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“I understand about patient confidentiality, ma’am.” Greg kept his voice low. “But I have reason to believe that the woman I’m looking for might have come to your clinic for prenatal care and I don’t know how else to find her. I really need to see her. It’s…it’s fairly urgent.”
The expression in Lydia Kane’s sharp blue eyes indicated she was not inclined to divulge any information. “I’m sorry,” she said slowly, making it sound vaguely like a threat instead of an apology, “I don’t think I caught your name.”
Greg realized, a little late, that maybe he should have sent the private investigator to Enchantment to flush out Ashleigh Logan before he came tearing down here himself. If he invented a fake name his poor lying skills would undoubtedly trip him up. But if he said anything now besides a name—my name’s not important or I’m nobody or she wouldn’t recognize me—it would sound lame, even suspicious. And if he kept up this lying now, what would they think of him when the baby came?
Again, he opted for a diversion, a partial truth. “I understand that you can’t give me any information, but I have…something she needs, and I was hoping you might at least contact her for me.”
Lydia Kane didn’t look at all amenable to that idea, either, even though she asked, “And what is her name?”
“Ashleigh Logan.”
“Ashleigh Logan…” Lydia repeated in a musing way, as if she were trying to place the name. “Ashleigh Logan.” She fingered the pendant again and glanced over Greg’s shoulder.
“Maybe you’ve heard of her?” he persisted. “She has a syndicated TV show. All About Babies. I mean, in your line of work—”
“I have seen that show,” Lydia said slowly. “So, is this urgent business somehow related to Ms. Logan’s television show?”
“Uh. No. It’s personal.” Again, Greg settled for a vague truth.
“I see.” Lydia shot another quick glance over Greg’s shoulder, toward the women clustered behind the receptionist’s desk. “Is it a medical matter?”
“Well, no. Maybe I shouldn’t have said it was urgent. It’s not anything of immediate importance….” Greg hesitated while he did some fast thinking. His gaze flitted to the pictures of healthy babies decorating the clinic walls. If this woman ran this clinic, then the welfare of babies must be a very high priority for her. “But it might eventually impact Ms. Logan’s unborn child.” That was the absolute truth, so Greg had no trouble keeping his expression sincere.
“I see.” Lydia Kane shot another furtive glance out the large window, then in the direction of the small waiting room, toward her patients, who appeared to be tuned in to the conversation. Even the two little children had gravitated toward their mothers and now sat still and quiet.
“I’d like to help you. But I’m afraid we’re very busy right now.” She smiled nervously at the women in the waiting room. “Would you mind waiting back in my office while I check on something?”
Greg decided there was definitely something fishy going on at this clinic. “Oh, that’s okay,” he said casually. “I’m running late, actually.” He looked at his wrist as if to check his watch, and realized that in his hurry to hit the road, he hadn’t put it on. The futile gesture seemed to undermine his credibility even further. “I think I’d better be on my way.”
“It will only take a minute. Please. My office is this way.” She swept a graceful arm toward the long hallway.
The woman was clearly trying to detain him—he saw that now. It was what she’d been doing all along. And in the next instant, Greg understood why.
The whoop of a siren caused everyone to turn to the paned window. A black-and-white cruiser braked behind Greg’s Navigator and a trim, muscular young cop jumped out and trotted around the trunk of the squad car. He was wearing a gray Stetson, a flawlessly pressed uniform, dusty brown cowboy boots and a sidearm in a swivel holster. He came bursting into the door of the clinic like a marine at a battle landing.
“This is the man, Miguel,” the Lydia Kane woman said loudly. She had stepped farther away from Greg.
“Come with me, sir.” The cop was about Greg’s size, clean cut and serious-looking. His heavy dark brows formed into a sharp chevron as he indicated the door with one outstretched palm. His name tag read “Eiden,” but this guy didn’t look German. With his hawkish nose and piercing dark eyes, he looked like he could be part Hispanic or maybe Navajo. The deep dimples etched on either side of his mouth somehow made his appearance even more threatening.
“Now, wait a minute,” Greg said as he backed up. Why in the hell did the cops show up every time he started asking questions about Ashleigh Logan?
“I need you to step outside, sir.” The cop reached for Greg’s arm, but again Greg instinctively backed away. The women and children had receded to the far edges of the room.
“Are you arresting me?” Greg demanded. He knew the law, and knew he hadn’t broken it.
“I’m simply conducting an investiga—” The cop’s shoulder radio squawked. He listened, then touched it off. “I just need you to come outside and answer a few questions.”
“Why?”
When Greg still didn’t move, the cop said, “Okay. Sir, I’ll need you to turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
“What?” Greg couldn’t believe this.
