Harlequin Romantic Suspense January 2021 Read online

  The detective shook his head. “No, and that’s part of the reason why you’re here. As far as I know, Annie, or whatever her real name is, hasn’t responded to anything that has been said to her. I tried to get her to talk, but it was like I wasn’t even there. The social worker your department sent tried her hand at communicating with the kid, but she didn’t get anywhere, either.

  “As a matter of fact, after she made several attempts to get the little girl to say something, anything, your Ms. Eckhardt got this confounded look on her face like she felt she was completely out of her depth. I got the impression that she was afraid to call her supervisor about it, so I did. Seemed like the best way to go. Blackwell said he would send reinforcements. Apparently—” Sean gestured at her “—you’re the reinforcements.”

  Okay, January thought. She needed to clear a few things up for this detective.

  “First of all, she’s not my Ms. Eckhardt. We just work in the same department and I’ve been there a couple of years longer than Susan has,” she began to explain.

  Sean held up his hand, stopping the social worker before she could continue. “No offense, but I don’t need—or want—your whole backstory here,” he told January impatiently. “What I do need to know is the kid’s backstory and the sooner you can help me get that, the sooner I can start piecing together what happened in that warehouse today, as well as finding out who shot those men and why they were shot.”

  January waited until the detective paused to take a breath and then she surprised him by laughing at his agenda. “You’re not asking for much now, are you?”

  Sean’s eyes met hers. It was almost a contest of wills. Neither one looked away. “Not if you’re as good as I was told you were,” the detective responded.

  January eyed him a little uncertainly. Was he just trying to use flattery on her, or was he actually telling her the truth? “And just who told you this? That I was good,” she clarified. She didn’t think that Susan would have said something like that. The social worker was too involved in moving up to waste any compliments on her coworkers.

  “Your boss. Blackwell.”

  That surprised her. Blackwell wasn’t generous when it came to handing out compliments.

  As if reading her mind, the detective said, “And if you don’t believe me, that nervous social worker I left with my half-pint witness confirmed it when I asked her about you—before I was ‘summoned’ to come get you.”

  January focused on one term: witness. “I thought you said that you weren’t sure if the little girl witnessed the shootings or not,” January said, recalling what Blackwell had passed on to her from his conversation with the detective.

  For the first time, she saw the detective grin. It was like watching beams of warm sunlight stretching out and brightening the immediate world.

  “Hey, what can I say? I’m an optimist,” the detective said with a shrug.

  “Thinking that a little girl is the key witness to multiple homicides and then viewing that as being optimistic wouldn’t be the way I’d describe it,” January informed him.

  The detective noted the cool tone of her voice.

  “I’m not heartless,” he told January. He wasn’t sure why it seemed so important to him that she know that, but it was. “The way I see it, this gives me a way to get the jump on whoever did this and allows me to eliminate the threat against the kid at the same time.”

  “Threat?” January repeated uncertainly.

  “Threat,” Sean said again. “Because, trust me, if the killer even suspects that he was caught in the act and that there is the smallest possibility that ‘Annie’ here can identify him, her life won’t be worth the proverbial plugged nickel.”

  January found that promise completely unnerving. “Well, since you put it so bluntly, let’s go talk to her, shall we?” she urged the detective. “In my experience, kids are like sponges. They absorb everything and anything around them and—barring a really traumatic incident—they are usually able to recreate what they saw, at least to a reasonable degree.”

  “We have her in one of the interview rooms,” he told her. “Your Ms. Eck—” Sean stopped himself and began again, this time correcting his initial mistake. “Ms. Eckhardt is in there with the little girl.”

  January hardly heard him. She had been at this station a couple of times before, but each time she had only gotten as far as the front desk or somewhere in that general vicinity. She had never been asked to go into the police station proper before. Certainly not to one of the interview rooms.

  As she followed the detective now, she scanned the surrounding area. January found it to be exceedingly depressing, what with its drab, faded pea soup green walls and its decidedly oppressive atmosphere. She caught herself thinking that a weak-willed person would confess to almost anything if it meant that they could get out of here.

  “When was the last time this place was painted?” she asked the detective.

  The question seemed to come out of the blue, catching Sean off guard. He looked at her to see if he’d heard wrong for some reason.

  “Why would you ask something like that?” he asked.

  “Because just look at this place,” she told him, gesturing around at the walls as they continued to make their way down the hall. “It’s depressing.”

  “Our chief objective at the station isn’t to make people happy,” Sean told her, still thinking her question rather odd.

  “You know,” she said speculatively, “you might want to think that strategy over. If the people you’re questioning are in a better frame of mind, it might make them more willing to respond to what you’re asking in a positive light. It might make them want to cooperate. Just a thought,” she added quickly before the detective could become defensive—or worse. She didn’t want to make him combative; she was trying to offer some constructive criticism.

