Special Forces Father

chapter Four



“He is my son, isn’t he?” Despite the certainty in his voice, Kate could see the doubt, the questions, in his eyes.

“He is,” she said, her psychiatrist’s brain noting the defensiveness in her tone. She cleared her throat and tried to make herself talk—and think—rationally, like a physician, not like a single mom finally confronting the father of her child—his child—who’d been abducted.

“God, Kate, why didn’t you tell me?” His gaze dropped to the photo again. He stared at it for a long time.

“Tell you? Really?” she said, frustration and sarcasm winning out over rational discussion. She waited for him to answer his own question.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know. You couldn’t possibly know where I was. Hell, even if you had known, you wouldn’t have been able to reach me.” He looked up. “I thought you said he was four. It’s been five years—”

She gave a little laugh. “You have to allow nine months for the pregnancy.”

“Oh, yeah.” He looked at the photo again, then slowly, he touched the front of it with a trembling finger.

He must have felt her watching him because he turned back toward the shelf and set the packet of photos down. He started to place the snapshot he held on top of the packet, then changed his mind. He cocked his hip in a familiar way that always set her heart to racing and her insides to thrumming. Sliding his wallet out of his hip pocket, he slid the little three-by-five photo into it, then returned it to his pocket.

A lump grew in her throat and she felt the threat of tears swelling behind it. He’d put the photo of his son in his wallet—because he wanted to be close to his son or because that photo might be the closest he’d ever be to him? “I should get ready to go to work,” she said tightly, pushing the thought that Travis might never meet Max out of her mind. She’d never make it if she let thoughts like that in.

Travis turned to her and smiled. “You should. It’ll be good,” he said. “Trust me. You’ll see when you get there. You need to figure out how you’re going to make a case for temporary insanity.”

Temporary insanity. What if Stamps had shot Paul to stop him from saying whatever he’d been about to say, as Harte and Dani claimed?

“Kate?”

She blinked and realized that, for one moment, she’d gotten caught up in the case. “You’re right,” she said. “I’ve got to get to work. There’s a lot to do before the trial starts. I need to interview Danielle Canto, and probably talk to Harte again. I need to find out just exactly what Stamps said and did before he pulled the trigger.” She stood. “I should get dressed.”

Travis watched her walk determinedly into her bedroom and close the door. She’d finally started thinking clearly about Stamps’s insanity defense. That’s what she needed to do. It was the only way she could ensure her son’s safety. Travis’s thoughts screeched to a halt. Their son. “My son,” he whispered. The words felt alien on his tongue, like a different language.

He’d never intended to have a child. That notion was ranked Number Two on Travis’s Top Five Taboos, right behind Number One, getting married. But that Top Five was dwindling fast. Another item on his taboo list had been seeing Kate again. He laughed shortly. So much for Travis’s Top Five.

He glanced toward Kate’s bedroom. He needed her out of the house—preferably without her cell phone. She’d asked him to promise he wouldn’t tell anybody. But the only thing he’d agreed to was not calling any of his police-officer brothers or cousins.



When he heard the pipes creak, telling him she’d turned on the water in her bathroom, he looked around for her purse, hoping she hadn’t taken it into her room with her. There it was on the corner of the kitchen counter. Feeling guilty as hell, he fished in it until he came up with her cell phone, and pocketed it. Now, if he could just keep her distracted until she left the house without it.



* * *

BENT PARKED HALF a block from Dr. Chalmet’s house in the Garden District at a few minutes after eight o’clock in the morning. He lowered the driver’s side window and felt along the door panel to be sure his magnetic car sign was still in place. It was one of his best ideas ever. The sign advertised ACME Realtors with a large graphic of a house, an eight-hundred number and a bogus web address. Few people gave him a second glance once they saw that sign. Bent knew it was impossible to read the letters and numbers from more than about fifty feet away, but the graphic of a simple, boxy house with its pitched roof was the universal symbol for real estate agent.

