Rescue from Darkness Page 6

  Not a crime scene.

  She seemed fragile and vulnerable, and he resisted the temptation to offer comfort. Those big brown eyes looked at him like a wounded deer.

  She’s still a suspect, he reminded himself. No matter how sweet she appeared. Belle North was one of the last people to see Anna Rodriguez. Kyle caught the delicate scent of her perfume again and breathed deep. She was a beautiful lily in a bed of ragged weeds.

  A portly deputy approached, iPad in hand.

  “No matches on the LPR software, Agent Anderson,” the deputy told him. “We get stolen vehicles, robbery suspects shooting through stoplights all the time and our cameras pick up their license plates. Except for this morning. Seems like everyone around here is at church.”

  Except the kidnapper. Kyle rubbed a hand over the bristles on his chin, remembering he’d skipped shaving this morning to rush over here with Belle.

  “We have one witness who claims to have seen Rosa and her daughter this morning around sunrise,” the deputy added. “Name’s Carl Tucker.”

  Kyle dug a notebook out of his back pocket and walked over to a pimply-faced teenager who stared at his sneakers as if they held the secrets of the universe. Belle trailed behind him. A delicate fragrance of some kind of flowers clung to her. For a moment he wanted to turn, inhale her scent. Take Belle into his arms and bury his face into her hair.

  She was an eye-catching distraction. Not good.

  “Special agent Kyle Anderson, FBI. What did you see?”

  Carl didn’t lift his gaze. “Am I in trouble?”

  Frowning, he glanced at the deputy, who held up a small baggie. “It’s not oregano from his mama’s kitchen,” the deputy drawled.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Belle’s mouth twitch in amusement.

  “I’m not interested in your recreational drug use. If you saw something this morning, tell me. There’s a little girl missing and her mother’s in the hospital,” Kyle told him.

  The young man paled. Gulped. “Okay, okay.” He finally looked up, jammed his hands into his jeans pockets. “I was by the lake, me and my girlfriend, and I saw them by the water. It was maybe around seven o’clock. Looked weird.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Arguing. This woman and a little girl. I could hear her all the way across the lake.” His eyes squinted. “Kid was pulling on the woman’s arm. I think she said something about vamonos.”

  Spanish for let’s go. Anna knew the dangers they faced, and was trying to convince her mother.

  He made a notation. “And?”

  The teen scanned the room nervously. “We heard some screams. I don’t know. I got nervous and we left that area, walked closer to the back of the park. Didn’t want anyone finding out we had, uh, you know.”

  “This?” Disgusted, he shook the baggie. “You sure you didn’t see anything else? Anyone else?”

  “No.” The kid looked hopeful. “Can I go now?”

  “No.” Kyle nodded to the deputy. “Keep him here until his parents show up.”

  “Aw, man,” the teen protested.

  “On second thought, don’t call his parents. Give him some time. Maybe he’ll remember something else.”

  Kyle walked away, frustration mounting.

  He went to the roped-off crime scene to scan the area. Belle followed, her dark eyes wide and troubled. “Is there any chance she’s lost in the park? Maybe she ran off when her mama got hurt?”

  “The deputies will search every square inch. Will take some time.” He paused, and added gently, “They’re calling in the dive team now.”

  Paling, she swallowed hard. “To see if she’s dead.”

  “Not necessarily. It’s a forensic dive team...” His voice trailed off. Who was he kidding?

  “I see,” she mumbled, turning as pale as her freshwater pearls. “Of course. Autolysis comes first, immediately after death. Bloat doesn’t come until enzymes begin producing gases, and then bacteria and skin deterioration, stage two of decomp, which wouldn’t happen for twelve hours after death...”

  “You can stop reciting what happens during decomp, Doc. I’m familiar with the process.”

  “Sorry... I always recite facts when I’m nervous...”

  Recognizing her shock and a desperate attempt to compensate, Kyle took her elbow and steered her to a picnic table. “Easy,” he murmured gently. “We always work on the presumption she’s alive. Prepare for the worst—hope for the best.”