  “I’ll pass your suggestion along to the police station’s interior decorator,” Sean said.

  “You do that,” she responded. “So where’s the interview room?” It seemed to her that they had been walking for a while now and she didn’t see anything that came close to looking like an interview room.

  “It’s on the next floor,” he told her just as they came to an elevator. Stopping, Sean pressed the button.

  January heard the elevator approaching. It was making a grinding noise that was far from soothing.

  “If it’s just on the next floor, we could take the stairs,” she suggested.

  Just as she said that, the elevator came to a halt. The door opened, albeit almost in what appeared to be slow motion.

  This was a really bad omen, January couldn’t help thinking.

  “You don’t mind?” Sean asked, responding to her suggestion to take the stairs.

  The elevator looked almost ancient, January thought, glancing into it. “I’m just thinking in terms of expediency.”

  Sean shrugged. “Well, it’s here now,” he pointed out. “We might as well take it.”

  If it had been up to her, she would have taken the stairs. But January didn’t feel like arguing about it. She was sure that there would be other things to argue about with this detective soon enough.

  “Whatever you say,” she said philosophically as she walked into the elevator ahead of him.

  Was it her imagination, or did she hear the elevator creak?

  “Oh, if only,” Sean murmured under his breath in response to her comment as she walked into the elevator.

  Having entered the small elevator car, January turned to look at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing,” the detective answered. “Just commenting in general.” With that, Sean reached around January and pressed the button for the second floor.

  “It’s been a long day,” he explained, since she was obviously waiting for more.

  January gave him the benefit of the doubt. He was pro
bably referring to the triple homicide he had caught—and his uncommunicative possible witness.

  “So I gather.” She thought about why she was there. “I’ll see what I can do to get your witness to open up and talk.”

  The detective nodded. He believed her. “I’d appreciate it,” he told her with sincerity.

  The elevator door seemed to close in slow motion, just the way it had opened. Then it appeared as if it was thinking about its next move. He reached around her again and pressed the button a second time.

  When still nothing happened, January asked, “Is the elevator thinking it over?”

  “Sometimes it’s slow to respond,” Sean told her, frowning slightly.

  “Maybe it wants you to pick a different floor,” she cracked. When the elevator continued to remain where it was, door closed but not moving, January had another suggestion. “Maybe we should just have the elevator open its doors again. If we had taken the stairs, we’d already be there.”

  As far as she was concerned, they were pushing their luck.

  Just then, the elevator suddenly came to life. It lurched, and then moved upward, inching its way along. “It just takes patience,” Sean told her, although it was clear that he was running out of his.

  “What it could probably take is getting a complete overhaul,” she responded. “Maybe if it had that, then it would run more smoothly.”

  “Yeah, that, too,” Sean agreed.

  The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the elevator came to an abrupt, jarring stop.

  January waited expectantly in front of the door, but it didn’t open, even though the whining, grinding noise that the elevator had been making had completely ceased.

  The door still didn’t budge. “Are we there yet or not?” she asked Sean.

  He bit back a terse response and just said, “No way of knowing.”

  They both looked up at the top of the elevator. The light that indicated which floor they had reached had gone out, giving no indication as to whether or not they had come to their destination or if the journey had been suddenly aborted between floors without any warning.

  “My guess is ‘not,’” she said, still looking up at the unlit array of numbers at the top of the elevator. The numbers that were supposed to alert them as to what floor they were coming to.

  “Certainly looks that way,” the detective agreed.

  “Okay, now what?” January asked, turning toward the man.

  Sean sighed as he opened the small, metal door that housed the phone to call for help.

  “Now we call maintenance to let them know that we’re stuck here and to send someone to get this tin box moving again.” Sean didn’t bother looking at her, but he could feel the woman’s green eyes on him. “And yes, I know. You were right,” he conceded, albeit unwillingly. “We should have taken the stairs.”

  She didn’t think he would acknowledge that so quickly and she felt a certain amount of satisfaction because he did. It allowed her to be magnanimous.

  “I didn’t say a word,” January told him innocently.

  “But you were thinking it,” he said with certainty, growing more impatient as he waited for someone on the other end of the line to pick up. He didn’t feel like standing here like this. He wanted someone to come to their aid and get this damn elevator running. The stalled car was growing stuffy.

  January didn’t particularly care for the detective’s attitude. “If you’re that good at reading minds, why did you need me to come here and deal with your witness?”

  The last thing he needed was a wisecracking social worker. “Look, lady—”

  “Back it up, Detective,” she said sharply. “My name is January, not lady,” she informed him. There was something very impersonal and almost insulting to her about being addressed as “lady.” She felt as if he was saying she didn’t care or get down in the trenches in order to work hard on her cases so she could solve whatever problem had reared its defiant, spiky little head.