Satisfied that his cover was in place, Bent took in Dr. Chalmet’s house. Her Accord was parked in the driveway, but a little hatchback with a Maryland license plate was at the curb. He made a note of the license number for later reference. Then he spent about half a minute debating whether to call his contact or to wait and see what happened. He decided to wait and see if the doctor kept to her routine and headed to her office between eight-fifteen and eight-thirty.

Sure enough, at around eight-fifteen Dr. Chalmet got into her car and headed toward her office. The other car stayed put. Bent stayed put, too. He wanted to see the owner. It could be a family member or a friend. Hell, it could be the kid’s father, except that none of his research had turned up a father. With a license plate from a thousand miles away, the owner of the hatchback couldn’t be a cop. But as his law-enforcement training as well as his fourteen years on the police force in Chicago kicked in, Bent’s pulse slammed into high gear. Montgomery County, Maryland, was so close to Washington, D.C., it might as well be part of the city. And Washington, D.C., housed, among many other things, the FBI. The Feds, who were always interested in kidnappings, especially those involving children. But they didn’t usually drive, certainly not a thousand miles. They preferred to fly in one of the FBI’s private jets and rent cars on the ground.

Besides, he was pretty sure the shrink was smarter than that. But even if she wasn’t, he sure as hell was. He was out of here if the FBI was involved. He’d never gotten mixed up with a federal case and he never intended to. His jobs were short and sweet and clean, these days. When he’d first lost his job and his pension for taking bribes, he’d accepted any job that came his way, including hits. But he didn’t like them. He still had enough police officer inside him to be bothered by taking a life. So he’d quickly moved into kidnapping for ransom. So far, he hadn’t had to harm anyone.

He wasn’t planning on breaking that record now.

He pressed the button to lower the driver’s side window. Taking his phone from his pocket, he set it on camera. Then he settled back in the car seat, wishing he could smoke a cigarette but not wanting to do anything that would attract attention to him. He sat there, holding the phone in position to take a picture, and waited.

At ten-thirty-three, a man came out of Dr. Chalmet’s front door. He was pale, and his clothes looked a size or two too big. He stood straight and tall, but he walked slowly, as if he were ill or injured. Bent surreptitiously snapped a few pictures as the man glanced around the neighborhood. As the man’s gaze turned toward Bent’s car, he froze, remaining perfectly still until the man’s eyes had traveled past him.

He breathed a sigh of relief. The guy hadn’t noticed him. To identify him as a tail and not react would make him one of the coolest guys Bent had ever seen. Would an FBI agent have that kind of cool? Bent didn’t think so.

The guy yawned, then made his way to the hatchback. Bent assessed him and decided that he wasn’t carrying. Even wearing clothes a size too big, it would be hard to completely hide even a small handgun. So he wasn’t FBI. Maybe he was the kid’s father. His client didn’t mention a man in the picture, but it wouldn’t be the first time a client hadn’t known or had neglected to tell him everything about the target’s neighbors, friends and family.

As the non-FBI agent cranked the car and pulled away from the curb, Bent debated what to do. Did he tail the sickly civilian or catch up with Dr. Chalmet at her office and stick with her, his top priority? As the hatchback passed his parked car without a second glance and turned right onto the next street, Bent started his engine and took the left, headed toward Dr. Chalmet’s office.

* * *

TRAVIS WAS GLAD he’d waited to call Dawson’s office. If he’d made the call before he had left the house, he might not have seen the kidnapper. Travis had excellent peripheral vision, one of the many reasons he’d easily qualified for Special Forces. He spotted the dark sedan that was parked half a block down from Kate’s house without ever looking at it directly. He saw the real estate sign on the side, too, but he didn’t believe it for a second. For one thing, there were no For Sale signs in the neighborhood. But he rarely made assumptions based on appearances. That kind of carelessness could be fatal on dangerous missions.