  Unable to help himself, he touched her shoulder. Belle North remained a suspect, but with every passing moment, doubts filled him. He’d dealt with many people in his eight-year career with the feds, from the innocent to the pond-dwelling scum.

  Her distress wasn’t fake. It was real.

  “I wish I would have called the police yesterday,” she murmured, rubbing her temple. “I could have prevented this.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe Smith would have moved sooner and Rosa would have died. You can’t blame yourself. You did what you were supposed to do.”

  Belle bit her lower lip.

  He hated leaving her alone, but there was protocol to follow. “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

  Roarke was consulting with detectives from the local sheriff’s office. His partner glanced up. “I called the hospital. Rosa Rodriguez is still unconscious. She’s in critical condition. She may pull through. Or not. In any case, she’s not in any shape for questioning.”

  Worst fears confirmed, he shoved back the growing panic that flowered every time he was called to investigate a missing-child case. No real leads, and despite the swarms of deputies combing the area for clues, the roadblocks, it didn’t look promising.

  Walking away from the detectives, Roarke led him over to a shady tree. “You okay? This isn’t like the last one.”

  A rough nod. Their last case had been grueling, investigating a six-year-old who’d gone missing from her neighborhood in rural Iowa. The missing girl had been towheaded, with a wide smile that was a close match to his daughter’s.

  They’d found her alive, thanks to the forensic evidence and a lead Kyle had doggedly followed, despite the local cops insisting it was a dead end.

  He took the coffee Roarke offered, gulped it down. “Fine.”

  Roarke’s gaze shot over to the table where Belle sat. “Nice-looking doctor. She has the eyes for you.”

  Startled, he nearly dropped the cup. “Right.”

  “Right. Anyone can see how she looks at you, Kyle. The sparks between you could ignite a woodpile.”

  “She’s a suspect.”

  “Under suspicion, but not a suspect,” Roarke murmured. “Go for it.”

  He snorted. “I’m not going for anything. We have a job to do.”

  “A job you hide behind.”

  Stomach clenching, he glared at his friend. “Since when is hard work frowned upon in this unit?”

  “Since the day the chief told you to ease off and take a break, which you never did.” Roarke paused, his green gaze kind. “You can’t mourn Caroline forever. Get a life, buddy. Find a woman to date—hell, when was the last time you had sex?”

  “Last month when you set me up with that blind date,” he said dryly.

  “I’m not talking about one-night stands. I mean a real relationship. Someone to come home to at night, someone to hold, someone worth fighting for. This job will turn you into a robot if you don’t.”

  “It’s not Caroline.” He drained the now-cold coffee. Hell, he’d mourned his wife’s death, but they’d been on the verge of divorcing. Guilt drove him, not grief.

  “It’s not your fault,” Roarke said gently. “You couldn’t have saved Kasey.”

  His baby girl. Only two years old. Every day he saw her sweet face, those tousled curls, and heard her excited babble as a fresh discovery entered her world.r />
  “Maybe. Maybe not.” He tossed the cup into a nearby trash can. “News crews here yet?”

  Roarke’s face tightened. His partner understood. No more personal business would be discussed at this time. “Not yet. Media specialist is working up a press release right now.”

  He snorted again. “How long does it take to write a release about a missing child? Pressure the chief. Sooner the media releases the information to the public, the greater Anna’s chances are.”

  His partner nodded. “The USERT divers are on their way from Miami.”

  Standard response in a missing-child case around water. Skilled divers from the Underwater Search Evidence Response Team would comb the lake for any evidence relating to Anna’s disappearance and Rosa’s attack. For a moment he was grateful this crime happened here in urban South Florida. Rural cases proved more challenging and it took time to haul in experts and equipment.

  But in rural areas it was harder to hide a child. Here?

  The possibilities were endless.