  Sean backed away and nodded. “January,” he said obligingly. “I called Child Services because Eckhardt wasn’t up to doing her job and I thought that maybe if I made the call, it would carry more weight.”

  “Mystery solved,” she declared glibly, smiling a little too brightly at him.

  “One of them, anyway,” he murmured. Sean frowned at the phone. It was still ringing. No one was picking it up on the other end. “Where is everyone?” he asked irritably as it rang again.

  “Probably having dinner would be my guess.” She looked up at the elevator ceiling and tossed him an idea. “Listen, if I stand on your shoulders, I could probably get that trapdoor open.”

  January didn’t actually see the detective staring at her in speechless wonder—but she could swear that she felt him doing it.

  CHAPTER 3

  “And then what?” Sean finally asked. He couldn’t begin to imagine this long-haired, blond vision in the light blue dress and high heels actually climbing up on his shoulders, much less pushing open the trapdoor right above their heads.

  January barely glanced in the detective’s direction. She couldn’t help thinking that, for a detective, he didn’t have much of an imagination. “And then I see just how far between floors the elevator actually is.”

  Sean continued to watch her, utterly fascinated. Just how far was this woman prepared to go with this superheroine fantasy of hers? “And then what?” he asked her again, this time supplying a guess. “You shimmy up the cables to get to that landing?”

  January sighed. Obviously, this man was not prepared to do anything about their situation.

  “Unless you have a better idea,” she told him. Maybe he didn’t grasp the full import of this. “Look, there’s a frightened little girl one floor above us. Getting to her and comforting her is my only objective at the moment.”

  He came across a lot of people in his line of work. This woman sounded as if she was nothing short of a crusader. Great, just what he needed. “You really mean that.”

  “Of course I mean it. I’m not playing games here, Detective. Now boost me up so I can climb onto your shoulders,” she told him as she looked up at the ceiling.

  But instead of doing as she asked, Stafford just smiled at her.

  “Why are you grinning like that?” January asked, growing more impatient by the minute.

  “As intriguing and appealing as the idea of having you sitting astride my shoulders is, I think it might be simpler if I just talked to maintenance.”

  As she began to point out what was wrong with that idea—he had just told her that no one was picking up—Sean cut her short by pointing to the receiver and saying, “Someone finally answered the phone.”

  And then he turned his attention to the person on the other end of the line. “Yes, hi,” Sean said. “This is Detective Stafford. Social Worker Colton and I are stuck in elevator number three. It stopped moving between the first and second floors. Uh-huh. Okay, do what you have to do to get this thing moving before we grow old in here. Thanks.”

  January blew out a breath. “So?” she asked. “How long did whoever answered you say it was going to take them to get this thing moving again?” As good-looking as the man was, she didn’t welcome the idea of being stuck with him in this elevator for an indefinite period of time. “Because if he thinks they can’t fix the problem for a number of hours, I’m still willing to give it a try my way,” she told him.

  The woman was obviously stubbornness personified, Sean thought. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. He was about to repeat what the maintenance man he had spoken to had told him when the elevator suddenly lurched again. Without any warning, Sean found himself colliding with her. He grabbed January by the shoulders to prevent any sort of real damage or injury.

  “Sorry,” he apologized, releasing her as the elevator car began to move arthritically to the next floor.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes taking inventory very carefully as he looked January over.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she answered almost haltingly, obviously trying to get her bearings.

  “I’ll take a rain check on those proposed acrobatics just in case this doesn’t pan out,” Sean told her, referring to the revived elevator car.

  She frowned. “Very funny.”

  “No, I’m serious,” he told her. “I think I’d like to see you in action.”

  “The elevator appears to have come back to life. But I’m taking the stairs down after I interview that girl,” she informed the detective.

  “Understood.” They reached the next floor and the elevator door slowly opened. Sean put his hand out against it, ensuring that the door remained opened and secured in place.

  January stepped out quickly. He followed right behind her. “Let me guess,” he said as he led the way to the interview rooms. “You were the youngest in a family of all boys.”

  “You got the youngest part right,” January told him. “But I had two sisters. No brothers.”

  His brow furrowed a little as he tried to make sense of what she was saying. Why would she be so competitive if there were no brothers egging her on? “Then I don’t understand,” he confessed.

  “You don’t need to understand, Detective Stafford. All you need to know is that I’m very agile if the situation calls for it.”

  She’d made the comment in complete innocence. But the way the detective smiled at her told her that he hadn’t taken it in that light.

  She shouldn’t have said anything, she thought.

  “Good to know,” Sean told her. And then his smile faded as he approached the interview room where he had left the other social worker and the little girl she had been sent to help.

  He found himself hoping that this woman turned out to be more helpful than the first one.

  Relief washed over Susan Eckhardt’s rounded face as she caught sight of the detective through the upper, glass portion of the door. By the time Sean quietly opened the door, the social worker was on her feet and at the threshold.