Detective Daddy

“Oh, okay. I thought you might have managed to make our local Casanova angry. So far Ashanova is batting a thousand. He’s the only man I’ve ever dated that I still like, even after he broke up with me.”

Rachel regarded Vanessa. She was dark-haired, pretty and had a fair share of men hanging around. But Ash was in his early thirties while Vanessa couldn’t be more than twenty-five. What had he seen in her? Okay, besides the obvious. “How’d he break up with you?”

Vanessa studied her nails. “You know, I’m not sure I can explain it. It just sort of happened.”

Rachel nodded. It had just sort of happened with her, too. And Vanessa was right. It was impossible to explain. Somehow, he’d gone from sexy heat to casual cool, and she’d emerged without a scratch—well, except for the baby.

She ran her palm across her tiny baby bump, unable to keep a smile from her face. She was absolutely thrilled about the baby. She was fine with raising it alone. Women did that all the time, and her mother had already been saying for years that she’d be chief babysitter for her future grandkids. And Rachel wasn’t worried about providing for her child because she had an extremely well-paying job.

Speaking of which—she needed to get back to it. She moved her mouse to wake her computer. But instead of picking up where she’d left off the day before with a case involving three suspects, all of whom had left their DNA at the crime scene, she went to the search function and pulled up the Christmas Eve Murders case. She paged down to the summary report.

She’d heard of the case, of course. Everyone had. The Kendalls had been prominent on the social and business scenes in St Louis. The tragic story of their murders was embedded into the history of the city.

She skimmed the summary. Now a captain, Charles Hammond had been the lead investigator on the case. Her “uncle” Charlie had been her dad’s best friend and fishing buddy until her father was killed in the line of duty.

She continued reading. An ex-con named Richard Campbell had been arrested skulking around the upscale neighborhood of Hortense Place where the Kendalls lived, on that Christmas Eve twenty years before.

In a statement to the press, then-Detective Hammond had reported that Campbell had two previous convictions for burglary. He’d been out on bail when the murders occurred. Based on Campbell’s rap sheet and the preliminary investigation, Hammond said the murders appeared to be impulsive rather than premeditated, perhaps a robbery gone bad.

An eyewitness placed Campbell close to the Kendall estate that evening, carrying jewelry and rare coins, later found to be from nearby houses he’d broken into.

Rachel read another couple of paragraphs but the only additional bit of evidence mentioned was that Campbell had scratches on his right arm and Marie Kendall had tissue and blood under her fingernails.

Of course Campbell swore he was innocent and also that the scratches had happened as he had crawled out the window of the last house he’d burglarized.

“Didn’t anyone check the window for blood?” she muttered. She’d need to pull the case file to check on that, and she was pretty sure she wouldn’t be granted access to it, not now.

She took another tiny bite of cracker as she double-checked the date of the murders. She shook her head. Twenty years ago DNA profiling was in its infancy—newborn in fact. The vast storehouse of specific identification information that Rachel took for granted hadn’t even been dreamed of when the Kendalls were killed.

But damning circumstantial evidence plus public outrage over the cold-blooded murder of a prominent St. Louis couple had resulted in a quick conviction. Campbell had received two consecutive life sentences.

Dear God. Rachel sat back in her chair, her hand over her mouth. Now, DNA had exonerated Rick Campbell. Twenty years ago, not one but two families had been destroyed—the Kendalls and the Campbells. Now, one family, the Campbells, was healed—scarred but healed, while the other, Ash’s family, was being destroyed all over again.

“What?” Vanessa said, turning toward her.

Rachel started. Had she spoken aloud? “What? Oh, nothing. Sorry. Talking to myself.”

Vanessa looked at her oddly. “Okay,” she said, and turned back to her computer.

Rachel leaned her elbows on her desk and covered her face with her hands. What was she going to do? She thought about the report she’d sent to the police commissioner, especially her conclusions. The last line of her conclusion appeared emblazoned on her eyelids, as she reviewed the last paragraph in her mind.

The DNA analysis of Sample 90-12-335 yields a 99.9935% probability that the tissue, blood and hair samples found at the scene belong to the same individual. These samples, compared to the submitted sample, 11-09-125, yield only a 0.0000003% match. Conclusion: The samples found at the crime scene and the submitted sample do not match. The two sets of DNA are distinctive and belong to two different people.

I’m so sorry, Ash, she said silently. So very sorry. How was she ever going to face him again? She was already carrying one secret that would change his life forever. Now she had a second. Within days, he and his family would know that Rick Campbell, who’d served twenty years for the murder of Joseph and Marie Kendall, was irrefutably innocent. The real murderer was walking around free.