  Chapter 6

  Two sheriff’s office boats skimmed over the water, their outboards roaring as deputies searched the murky lake. An angry whop whop whop drew his attention skyward. The sheriff’s office helicopter flew over the lake, stirring small waves. Kyle nodded at the machine. “Infrared?”

  “Yeah. Both boats have sophisticated sonar, too. If Anna’s in the lake, they’ll find her.” Roarke’s mouth tightened. “Chances are, that bastard who drove her to the clinic took her.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t find her here. She’ll still have a fighting chance.”

  Kyle returned to the canopy where Belle sat, watching the hive of activity around her. It must look like organized chaos to a civilian, but everyone remained focused on the job.

  Finding Anna.

  “You okay?” he asked, touching her arm. Her skin was soft, like warm velvet. A bite of unwanted desire nipped him.

  Focus. Now’s not the time to think of your own needs.

  And yeah, he had needs. He was a guy, and Belle’s soft skin made him think of hot summer nights tangling together, sweat slicking their naked bodies...

  Focus.

  “I guess. I’ve been racking my brain about her and all the details I can recall about her medical examination. Do you really think she’s alive?”

  She bit her luscious lower lip again. Kyle nodded. “Always work on the belief she is. Got any ideas?”

  “Can I see where they slept? Maybe there’s something there that will give me insight as to her condition and why she came into the clinic with the infection.”

  Putting a hand on the small of her back, he guided her toward the yellow canvas tent where Anna had stayed with her mother. Belle seemed petite and fragile, elegant in this rough-and-tumble area. With her excellent bone structure, breeding and classic beauty, she was more suited for luxurious afternoons lounging on a yacht. One of her heels sank into the dirt and she tripped.

  He caught her elbow, feeling soft skin beneath his calloused fingertips, and prevented a nasty spill. Belle gazed up at him and for a moment, he forgot the ugliness around them.

  All he knew was Belle, her wide brown eyes, sunlight glinting in her silky blond hair, her glossy lips parted as she stared up at him.

  Then she murmured a “thank you” and shattered the moment.

  Kyle nodded brusquely. “Don’t recommend heels here.”

  “I didn’t dress for a day at the park. My mother says a lady should always wear heels.” Belle’s cute nose wrinkled. “I suppose I disappointed her with med school because I had to wear flats or risk spraining my ankle running from class to class. She once bemoaned the fact I showed up to dinner in sandals. I thought I would give her a heart attack when I told her they were from a thrift store.”

  Jamming his hands into the pockets of his trousers, he considered the tips of his own leather shoes, the once-polished tips now scuffed and dirty. With Belle’s slender legs, she made anything on her feet look good.

  At the tent, crime-scene tape ringed the perimeter. A crime-scene investigator greeted him.

  “The mother’s clothing is all here, in two garbage bags. Guess they couldn’t afford suitcases.”

  He steeled himself. “The girl’s clothing?”

  The man’s expression tightened. “We found several articles of clothing fitting a five-or six-year-old. If someone snatched her, they took only the girl.”

  “Or she could be at the bottom of the lake,” another technician added.

  An inward gasp of breath from Belle. Kyle glared at the overeager tech. “Stop wasting time and get back to work. I want a full sweep of that tent. Hair, fibers, everything. If someone so much as sneezed inside, I want to know.”

  The tech gulped. “Yes, sir.”

  “Wait.”

  They turned to Belle, who was staring at the tent. “Did you find a battered brown teddy bear with a purple-and-pink bow around its neck?”

  “No,” the older tech answered. “We swept it clean, too.”

  “Then she’s still alive. She has to be alive. Anna wouldn’t go anywhere without that bear. I tried to take it from her in the clinic and she protested. The kidnapper must have taken it when he grabbed her.”

  Another hopeful sign. Kyle scribbled a note in his pad. “Add that to the child’s description,” he instructed the deputy. “A toy that distinctive will help identify her.”

  By now bands of volunteers combed through the park’s extensive grounds to search for the missing Anna. Kyle harbored no hopes she’d be found here. His gut warned she’d been snatched and Smith fled in a car or another vehicle.

