She brought a hand to her abdomen, vision blurring with tears. She’d had a life growing inside her. A baby boy. She and Jack had begun picking out names.
Had. Past tense. Now, no life inside her. No little boy with Jack’s blue eyes and her dark hair.
Her tears spilled over, rolling down her cheeks, hot and bitter.
He lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed from crying.
“Charley,” he said.
The one word conveyed a world of emotion — despair and regret, love and need. For comfort. To understand — how could this have happened?
They’d reached the second trimester. Safe, they’d thought. Out of the woods. Common wisdom validated their belief.
Her fault? Working too hard? Not enough rest?
As if reading her thoughts, Perez stretched out a hand. She took it and he curled his fingers protectively around hers. “Not your fault, Charley. The doctor said these things…happen.”
She shook her head. “That’s not good enough. I need to know why.”
He cleared his throat. “They’re going to run some tests. On us. On our…The miscarriage. He suggested an ultrasound of your uterus, an x-ray, too.”
She squeezed her eyes shut as he tightened his fingers on hers. “This is a setback. It really hurts, but we’ll have—”
“No.”
“—other childre—”
“Don’t. Please.” Her voice cracked. “I wanted this baby…I–I already loved him.”
“I understand,” he said with apparent sympathy.
And he always seemed to. She didn’t know what she had done to deserve his love. They’d met at Tulane University in New Orleans. She had been stunned when he asked her out, when he pursued her. She wasn’t an extraordinary beauty. Just pleasant looking — average face, average figure. And Jack was off the charts handsome. Smart. Educated. From an influential Louisiana family. His falling for her had been as much a mystery as a miracle.
“Have you heard from Harry?” she asked. She’d stopped calling her father Dad on her thirteenth birthday. She was Charley, he was Harry and her mother was perpetually horrified by the both of them.
“Not yet.”
“You left a message—”
“At the restaurant. And just a bit ago on his cell phone. It went automatically to voicemail.”
He was delayed, still in transit. “You didn’t tell him—”
He squeezed her fingers again. “Just that we were here. To call on my cell. I left my number.”
She swallowed past the sudden rush of tears. “Mother?” she managed.
“No answer, home or cell.”
“Ms. Middleton?”
They turned. Two men stood in the doorway, expressions solemn. Both men, dressed in dark suits, were pin neat and pressed, despite the hour. She wasn’t surprised when they introduced themselves as federal officers. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
“Now?” Perez asked as he stood. “Here?”
“It’s about your father,” the taller of the two said, producing his Department of Justice ID.
“About Harry?”
“Harold Middleton, yes. When’s the last time you spoke with him?”
The hair on the back of her neck prickled. “Before he left for Europe. A week or so before.”
“Did he seem himself?”
“Yes. But why—”
“Did he express any concerns about the trip? Any anxiety? Unexpected excitement?”
“My father was a seasoned traveler, Agent—”
“Smith,” he offered. “Did you get the sense this trip was different from others he’s taken?”
“None at all.”
“You planned to meet last evening? At the Ritz dining room?”
“Yes…But how—” She didn’t finish the thought. The feds could find out anything. Harry had taught her that. “For a late supper. I didn’t make it.”
Her throat closed over the words. The agents seemed unmoved by her pain. “We’re sorry for your loss, Ms. Middleton, but—”
“Mrs. Perez,” her husband corrected, voice tight. “As I said, this is not a good time. Either tell us why you’re here or leave.”
Agent Smith looked Perez in the eyes. “Perez is a well known name down in Louisiana.”
Perez frowned. “Meaning what?”
“It’s a name we’re familiar with, that’s all.”
Jack August Perez. His family, descendants of the original Spaniards that settled the New Orleans area, wielded both political and economic influence. In the era of Huey P. Long, they had exerted that power with an iron fist, nowadays with business savvy and brilliant connections.
Angry color stained Perez’s cheeks. “What are you getting at?”
Don’t let him get to you, she thought. Emotions lead to mistakes. Ones that could prove deadly. Another of Harry’s pearls.
What the hell was going on?
She touched her husband’s clenched hand. “It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s just a couple of questions.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Perez. Has your father contacted you in the past twenty-four hours?”
“No. I expect his flight was delayed. I’m used to that sort of thing with Harry.”
At her response, she felt her husband’s startled glance. She didn’t acknowledge it. “How did you know I was here, Agent Smith?”
He ignored the question. “I’m afraid your father’s in some trouble.”
She noticed that while Agent Smith spoke, his partner studied her reactions. She also noticed that every so often he rubbed the back of his hand against his leg, as if scratching at a bite or wiping at a stain.
Most un-fed like. Feds were trained to be as robotic as possible. Nervous twitches were not an option.
“Trouble? I don’t understand.”
“He was questioned in Warsaw concerning three murders in Europe.”
“Harry?” That incredulous retort came from Perez. “You have the wrong Harold Middleton.”
The agent’s gaze flickered to Perez, then settled on her once more. “Your father was able to catch an Air France flight out of Paris several hours later. He arrived at Dulles — then he shot and killed a police officer.”
She who couldn’t hold back. “Impossible!”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s not my father.”
“I understand how you must feel. It’s a shock, but we have witnesses—”
“My father couldn’t have shot anybody. First off, Harold Middleton has spent his life fighting for what’s right. Hunting down and bringing to justice the sorts of monsters who terrorize and murder. That said, where did he get a gun? He’d just gotten off an international flight. Who was this cop? Why would my father want to kill him?”
She held his gaze; the tense silence crackled between them. After a moment, the agent broke the contact, inclined his head. “Those are all questions only your father can answer. We need to speak with him.”
The Feds were like buzzards on road kill — once they made up their mind someone was guilty, they’d move heaven and earth to “prove” it.
The last thing she was about to do was help them find Harry.
“What can I do?” she asked, sounding annoyingly earnest to her own ears.
“Let us know the minute you hear from him.” Agent Smith handed her his card. She gazed down at it, adorned with the Bureau’s familiar red, white, blue and gold seal.
He handed one to Perez. “That’s my cell number. Call anytime, day or night.”
“I will.” She ran her thumb across the business card, heart pounding. “And if you find him—”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“This is all a mistake. You’re looking for the wrong man.”
“For your sake, I hope so.” As the two crossed to the door, Smith turned, meeting her daze once more. Something in his expression made her skin crawl. “Thank you for your cooperation.”