

Olie Swain had a light-colored van.

Olie Swain had access to Josh.

Olie Swain was a convicted pedophile.

“Gotcha, you son of a bitch.”

After receiving the fax she bolted out of her office and charged down the hall, weaving around officers and secretaries and citizens who had come in for reasons unknown. Heads snapped her way as she cut through the squad room and down the hall to Mitch's office. Natalie whirled around from her file cabinets, clearly affronted that anyone would have the temerity to barge into her stronghold.

“I have to see the chief.”

“He's with the sheriff—”

Megan didn't even slow down. She burst into the inner office, eyes bright, color high on her cheekbones. Not sparing Russ Steiger a glance, she marched up to Mitch's desk, tossed down the curled tube of thermal paper that was the faxed pages of Olie's rap sheet, and slammed a small hand down beside it.

“Your harmless Mr. Swain is a convicted pedophile from the state of Washington.”

Mitch stared at her, stunned, dread coiling in his gut. “What?”

“Leslie Olin Sewek, a.k.a. Lonnie O. Swain, a.k.a. Olie Swain, was sentenced to a state penitentiary in 1984 for forced sex with a nine-year-old boy.”

“Jesus, no.”

Mitch sat perfectly still in his chair. He'd had no way of knowing Olie Swain was anything other than a strange little man who worked at the ice rink. And still he felt responsible. This was his town. It was his job to protect the people of Deer Lake. And all this time a child predator had been living right under his nose and he hadn't suspected a thing. A pedophile had been working in proximity with children, and he had allowed it.

“How the hell did you get his prints?”

Megan had the grace to look sheepish, though she turned her back on Steiger's scrutiny. “An opportunity presented itself,” she fudged. “I had to run him as a nonsuspect, but at least we got him.

“We can't arrest him for our case on the basis of his record alone,” she went on, “but there is a bench warrant outstanding in the state of Washington for parole violation. I've already called Judge Witt about a search warrant for the house and vehicle. The rap sheet combined with the witness description of the van and the opportunity Olie had to take Josh gives us probable cause for a search. When we bring him in this time, we can let him have it with both barrels.”

She paced in front of his desk, her focus on her plan. “But I was thinking we might want to hold off,” she said.

“What the hell for?” Steiger demanded, pushing to his feet from the visitor's chair. “Let's go in and rattle the little shit's cage.”

“‘Let's'? As in ‘let
us
'?” Megan sneered. “Olie Swain lives within the city limits of Deer Lake. This is a police matter; it's out of your jurisdiction, Steiger.”

“Forget that.” Steiger glared at her. “This is a multijurisdictional investigation. I'm in on nailing this creep—”

“Well, then, how about
we
prove he did it?” Megan interrupted. “We can set up a surveillance and see if he leads us to Josh. We know Josh isn't at his place. He must have him stashed somewhere. And then there's the question of whether or not he acted alone. We know he didn't make that call from St. Peter or leave the notebook on Mitch's truck. He might lead us to the person who did.”

Steiger looked at her as if she'd proposed they all put lampshades on their heads and dance the hokey-pokey. “How the hell are we supposed to do a surveillance on somebody in a town this size? I take a dump at seven o'clock, everybody in Deer Lake knows it by five after.”

“That probably doesn't have anything to do with the size of the town,” Megan said derisively.

“The house across the street from Olie's place is vacant,” Mitch said as he rose from his chair to pace. “Arlan and Ramona Neiderhauser spend the winter in a trailer park in Brownsville, Texas. I can get us into the house.”

“And what happens when Olie leaves his place?” Steiger challenged. “There's no way in hell you can tail somebody through Deer Lake without getting made.”

“We do the surveillance at night. Use unmarked cars. Stay well back, leave the lights off. If he makes us, we're screwed, but if he doesn't, he might lead us to Josh.”

Steiger snorted. “He's a little worm. I say if we roust him, he'll turn over and give us what we want.”

“And what if he doesn't?” Mitch demanded. “What if he's got an accomplice? We drag Olie in, the partner panics, and Josh is dead.”

He punched his intercom button. “Natalie? Will you please get me Arlan Neiderhauser on the line?” Turning back to the sheriff, he said, “We have to give this a shot, Russ. If it doesn't work, we'll still have the warrants.”

“Damn waste of time, that's what it is,” Steiger grumbled.

“It's a shot at getting Josh back alive and nailing his abductors red-handed.” Mitch checked his watch and did some quick figuring in his head. “Olie's at work from three until eleven. I'll put a man outside the rink right now, just in case. Let's pick our teams and meet in the war room at eight.”

Steiger left the office snarling. Megan blew out a breath as he slammed the door shut behind him. “The loose cannon rumbles.”

“Fuck him.”

“I'll pass, thanks,” Megan drawled.

Mitch dismissed Steiger and the remark as he came around the desk. “Good police work, Agent O'Malley. I'm in town two years and I don't get Olie Swain for anything; you're here five days and you prove he's a child molester. Hell, I even ran a check on him. Nothing. Nada. Zippo.”

Megan frowned at the self-recrimination in his voice. “He had a valid driver's license in his assumed name and no record. You did your job. I just went a step further—and I may not have except that I saw Olie Friday night and I caught a glimpse of what I thought was maybe a crude tattoo job across his knuckles. I played a hunch that he got it in the joint. It paid off. I got lucky.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Mitch murmured. “You're a good cop.”

The sentiment was hardly intimate, but Megan felt a warm rush of pleasure just the same. The fact that he said it almost grudgingly, that he clearly didn't like being one-upped, made the compliment sweeter.

“Thanks, Chief,” she said, trying to sound unaffected.

Mitch didn't miss her embarrassment. The fact that she tried to mask her pride with indifference touched him.