After yawning and making a subtle but obvious point of checking his pockets for the house key Kate had handed him as she’d left, he locked the door to the house, walked to his car and pulled away from the curb. As he passed the car, he noticed the sticker on the windshield. Then, after he had put some distance between them, he glanced in his rearview mirror without moving his head. The sedan’s license plate was obscured with mud and dust, but he could read the first two numbers and the last. What he couldn’t make out was the state. Travis committed the numbers to memory. He would have liked to get a look at the driver, the man he was certain was Max’s kidnapper, but he didn’t want the man to know he’d made him.

Once he was sure the man was not following him, he dialed the number on an old card he had in his wallet, hoping Dawson’s office number was still the same.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice said.

“I need to speak with Dawson,” Travis said.

“Dawson?” Her voice was carefully neutral. Travis knew that Dawson’s investigations firm was exclusive. He didn’t advertise and he rarely gave out his business cards. He liked his referrals by word of mouth. He didn’t operate as Dawson Delancey for several reasons. He used John Dawson, his first and middle names.

“This is his cousin,” Travis parried. She wasn’t the only person who could be coy.

“Yes, and your name please?”

“Could you just tell him I’m here on leave? He’ll know who I am.”

“On leave? You’re Travis?” the woman said. “Travis Delancey?”



Travis was shocked—and worried. He didn’t recognize the voice, but then, he’d been gone five years, and it had been at least three years since he’d talked to any of his family. “Who is this?” he demanded.

“I’m Juliana Delancey. You don’t know me.”

Juliana Delancey? “No,” he said, a question in his voice. “I don’t.”

“First, are you all right?” Her voice was crisp, yet tinged with worry.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m all right. I’ve just got a situation I need to discuss with Dawson.”

“Thank goodness,” she said. “Unless I’m mistaken, it’s been quite a long time since anyone has talked to you?”

Travis was getting more confused by the minute. “Who are you?” he asked again.

“I’m Dawson’s wife, and partner in D&D Investigations.”

For the second time, Travis felt as if someone had punched him. “Dawson’s—what?” he stammered. From what he remembered about his cousin, Dawson had a longer taboo list than he did. And marriage was number one on his, as well.

“Yes,” she said with a pleasant laugh. “It’s wonderful to talk to you,” she said. “You’re the only one I haven’t met. You said you’re on leave. You’re here, in New Orleans, right?”

Travis thought fast. “Listen—Juliana. I really need to get in touch with Dawson. But for the moment, I don’t want anyone to know I called. It’s kind of touchy and complicated, so—”

“Travis. Say no more. I understand. And as a matter of fact, Dawson is in Chef Voleur today. He’s helping his dad move some furniture.”

“What?” Travis blurted again. More surprises. The last time Travis had been home, Dawson’s feud with his father had been going strong.

“When’s the last time you talked to your family?” she asked.

“About three years ago, before I was sent overseas.”

“Then you’ve missed a lot. I’ll give you Dawson’s cell number. Give him a call. He was planning to be finished by noon or so. I’m sure you two can get together.”

“Thanks,” he said. At the next red light, he dialed the number she’d given him.

When his cousin answered the phone, he said, “Dawson, it’s Travis. Don’t say my name.”

There was an almost imperceptible pause, then, “You okay?”

“Yeah. Can I see you today?”

“Sure,” Dawson said without hesitation. “Hang on. Dad, I need to take this call. Be right back.” Then a few seconds later, “Okay, I can talk now. What’s up?” He sounded curious, but also crisp and professional, like his wife had.

Travis wanted to ask about Juliana and about Dawson’s dad, but family stuff could wait. Kate’s son—his son—was missing, and that was the most important thing right now. “I need your help, Dawson. Can we meet somewhere?”

“Where are you? Oh, you’re calling on a New Orleans exchange. When did you get back?”

“Dawson, nobody can know I’m here. Not yet. I need to meet with you somewhere where nobody will know me. I need your help.”

“Sure,” Dawson said. “We’ve got an apartment in the French Quarter.” He gave Travis the address and told him he could be there within an hour. “Depending on how traffic is on the causeway,” he amended.

“How many Delanceys know about this apartment?” Travis asked.

