Racing Against Time

“But, Judge, your calendar’s full.” The rustle of pages could be heard, mingling with the young woman’s protest. He knew his schedule was never far from her reach.

Brent could hear how flabbergasted she was. Since they’d begun working together, he hadn’t taken more than a few days off, all one at a time, weaving his life around his career the best way possible.

But this was different. This took precedence over everything else.

“Yes, I know, but it can’t be helped.” He rubbed his forehead, trying to think. The headache was getting the better of him, knocking thoughts into the background. “Judge Holstein always said he would cover for me if I needed it.” It was time to call in favors. “And there’s Judge Reynolds and Judge Wojohowitz. They can be counted on to pick up some of the slack.”

Carmella sighed into his ear. He knew what she was thinking. Rescheduling the docket was going to be a severe challenge. She was good, but she wasn’t a miracle worker. But that was exactly what he was in the market for right now, a miracle worker.

He wondered just how closely Callie Cavanaugh fit that description.

There was more shuffling of pages as she asked, “How long is this leave for?”

He couldn’t tell her that it was open-ended. For one thing, her protest would be heated, for another, that meant admitting to himself that his daughter wasn’t going to be found by the end of the day.

Or two.

For once in his life Brent forced himself to be and sound optimistic.

“A week.” He paused, and then, because he was what he was and optimism came at a high premium, he added, “And after that we’ll see.”

There was another pause on the line. Carmella was having trouble comprehending, he thought. A few days was reasonable, a week was stretching it. Since this was unexpected, fathoming anything else was close to impossible.

“Judge—”

He didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to remain on the line with her anymore, even though Carmella Petrocelli was one of the most pleasant people he’d ever met and competent on top of that. The woman was dependability itself. He didn’t want her asking questions. Carmella was one of those people who cared, and he couldn’t handle that right now. It would make him break down.

“Do what you can, Carmella.”

Like the small terrier she had as a pet, Carmella hung on. “Judge, does this have to do with that police detective this morning? Is anything wrong?”

Natural instincts had him wanting to say no, that everything was fine, but the news would be out soon enough. He tried to convince himself that this was for Rachel’s good. The more people who actually knew, the better. It was just that it was so hard for him to admit that he was not in control of a situation and this time, he was so out of control it scared the hell out of him.

“My daughter’s—” What could he say? Missing? No, she was more than missing, she was stolen. No amount of denial was going to change that. He began again, his mouth dry, the words sticking to the roof like bits of white, dampened bread. “My daughter’s been kidnapped, Carmella.”

“Oh, my God, Judge.” The receiver echoed with her concern. “I…I don’t know what to say. Is there anything I can do?”

Yes, find my daughter. Show me the bastard who did this so I can kill him for ever touching my little girl.

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