  Belle stared at the canvas tent and frowned. “They’re sure this is the tent where Rosa and Anna slept?”

  “It’s not conclusive until we ID their belongings and match either their prints or DNA, but this is the one the ranger said they paid for.”

  Ducking beneath the crime-scene tape, she went to the piles of clothing deputies had sorted out. A crime-scene tech started to protest, but Kyle shook his head.

  Her frown deepened as she dug through the pile and then picked up a child’s sweater and corduroy trousers.

  “Anna suffered from a mild respiratory infection that could have been from sleeping outdoors in damp conditions. Yet it hasn’t rained in two weeks. This tent is well ventilated and the hardwood floor keeps it off the ground. Her clothing was mussed and dirty. She said she was playing outside, but wouldn’t her mother dress her in better clothing instead of what Anna had worn?”

  Kyle saw her point. “She wasn’t sleeping here, but for some reason, they returned here this morning. Perhaps to retrieve their belongings. Whoever did this may have already kept the mother and child in another location.”

  He turned to the park ranger in charge of the campground. “Do you keep records of every vehicle that drives in and out of the campground?”

  The man shook his head. “We don’t have enough staff for that. We do record the license plate of the vehicle of each camper that registers. Rosa Rodriguez paid through the end of February. Plate has the same number you gave us. Brown four-door sedan.”

  The old car Belle had seen John Smith driving at the clinic. But if the car was parked here, someone must have seen it.

  A short time later, after interviewing a couple who’d been camping for the past two weeks, Kyle had his answer.

  Beneath the tent set up at the command post, he stirred a cold cup of coffee. Belle sipped tea. Red lipstick stained the foam cup. A perfect outline of her perfect mouth. For a fleeting moment, he let himself imagine that perfect mouth pressed against his as he took her into his arms.

  She was not his type. Too polished and pretty. With her finishing-school looks and breeding, Belle was as far removed from his childhood in New York as a Palm Beach poodle was to a street-smart mutt.

  But
Belle North was attractive and he was beginning to like her. His gaze strayed to her bottom. Nice and rounded. The doctor fired him up for some reason, made him well aware he was a red-blooded man.

  Not a stone-cold agent who kept to himself.

  “She was never here. Not until this morning,” he mused.

  Yet this John Smith had driven them to the clinic, and where had they gone from there? Back to Smith’s house? If they stayed with him, why was Anna in such bad shape?

  Neighbors would talk if a single man brought home a woman and a young child. People gossiped.

  “Is there anything else you recall about Anna that could help us track down where she stayed? Her clothing was dirty. How did it smell?” he asked.

  Belle closed her eyes again. Damn, he wished she wouldn’t do that. So distracting, as if she got ready for him to kiss her and kiss her hard.

  “Earthy,” she murmured. “Like a child smells when they’ve been playing in the mud. But something else, as well. Not dirt...”

  Those lovely brown eyes flew open. “Like the fertilizer the gardener puts around my mother’s rosebushes.”

  The cup dropped from Kyle’s hand, spilling dark liquid on ground. He turned to the nearest deputy. “Any nurseries or garden centers within five miles of the park?”

  “Palm City Growers, but they’re never open. They’re right next door, a block north of here.”

  “Who owns it?”

  The deputy shrugged, but a park ranger standing nearby spoke up. “Orlen Ryan. He’s older than the dirt itself. His son pays the taxes on the land and the building. They used to sell palm trees, but old Orlen hasn’t been around in forever. Sweet, but stubborn old guy who refused to sell to the city when they wanted to expand the park.”

  “Any employees?”

  “Maybe one or two who drop by to take care of the trees. Place is a dump, but code enforcement never bothers with Orlen since he used to be mayor a long time ago.”

  “I’ll check it out. If the unsub is there, I don’t want him spooked by patrol cars,” Kyle told the deputy, who gave him directions.