got to go make a call, and then I’ll come back and tell you a story you won’t believe.”
“’K.” His eyes were already closed, his breathing heavier, his muscles relaxing as he drifted back to sleep.
Sam went into the bedroom they now used as an office, since the Secret Service had commandeered their downstairs study. She fired up Nick’s computer, then knocked a few of his rigidly organized files out of alignment, smiling at the thought of him discovering her handiwork when he felt better. She did a search for Williamson County law enforcement, clicking on the link to the Franklin, Tennessee police department.
The age-progression photo Josh had seen online and a paragraph about the photo being released on the thirtieth anniversary of Taylor’s kidnapping appeared on the department’s home page. The write-up ended with the phone number to call with information about the case.
Sam felt unusually nervous as she placed the call. Rarely did her work cause jitters, but everything about this situation was odd—from Josh happening upon the photo on a random website to the way he’d singled her out to investigate. And then there was his connection to Director Hamilton.
“Franklin Police.”
“I’d like to speak to the detective in charge of the Taylor Rollings case, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Lieutenant Holland, Metro PD in Washington, D.C.”
Dead silence.
“As in the vice president’s wife?”
“As in Lieutenant Holland, Metro PD.”
“Ah, I got it. So you don’t play the VP card, huh?”
This guy was lucky Sam wasn’t his boss, or his ass would be grass and she’d be the lawn mower. “Could I please speak to the detective?”
“You sure can. Just hang on one second. And may I say it was an honor to speak to you?”
Since her head was about to explode with aggravation, she decided it would be wise to remain silent. The phone clicked to hold music that was even more annoying than the MPD’s, and that was saying something.
“Detective Watson.”
“This is Lieutenant Holland, Metro PD in Washington, D.C. Are you the detective in charge of the Taylor Rollings case?”
“I am.”
“I may have something for you.”
After a long pause, he said, “Define something.”
“A possible match for the age-progression photo you circulated. I’ve had someone make contact who believes it’s possible he may be the person you’re looking for.”
“Can you send me a picture?”
“Not yet. We’ve taken a DNA swab and will have a report for you in the next few days. If there’s a match, we’ll proceed from there. You’ll understand that he’s not interested in raising the hopes of the Rollings family without definitive proof.”
“I do understand, and that’s the last thing I want either, believe me. I appreciate the call and the heads-up. Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”
“Just one thing—his thirtieth birthday is next week, so the timing lines up. But if the DNA doesn’t match, there’ll be no point in discussing it any further.”
“I’ll be waiting to hear from you.” He shared his email address and cell phone number. “If you’d give me a call when you send it, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll do that. Could I ask if there’ve been any other leads resulting from the photo?”
“Lots of calls, but nothing that’s panned out. We’re following up on everything the way we always do when this case gets new attention, usually around the anniversary of the abduction.” He sounded exhausted and frustrated, which gave him tons of credibility with Sam. Most detectives she knew spent a vast majority of their careers exhausted or frustrated, often both.
“How long have you been on the case?”
“Fifteen years. The original detective literally worked himself into an early grave looking for Taylor. His wife left him, his kids stopped speaking to him and he turned to the bottle for comfort.”
Sam felt for a guy she’d never met. Sometimes the job took everything you had to give and then asked for more. “And the parents...”
“Toughest people you’ll ever meet. True salt-of-the-earth types. I don’t know how they do it, but they never give up hope. They speak of Taylor in the present tense. Micki says that until she has proof to the contrary, she believes her son is alive.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, they amaze me and everyone else who knows them.”
“I need to warn you, if this guy turns out to be their son, it’ll be the lead story on every TV station and in every newspaper in the country for the foreseeable future.”
“Why? What the hell? Who is he?”
“It’s more about who his father is.”
“I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“None of us are.”
SAM SPENT MOST of Friday night and early Saturday morning running between her puking son and her puking husband. She was about to fall over from exhaustion when she crawled into bed next to Nick after changing the sheets on Scotty’s bed for the second time.
She’d no sooner closed her eyes when her cell phone rang. That only happened at this hour when she was on call, so she was immediately concerned about her dad. “Hello.”
“Sam.”
She groaned loudly and then regretted it when Nick stirred. Rubbing his back to settle him, she said, “What do you want, Darren?”
“I heard you were suspended for assaulting a fellow officer, and Forrester is considering charges. I wanted to give you a chance to comment before I go with it.”
How in the hell had a reporter from the Washington Star caught wind of her suspension? That was supposed to be an internal department matter, thus the term internal affairs.
“Sam?”
“No comment, other than to say if you run that I’ve been suspended when I haven’t, that might be embarrassing for you.”
“So you haven’t been suspended?”
“I’ll neither confirm nor deny. Now leave me alone. I’m sleeping.” She slapped her phone closed and put it on the bedside table. If it weren’t for her father’s precarious health, she’d turn the thing
