Kindred In Death

“Fine. fine. Where the hell are you?”

“I’m about to be in Alabama.” Her stomach flipped. “I hope, sincerely, in one piece. Peabody has the details if you need them. Move it, Baxter.”

“Moving it.”

Lieutenant Dallas, who would charge through a firefight to do the job, closed her eyes with her stomach quivering as they dipped toward touchdown.

She was better when they were zipping along the roads in some spiffy, topless rental with the heavy Southern air whipping around her head.

“A little late for a cop call to a family man,” she said. “Good, it gives us another advantage.”

“It’s not that late. We’re on Central time,” he told her. “We’re an hour earlier here.”

She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “So we’re here before we left. How does anyone keep their brain from frizzing over stuff like this?”

Unable to resist, Roarke gave her a poke and a grin. “And when we go back, we’ll lose an hour.”

“See? It’s senseless. How can you lose an hour? Where does it go? Can someone else find it? Does it get reported to the Lost Time Division?”

“Darling Eve, I have to inform you the world is not flat, nor is New York its center.”

“The first part, okay, but the second? Maybe it should be. Things would be simpler.”

He slowed, sliding onto a suburban street where the trees were plentiful and the houses jammed so close Eve wondered why the occupants didn’t just live in apartments. They’d probably have more privacy.

Tiny yards spread until the wash of street and security lights, and the scent of grass along with something deep and sweet, wound through the air.

Following the vehicle’s navigational assistant, Roarke turned left at a corner, then stopped at a house-much like all the other houses-in the middle of the block.

Eve frowned at the house. Had she become spoiled and jaded living in the enormity of what Roarke had built, or was the house the size of your average shoe box? Two little cars sat, nose to butt, in the narrow driveway. Low-growing flowers crawled along its verge.

Lights beamed against the window glass. In their glow, she saw a bike parked beside the front stoop.

“These people couldn’t afford to send a kid to Columbia. Unless he bagged a scholarship-and that’s out of profile-how could they pay that kind of freight?”

“Well, the wise and foresighted often begin saving and investing for college educations while the child is still in the womb. Even then, yes, it would take considerable.”

She got out, started toward the house. Stopped dead with her hand resting on the butt of her weapon. “Do you hear that?” she demanded as she cocked her head at the repetitive basso belch that rose into the steamy air.

“Of course I hear it. I’m standing right here.”

“What the hell is it?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but I think it may be some sort of frog.”

“Frog? Seriously? The green hopping things?” She sca

“I don’t have much personal experience with frogs, but I don’t believe they have alien frogs in Alabama. At least not the sort that require stu

“We’ll see about that.” Just in case, she kept her hand on her weapon.

Through the front window she saw the movement on the entertainment screen, and the man kicked back in a recliner, the woman with her feet curled up on the sofa.

“Quiet evening at home in front of the screen,” Eve murmured. “Could they, would they, if they had any part in… what’s she doing? The woman? What’s she doing with those sticks and the fuzzy thread?”

“I have no idea. Why should I have the answers to these things?”

“Because,” she said and made him laugh.

“Well, at a guess again, it appears to be some sort of… craft.”

She continued toward the door, studying the sticks, the yarn, the woman. It popped out of some file of buried facts. “Knitting!” Eve punched Roarke’s shoulder. “I got one. She’s knitting.”

“If you say so.”

“I saw that stuff-the sticks, the thread, somewhere, some case. She’s knitting, he’s watching the screen and having a beer, and the girl’s bike is parked by the door-and not chained down. These aren’t master criminals who helped plan the murder of a teenager, and if they’re involved in hacking or identity fraud, I’ll take up knitting.”

“All that from a glance through the living room window?”

“Security? Minimal, and right now it’s not even activated. No curtains drawn, nothing to hide here.” She stepped to the door, knocked. In a moment, the woman opened the door, without checking and asking who was there.

Her easy smile shifted to surprise, but didn’t lose any of its welcome. “Well, hi, what can I do for y’all?”

The voice was as warm and sweet as the air. She brushed back at her honey blonde hair the way some women did when caught unawares.

“We’re looking for Darrin Pauley.”

“Oh goodness, I think he lives up in Chicago or something. We haven’t seen him in-”

“Who is it, Mimi?”

“They’re looking for Darrin, honey. I don’t mean to have you standing here in the doorway, but-”

Eve pulled out her badge, watched Mimi’s eyes widen on it even as Vincent Pauley stepped to the door. “What’s all this about? Police? New York police? He’s in trouble? Darrin’s in trouble? Well, hell.” He said it on a sigh, something resigned, sad, unsurprised all at once. “We’d better talk inside.”

He gestured them in while his wife rubbed his arm in comfort. “Why don’t I get us all some tea? It’s a warm night, and I bet you could use something cold.”

“Mama?” A little girl looked down over the banister from the top of the stairs to the right.

“You go on back to bed, Je

The girl blinked sleepy eyes at Eve, then slipped back upstairs.

“We’re all going to Play World tomorrow, along with Je

She scooted away. Eve wondered if her hurry was to get away, or to get back quickly. Either case, she and Roarke were left with Vincent Pauley of the handsome face and sorrowful eyes.

“Let’s have a seat. Screen off,” he ordered, and the comedy chuck-ling away shut down. “I guess I always wondered if I’d get police at the door sometime or other about Darrin. It’s been years since I even laid eyes on him. I can’t tell you where he is. He doesn’t keep in touch.”

“When did you last see your son, Mr. Pauley?”

He smiled, but there was bitter around the edges. “I don’t know that he is my son.” He rubbed his eyes. “God, some things never stop coming up behind you, do they? I was with his mother when he was born, and had been with her for months before. I put my name on the records. I thought he was mine. But I didn’t know she’d been with someone else before she was with me, while she was with me. I wasn’t yet twenty, green as grass and dirt stupid with it.”

“Don’t say that, Vi

Roarke rose. “Let me help you with that, Mrs. Pauley.”

“Oh, thank you. Don’t you have a nice accent. Are you from England?”

“Ireland, a long while ago.”

“My grandmother’s grandmother, on my father’s side, she was from Ireland. From somewhere called E

She pronounced it wrong, with a long I at the start, but Roarke smiled. “A lovely little town. I have people not far from there.”

“And you came all the way to America to be a policeman.”

“He’s a consultant,” Eve said, firmly, as Roarke smothered a laugh. “Darrin’s mother is listed as Inga Sorenson, deceased.”

“That’s the name she was using when I was with her, and I left it that way on the records. I don’t know if it was her name. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. I’m told she’s dead, but…”