“None,” Dawson assured him. “Well, your brother Lucas did once, but he’s probably forgotten all about it by now. He borrowed it from me when he first came back here from Dallas. And truthfully, it’s not so much an apartment as it is a warehouse.”

Travis was racking up the questions. He’d store this latest one—what was Lucas doing back in New Orleans when he swore he’d never return—with all the others until he had the luxury of time to catch up, which he didn’t right now. “Should I wait in my car?” he asked.

“Nope,” Dawson said. He gave Travis the combination to a mailbox on the outside of the building. “The key’s inside the mailbox. Go to the fourth floor. It’s the only door. Wait for me inside.”

Travis drove to the address Dawson had given him and followed his instructions. He agreed with Dawson’s assertion that apartment was not the right word for the large room that appeared to take up the entire top floor of the building. It had a bathroom and an alcove with a double bed that was separated from the rest of the room by a heavy curtain, and it was air-conditioned. The kitchen, however, consisted of nothing but a microwave and a mini-fridge on a countertop.

Travis turned on the AC and pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge. He sat down in a chair to wait for Dawson.

He’d barely finished the water when Kate’s phone rang. The sound startled him and he dropped the plastic bottle. He cursed his damn jumpiness as he checked the display. The number was her office phone. He could picture her, fuming, ready to rip into him for sneaking her cell phone out of her purse. He hesitated, looking at the display, his finger hovering over the answer button. Then he shook his head. He didn’t want to talk to her yet, and certainly not over the phone.

She’d probably get back to her house before he did, and find him gone. If she was fuming now, he didn’t want to think about what she’d be like when he walked in tonight. He closed the phone. She’d have to wait. He needed to get Dawson on the trail of whoever had taken Max. That was the most important thing. He’d face her later. Hopefully he could show some results that would prove that he’d done the right thing in contacting Dawson. At the same instant that Kate’s call went to voice mail, he heard footsteps on the stairs. There was a double rap on the door.

“Trav?” Dawson’s voice came through the door. Then he heard a key turn in the lock and Dawson burst in, carrying a paper bag that he set on the bookcase just inside the door.

Travis couldn’t help but grin when he saw his cousin. “Dawson,” he said and stepped forward. The two men performed the basic man-hug—quick hand clasp and touch of shoulders, lightning-speed pat on back, then return to their corners. Dawson held on to Travis’s hand for one extra split second, though, and assessed him. “You don’t look so good, partner,” he said, frowning. “What’s the deal? Everything okay with you?”

Outside a car backfired. Travis jumped, then muttered a curse.

Dawson’s assessing eyes narrowed. “Tell me what’s up.”

Travis gave his head a shake and his mouth quirked up in a smile. “How much time have you got?” he asked wryly.

“Actually, I’ve got all day. Dad and I had just finished moving the furniture when you called. I was going to run by and see Ryker, but hell, I see him and Reilly all the time. I haven’t seen you in what? Three or four years?”

Travis nodded. “Yeah. And it sounds like a lot has happened while I’ve been gone. Apparently you found a ball and chain.”

Dawson laughed, but Travis saw pride and contentment soften his face. It was an expression he’d never seen on his cousin’s face—ever.

“Right,” Dawson said. “What we need to be talking about right now is what’s up with you. Let’s sit down.” He went over to the bookcase and retrieved the paper bag and brought it to the big oak table that sat near the windows. They each took a wooden hard-backed chair. Dawson pushed the paper bag toward Travis. “You still like café au lait?”

“Oh, man, thanks,” Travis said, reaching inside the bag and pulling out a hot cup. He lifted the lid. “Sugar?” he asked.

Dawson got up and retrieved a mason jar half-full of sugar and a spoon from the counter where the microwave sat. “Juliana likes a lot of sugar, too.”

Travis spooned sugar into the caramel-colored drink, stirred it vigorously, then took a long swig. “Mmm. There’s nothing like real Louisiana chicory coffee.”