But the cop had already reached behind his belt and flipped out a pair of handcuffs. His other hand was poised near his holster.
“Okay!” Greg threw up his palms like a criminal in a TV drama. What choice did he have? He wouldn’t be much good to his baby if he got himself shot.
Before he could so much as blink, Eiden twisted Greg’s arms behind his back and slapped the cuffs on his wrists. With one hand on the cuffs and one hand on Greg’s shoulder, the cop pushed him outside.
Stunned, Greg tried to turn his face toward the man. “Officer, are you arresting me?”
The cop gave the cuffs an instructive jerk. “I could. For interference with official process. But I’ll settle for taking you down to headquarters for investigative detention.”
“What is this all about? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
The cop didn’t answer. He quickly patted Greg down, making Greg grateful he’d left his firearm in the lockbox inside his Navigator.
When the cop was satisfied that Greg was clean, he said, “Please get in the vehicle, sir.” He opened the back door of the squad car.
“What about my vehicle?” Greg jerked his head toward the Navigator.
“I’ll lock it. If necessary, I can impound it later. Otherwise, I’ll bring you back here to get it.”
Again, Greg had no choice but to climb into the musty, plastic-lined back seat. He’d only ridden in the front of a squad car, never in the back. He’d never been on the bad end of an arrest, either. He felt awkward, like an animal in a cage, forced to sit sideways in the cramped space because of the cuffs. As he stared at the Plexiglas barrier to the front seat he thought, Great. This Ashleigh Logan woman is complicating my life more by the minute. He’d been in this backwater town less than an hour and already he was being hauled down to the local pokey.
CHAPTER TWO
AS SOON AS THE DOOR CLOSED behind the men, Lydia Kane and her staff rushed into the waiting room where the two mothers were clutching their toddlers to their pregnant bellies.
“Everything’s all right.” Lydia stretched her arms forth. “He’s gone now. Is everyone okay?”
“We’re fine,” both of the patients answered at once, but their expressions remained wide-eyed and fearful.
“Was that guy dangerous?” one of them asked.
“I hope not,” Lydia soothed. “But we couldn’t take any chances. We have a patient here who has a restraining order against a stalker back in Denver, so we can’t be too cautious.” She turned to her staff. “Lenora, why don’t you go ahead and move these clients back to exam rooms where they can be more comfortable?”
As soon as the patients were gone, the receptionist, Trish, covered her mouth in shame. “I shouldn’t have put her real last name on the board.”
Lydia patted her shoulder. “It’s been a hectic day and you were just following the routine.”
“Don’t worry, Trish,” Katherine said, adding her reassurances. “While Lydia was calling the cops, I called Ashleigh and warned her. Another officer went out to the Coleman cabin while Miguel was on his way here.”
“Still, that awful man saw her name. Now he knows she’s in Enchantment!” Trish wasn’t going to forgive herself so easily.
“You had no idea he’d look back there,” Katherine reassured her further.
“I’m so glad you were alert!” Trish’s shoulders relaxed a bit.
“Yes. Good job, Katherine.” Now Lydia patted the midwife’s shoulder.
“And you did the right thing, Lydia.” Katherine smiled at her boss. “If that is the stalker, thank God Miguel has hauled him off.”
“Yes.” Lydia looked out the window as the cruiser pulled away. “Miguel Eiden isn’t about to let that guy hurt anybody.”
THE POLICE STATION WAS BACK on the main drag, Paseo de Sierra. The sun had disappeared behind the mountains so that Greg couldn’t see much through the grimy rear windows as they pulled into the gravel parking lot. But it looked like the police department was connected by a short breezeway to the civic complex that housed the library and the chamber of commerce. The building was a timber-and-adobe structure that looked as if it had been restored and added onto a couple of times.
The cop took him inside and led him down a narrow hallway to a tiny office, brightly lit and sparsely furnished. He unlocked the cuffs and said, “Take out your driver’s license and have a seat.”
Greg pulled his license out of his billfold, then sat down in a folding chair at a bare utilitarian table. A yellow legal pad and pen were already in place there.
The cop removed his cowboy hat and pitched it onto the table. Before he sat down he snatched up a beige wall phone.
“Ernesto? Miguel here. I’ve got the guy in the interrogation room. Go ahead and start the tape.”
“Tape?” Greg said, “You’re taping me? Isn’t that illegal?”
The cop pulled a wry smile. “Get real.” He checked Greg’s driver’s license, then sat in the chair facing him.
“This is unbelievable.” Greg leaned forward in his chair while the cop scribbled some notes. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
A pretty young woman stuck her head in the door. “Officer Eiden—” her voice was saccharine sweet “—you want this?” She waved a sheaf of papers at Miguel. Without looking up from what he was writing, the cop held out a hand and she took her time sauntering the few steps across the room to deliver the papers.
