a wild one, turning his late mother’s dark hair gray way before its time, he thought fondly.
One pint-sized student stood directly in his path, looking up at him as if he were a giant oak tree. Curiosity was imprinted on the boy’s face. Dax gave him an obligatory smile and stepped to one side.
“What do you think it costs to send your kid here?” Nathan asked, raising his voice to be heard above the commotion.
Nathan had three kids, all of whom were under the age of twelve. Remembering his own household with its rabble of four, Dax figured Nathan’s wife had sainthood pretty much under wraps.
He laughed dryly at his partner’s innocent question. “More than you and I make in a year, buddy.”
Nathan blew out a breath and nodded. The academy, established some fifty years ago by the grandfather of the present headmaster, had been the first place of learning for some of the present captains of industry, both within the world of business and in the entertainment world. If rumors he’d picked up were true, a couple of senators had emerged from these halls as well.
“Hey, the public school system’s not all that bad,” Dax pointed out. “You and I went through it and we turned out pretty good.”
Nathan spared him a long look. “Well, at least one of us did.” Suddenly, the shorter man was alert, spotting the person he figured they were both looking for. “Nine o’clock,” Nathan nodded in that general direction. “Looks like that might be the guy who runs the place.”
Dax was already changing direction. “He’s not a ‘guy,’ Brown, he’s the headmaster. See, that’s why your kid’ll never go here.”
“Yeah, that and the fact that I’m short a hundred-thousand dollars for the tab.” Nathan sighed. He tried to match Dax’s stride as the latter lengthened his. “Damn it,” he barked, lowering his voice again because of the children who appeared to be everywhere, “slow down, Icabod.”
Dax grinned at the jive. He bore about as much resemblance to the Washington Irving character as a sunset bore to a light bulb. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a small waist that came from more than a passing acquaintance with the department’s gym, Dax had his mother’s emerald-green eyes and his father’s black hair, quick smile and chiseled features.
Women, much to his partner’s wistful envy, threw themselves at Dax. He was good at catching them, then setting them down. Life was too unsettled for the kind of long-term commitment a relationship would have asked of him. Besides, he was enjoying himself and in no hurry to have that part of his life over. If he felt the need for family, hell, there were his siblings and his cousins to turn to. At last count, the younger Cavanaughs numbered eleven. There was always family to spare as far as he was concerned.
Nathan checked his pocket for his pad. “Think this was all a mistake, like the fire?”
Dax shook his head. “No.”
The expressions he observed on the teachers’ faces looked too worried, too concerned. It went beyond just trying to keep track of the children closest to them until they were herded back into the building and their classrooms.
Just before he reached the headmaster, a stately looking man whose iron-gray hair made him appear older than his chronological years, a young woman got into his line of vision.
The instant she did, his eyes were locked on her.
For a second Dax almost forgot to breathe; she was that startlingly beautiful. The kind of beautiful he would have fully expected to see on the cover of one of those magazines that populated the checkout area of his local supermarket. The kind of beautiful he wouldn’t have believed was real, or could be achieved without a great deal of powder and paint; both of which would have been visible in person.
Except it wasn’t. The young woman before him with the spun-gold hair appeared to be all fresh-faced and natural.
As air returned to his lungs, he felt his pulse quickening the way it did whenever he was confronted with a life or death situation. But this was neither. Gorgeous or not, she was just another person who was there, he reminded himself.
And he had a job to do. There was a little girl who was presently unaccounted for.
“Mr. Harwood?” Dax’s deep voice cut through the din as easily as a sword cut through butter.
Matthew Harwood looked away from the young woman he was talking to, proper concern etched with stately precision on his square face. He looked weary as well as wary.
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Cavanaugh, this is Detective Brown,” Dax nodded behind him, doing his best to ignore the woman on Harwood’s left. “You reported a missing little girl.”
“I reported it,” the woman who had altered his breathing pattern responded before Harwood could say anything. “Her name is Annie Tyler and she’s in my class.”
Which placed her in the first round of questioning. He’d hit a jackpot at a time when he couldn’t afford to be distracted, Dax thought. And if ever there was a woman who was distracting, this was one.
Nodding at the information, he looked around. “Is there somewhere where we can go and talk? Somewhere a little less noisy?” he asked.
As if second-guessing him, Harwood was already waving over an aid. “Mrs. Miller, could you take over Mrs. York’s class?”
Mrs. York.
She was married.
Droplets of disappointment, materializing out of nowhere, rained over him. But maybe it was better this way. He was good at perpetually keeping several balls in the air at the same time, but the law of averages was against him. Someday, one of those balls was going to drop and he couldn’t allow for it to be one associated with his work. He loved being a cop, loved making a difference. Loved the rush when a crime was finally solved, or a perpetrator was brought to justice.
Or a child was recovered, he underscored. That meant focusing exclusively on the job.
Focused or not, glancing at the woman’s hand seemed only natural.
There was no ring on the appropriate finger.
Widowed?
Divorced?
Not his concern, the same harsh voice that had long ago been assigned the role of his personal devil’s advocate whispered within him.
Mrs. Miller was a pleasant-faced, full-figured woman who radiated enthusiasm and sunshine as she approached. She also radiated concern as her eyes shifted to the blonde. “Oh, I hope we find her.”
We. As if they’d somehow misplaced the child. Was the little girl given to pranks? To disappearing from sight, only to watch from a secret hiding place as pandemonium ensued? Was this a bid for attention? So many of these kids hardly cohabited with their parents at all and were desperate for attention.
“I’m sorry, you are…?” Nathan was asking the blonde before he could.
“Brenda York.” Brenda put out her hand. When Dax took it, he thought it felt icy. As if she was worried. Or afraid. “I teach first grade.
