LITMIR.BIZ

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a favorite antique necklace out of the boy’s pocket and dangled it in front of her. Great-grandmother’s diamonds sparkled mockingly.

      “I rest my case,” he said.

      Daisy refused to let her brother see that she was even remotely shaken by the discovery. “Tommy,” she said sternly, “you know perfectly well that doesn’t belong to you.”

      “No, ma’am,” he said, his expression defiant. “But I was taking it anyway.”

      Avoiding a lecture on the Golden Rule and the Ten Commandments, all of which they had studied thoroughly in Sunday school, she instead asked, “Why?”

      “To buy me some food.”

      Molly meowed plaintively, as if to lend her support to Tommy.

      “There’s plenty of food downstairs in the kitchen, if you’re hungry,” Daisy said.

      “That’s now. Sooner or later you’ll send me packing. I need to have the money for backup supplies. I figured I could pawn this stuff over in Colonial Beach or maybe even down in Richmond. Then I could head someplace brand-new where nobody would be on my case all the time or tell me how sorry they are that my mom is dead.”

      She brushed aside Tucker’s restraining hands and rested her own against the boy’s cheek. “We’ve been over this. I will not send you packing,” she said very firmly. “However, nor will I tolerate you stealing from me. You’re grounded until we can discuss this further. Go to your room.”

      She wasn’t sure who was most surprised by her pronouncement, Tommy or her brother. But Tucker had known her longer. He heaved a resigned sigh and stared at Tommy. “I’d get a move on, if I were you, son. My sister generally means what she says. Take it from someone who knows, don’t mess with her.”

      Relief washed over Tommy’s face, though he was quick to duck his head to hide it. He started to scoot down the hall, but Tucker halted him with a sharp command.

      “Aren’t you forgetting something, son?”

      Tommy’s gaze rose to clash with his. “What?”

      “Empty those pockets.”

      Tommy dug his hands into his pockets with obvious reluctance, producing more of her jewelry. Most of the rest had more sentimental than monetary value, but its glitter clearly had appealed to Tommy.

      Tucker took the baubles and handed them to Daisy. “Costume jewelry or not, I’d get this stuff into your safety deposit box if you ever expect to wear it again.”

      Daisy met Tommy’s gaze. “I don’t think that will be necessary, do you, Tommy?”

      He looked for a moment as if he might make some sort of defiant retort, but Daisy’s gaze never wavered, and he finally wilted under the stern scrutiny. “No, ma’am.”

      When he had gone, the cat on his heels, she turned a smile on her brother. “Satisfied?”

      “Far from it, but I can see you’re not going to listen to a word I say.”

      She patted his cheek. “Smart man. And don’t try sending Dad over here to raise the roof, either.”

      “I won’t have to send him. Once he hears about this, you’ll have to bar the door to keep him out.”

      “Well, he can rant and rave all he wants, but it won’t work. For once in my life I am going to do exactly what I want to do, what I know is right.”

      Not that her declaration would stop her father from trying to interfere when he finally found out what she was up to. Despite the precautions she’d taken by warning Frances off, Daisy predicted it wouldn’t take long.

      Trinity Harbor was a small town. Cedar Hill, the Spencer family home for generations, was the biggest Black Angus cattle operation in the entire Northern Neck of Virginia. Her neighbors would probably fight for the chance to be the first to tell Robert “King” Spencer that his sensible spinster daughter had just taken in a stray troublemaker.

      The story would be even juicier if anyone found out Tommy had already tried to steal her jewelry and her car. She was pretty sure she could keep a lid on the attempted car theft, but Tucker might not be so discreet about the jewelry. In fact, since that necklace had been in her father’s family for generations, he might feel obliged to tell their father that it had come very close to heading for a pawnshop.

      And then, she concluded with a resigned sigh, this little squabble with Tucker was going to seem like a romp in the park.

       2

       W ashington, D.C., detective Walker Ames had just finished investigating his fifth drive-by shooting in a month. This had been worse than most–a five-year-old girl who’d done nothing more than sit on her front stoop playing with her doll on a pleasant spring evening. She’d caught a stray bullet meant for a gang member who’d been walking past her run-down apartment building in southeast Washington. The intended victim hadn’t even stopped to see if he could help.

      This kind of incident was not the reason Walker had become a policeman. He’d wanted to make a difference in people’s lives, not just clean up after the tragedies. Innocent babies dying, grandmothers shot without a second glance, kids on school buses killed over a pair of sneakers…there was something seriously wrong with the world when a cop had to spend his days working crimes like that. His stomach churned with acid just thinking about it.

      He’d been at it for fifteen frustrating years now, and not a day went by anymore when he didn’t wish he’d chosen another profession. Unfortunately, law enforcement was the only one he cared about, and he happened to be good at it. His arrest-conviction ratio was the best in the department, because he refused to give up until he had the right suspect in custody. Few of his cases were ever relegated to some cold case file left for others to solve years from now.

      “You get a line on those punks that did it?” his boss asked when he spotted Walker crossing the squad room and heading straight for the industrial strength coffee.

      “Half a dozen people on the street at the time of the incident,” Walker told Andy Thorensen, the caring, compassionate chief of detectives who’d also been his best friend since he’d joined the department. Andy was fifteen years older and going gray, but pushing papers hadn’t dimmed his street smarts or his indignation over crime.

      “Four people claim they never saw a thing,” Walker added as he poured a cup of coffee and took a sip. “The two who admit they did aren’t talking. The girl’s mother is too upset to question. I’ll go back when things have settled down and try again. Maybe when it sinks in that it was a five-year-old who got caught in the cross fire, their vision will improve.”

      His boss gestured toward his office, then waited till Walker was seated before asking, “What about the guy the bullet was meant for?”

      “Vanished. He has to live in the neighborhood, though. We’ll find him. I’m not letting go of this one, Andy.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes, battling exhaustion and the sting of tears. He tried not to let these things get to him, but that was impossible. He had kids of his own, boys he thought about every single time he had to handle a case like this. He might not be raising them since his divorce, but they were never far from his thoughts.

      To buy himself a minute, he gazed out the window and finished his coffee, then said, “You should have seen the kid, Andy. She was just a baby, still clutching her doll. Somebody’s going down for this, if I have to drag every gang member in D.C. in here for questioning.”

      Andy Thorensen nodded, his expression sympathetic. “Stay objective. That’s one of the first things they teach you in the police academy. I’d like to see one of those classroom cops stay objective when they find a kid’s blood splattered all over the sidewalk in front of her own house. It never gets any easier, does it?”

      “I don’t think it’s supposed to,” Walker said. “If we get used to it, we’re as bad as they are.”

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