Chapter Two

Late that afternoon, Rachel stood in the living room of Ash’s two-bedroom house for the first time in two months, trying not to cry. She was still devastated about the DNA analysis, and hyperemotional anyway, because of her pregnancy. Then, just as she’d been about to leave for the day, Ash had stopped by her desk and told her—no, ordered her—to pick up the last of her things from his house, and leave the key he’d given her.

So here she was, where some of the best times of her life had taken place. Ash was the sexiest, funniest, sweetest and most charming man she’d ever known. The passion between them had flared like a supernova and had never dimmed. At least hers hadn’t.

Her friends at work had warned her about him. Behind his back they called him Ashanova and joked that his motto was love ’em and leave ‘em—happy.

She’d of course thought she was different. And she was—at least in one way. As far as she knew, none of the other women he’d dated had ended up pregnant.

Her hand drifted to her tummy and she smiled through the tears that streamed down her cheeks. This little baby was an accident, although Rachel would never tell him or her. Sadly, on her part, this baby had been conceived in love. Too bad the father had just been having fun.

She brushed away the tears from her cheeks and surveyed Ash’s normally neat house. It was a mess. Half a pizza sat congealing on the coffee table, along with a couple of empty beer cans. She glanced into his bedroom. The covers were piled on the floor and two empty glasses sat on the nightstand. A pile of dirty clothes lay in the doorway to the bathroom.

He hadn’t slept a wink the night before. If she hadn’t already confirmed it by the circles under his eyes, she knew it now. Looking at his rumpled bed, she could picture him tossing and turning as he tried to shut out visions of his slaughtered parents.

And she couldn’t even blame him for his anger. His whole life—and the lives of his family—had just been toppled like Humpty Dumpty. He’d gone through the horror of losing his parents twenty years ago. Now, he had to face a new horror, an even more devastating one. Whoever had killed his parents was still out there—free.

But even if she’d known whose DNA she was comparing, it wouldn’t have made a difference. She had an obligation to the victims, to the department, and yes, even to the suspects, to not only uncover the truth, but to keep the information confidential.

She debated for a second whether to make his bed and straighten up, then immediately thought better of it. He’d probably think she was trying to get back in his good graces. Her best bet was to pick up her things and get out before he got home.

Her things. What had she left here anyway? She hadn’t moved in with him, so anything she’d left had been accidental. Sort of.

She shook her head in frustration as she looked in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and found a soft-bristle toothbrush and a hair clip. In the nightstand she discovered her favorite watch, and on his dresser was a gold hoop earring she’d been sure she’d lost.

Had she subconsciously left these things here in hopes of reminding him of their passionate nights and the weekends they’d spent making love, sleeping, eating, watching a ball game or a movie and then making love some more? She couldn’t really deny it.

She stowed the few belongings in her purse and headed toward the front door. As soon as she crossed the threshold into the living room, the smell of the leftover pizza sent nausea crawling up her throat again. Holding her breath, she hurried into the kitchen and ran a glass of cold water from the refrigerator door dispenser and leaned against the counter, sipping it.

The cold liquid cooled her throat and lessened the nausea a little bit. But when she straightened, stars danced in front of her eyes and her head felt woozy. She knew the signs. Ever since she was little, those stars had preceded light-headedness and, if she didn’t sit or lie down immediately, fainting. She hoped she wasn’t going to see stars her entire pregnancy.

She took the water over to the kitchen table and sat down. She rolled the cold plastic against her forehead, hoping to clear her head and stop the dizziness. But the stars got brighter. So she rested her forehead on her folded arms—just for a minute, until the queasiness dissipated. Then she had to get out of here.

It wouldn’t be a good idea to be here when Ash got home.

ASH HAD JUST COME OUT of the grocery store when his phone rang.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said.

“Thaddeus, little brother. Thank God. I figured I wouldn’t hear from you for a week—or a month.”

“Well, the words family emergency sort of cut through the usual red tape. What’s going on? Is everyone all right?”

“Red tape? Are you embedded with the troops somewhere?” Thad was a photojournalist with a renowned news magazine, not a special agent. How much red tape could there be?

There was a brief pause, then Thad spoke. “Figure of speech,” he said. “So what’s the emergency? Is everybody okay?”

“Everybody’s okay, but I’ve got some bad news.”

“What?” Thad’s voice sharpened.

“The new D.A. here accepted the Campbell family’s petition to have Campbell’s DNA run against the blood and tissue they found under Mom’s fingernails.”