“Thanks, Crystal.” Giving his full attention to the papers, the cop dismissed her.
But she lingered at Miguel’s shoulder, giving Greg an avid once-over. “You think this is the guy?”
The cop cut her a sharp glance. “Crystal. You can go now.”
She swished out, and the cop perused the pages, occasionally stopping to copy something he’d read onto the legal pad. He looked like he was about Greg’s age—early thirties, maybe. In this part of the country there were a lot of people of Navajo descent, and this man’s bronze skin and straight dark hair hinted at this heritage. When he finished reading he made a two-fingered signal at a picture-window-size mirror set into one wall, then he favored Greg with a cool, assessing squint. “I suppose you think just because this is a small town, we don’t tape perps?”
“So I’m a perp?”
“You tell me.” The cop looked at his watch and jotted something else on the yellow pad.
“What is it that you want me to tell you?”
Still writing, Miguel said, “Just answer a few simple questions…and don’t forget to smile for our camera.”
Greg refrained from waggling a sarcastic wave at “Ernesto,” who was evidently already videotaping from beyond the dark glass.
“What’s your full name?”
Through the Plexiglas in the cruiser Greg had seen Officer Eiden writing down the tag number on his Navigator, and he assumed what the cop had in his hands was an NCIC report—and maybe some additional information from the Denver police. But Greg knew this tactic. The cop would make notes of Greg’s answers to see if they jibed with the official report. “Gregory McCrae Glazier.”
“Age.”
“Thirty-four.”
“Occupation.”
“Land developer.”
The cop calmly jotted down this answer without comment. A lot of people didn’t know what a “land developer” did—buying and opening up new plots of land for housing and business. Greg was anxious to skip ahead. While this cop was playing twenty questions, Ashleigh Logan could be crossing another state line.
“And—” Greg leaned forward, hoping this would help move the process along “—at one time I was a deputy sheriff.”
This, the cop did not calmly jot down. He fixed his gaze on Greg. “Was? Are you retired? Ex-cop? What?”
Greg was well aware that within the brotherhood of the badge, the difference between an ex-cop and a retired cop was vast. An ex-cop was suspect. Had he been drummed out of the force? Had he screwed something up bad? Couldn’t he handle it?
“I’m an auxiliary deputy, but for all practical purposes I’m inactive.”
The cop frowned. “From what agency?”
“The sheriff’s department out in Last Chance, Colorado. My dad was the sheriff until he got killed in the line of duty. My grandfather was the sheriff before him. I guess you could say I inherited the job.”
“Why’d you quit?”
“Technically, I didn’t quit. I had to spend all of my time in Denver for a couple of years.” When Kendra’s kidneys had failed entirely, he’d moved her near the dialysis center. “I found a good replacement, a foreman on my ranch. Ever since, I’ve been inactive.”
He might as well have quit. Greg was through with law enforcement. He had stopped trying to fill his father’s shoes as soon as he found out how sick Kendra was. Playing deputy and keeping the ranch going in the years after his father died had siphoned off precious time that he should have spent with Kendra. Time he could never regain. But to keep from having to explain all of that to this cop, he gave the simple answer. “I still carry a commission card.”
And my gun, he added mentally. He wasn’t sure that fact would win points with this guy, either. “But I don’t do much duty.”
Eiden was a bit of a bulldog. “Why not?”
“It’s pretty quiet where I’m from. The sheriff only calls us if he needs backup on something. Not much call for crowd control out in Last Chance.”
“Okay. I get it.” Eiden scribbled another note. “So, how long have you been a deputy?”
“Since I was nineteen. I was sworn in right after my father was killed.”
“In the line of duty, you say?”
“Yeah. It was a long time ago.” Greg was growing impatient. It was, indeed, a long time ago. And they were all gone. His dad. Kendra. Gramps. All that mattered now was the baby.
Eiden was studying him with the instinctual squint of a cop who suspected he wasn’t getting the whole story, but Greg was in no mood to share. The fact that he’d made a lot of sacrifices—including his ability to father a child—in his desperate but futile battle to save Kendra’s life was nobody’s business.
“Why am I here?” Greg was anxious to focus the conversation back into the now.
The cop put his pen down. “Ms. Kane told me you came to the clinic looking for a woman, someone you believe is one of her clients.”
Greg frowned, thinking, So? What a weird little burg this was. “Do you haul everyone who walks into that clinic looking for someone over to police headquarters for interrogation?” It was all so bizarre that Greg couldn’t help adding, “Is that some kind of crime in Enchantment, New Mexico?”
“Would you mind giving me the woman’s name?”
“Ashleigh Logan. The one with the TV show.”