Dawson took the other cup and sipped it. He didn’t say anything else, just waited.

“What do y’all use this place for?” he asked.

Dawson shrugged. “A hideaway if we need to protect someone. We stay here if we have to be in New Orleans overnight. It’s handy for lots of things. Jules wants to fix it up.” Dawson shrugged and smiled.

Travis sent him an assessing look. Dawson married was a concept that was going to take some getting used to. Dawson drank his coffee in silence.

Finally, Travis took a deep breath. “I left Walter Reed AMA,” he said.

Dawson nodded. “Against medical advice,” he muttered.

“Yeah. I’d been on a mission—a long one.” He shook his head. “I don’t need to get into all that right now. Suffice it to say, I walked out, bought a car and drove down here.”

“When was that?” Dawson asked, studying the plastic lid of his cup.

“I got here last night. Went to Kate’s. Kate Chalmet is a psychiatrist. She—”

“I know her,” Dawson said.

“You do?” Travis was a little surprised. Although he shouldn’t have been, he supposed. Dawson worked as an independent investigator, but it made sense that he came into contact with the D.A.’s office and the people who worked there. Kate had already told him she had had dealings with his baby brother Harte, who was a prosecutor.

“Sure. She works for the D.A.’s office. Right now she’s supposed to be making an assessment about whether Myron Stamps was insane when he shot Paul. Did you know he shot Paul Guillame?”

“Yeah, I heard,” Travis said.

“So I’m guessing you weren’t seeing Dr. Chalmet professionally?” Dawson looked up with a twinkle in his eye.

“Nope,” Travis said. “She and I lived together for a long time while we were in college. It ended badly.” He took a deep breath. “Look. I’ll cut to the chase. Kate has a son—Max. He’s four years old and he’s—” To his dismay, Travis felt his voice catch. “He’s mine,” he said thickly, then swallowed hard.

Dawson’s gaze went sharp. “Four years old?”

Travis nodded. “I came home on furlough five years ago and we—hooked up,” he finished harshly. “I didn’t know until this morning that Max is my son.” He waved a hand. “So anyway, you know Kate is evaluating Stamps. I don’t know the whole story but apparently it’s in Stamps’s best interest, or someone’s, anyway, to be acquitted on grounds that he was temporarily insane when he pulled the trigger.”

Dawson stayed quiet.

“Well, yesterday afternoon, somebody abducted Max.”

Travis was surprised again when Dawson didn’t react. But he supposed Dawson had heard it all.

“He disappeared from child care,” he continued. “The child-care personnel were frantic, so they called Kate. She had just hung up from talking with the abductor. He had warned her that if she said anything to anybody, they’d kill her son—they’d kill Max.” Travis cleared his throat. “She told them that she’d popped in and picked up Max without telling anybody. She said the girl who had called was so desperate to believe that Max was with his mom and okay that she had accepted Kate’s explanation without question.”

“When was that?”

“Around four o’clock yesterday afternoon. She hasn’t heard anything since.”

Dawson finished his coffee, then looked at Travis. “Did you tell anybody you were coming here?”

“What? Here?”

“New Orleans.”

“No, I didn’t. You think— No. Not a soul. Not even the used-car dealer.”

“Okay, so the kidnapping is not about Delanceys. That’s good. What can I do?”

Travis laid Kate’s phone on the table. “This is Kate’s phone. The phone the kidnapper called her on. I’m hoping you can trace where his call originated, or figure out where he bought the phone or something.”

“Sure.” Dawson reached for the phone.

“But first,” Travis said. “There was a car outside Kate’s house this morning. I can’t say how long he’d been there. But he was there when she left for work, and he was still there, taking pictures with his phone, as I was getting into my car. He had a magnetic sign on the side of his car, advertising a real estate agency.”

“Can you describe the car or the man?”

“I was trying to play it casual, so I couldn’t get a good look at the man, and the license plate was obscured by mud. But I got the first two numbers and the last. Also, the sticker on the windshield was pretty distinctive. It had three stacked emblems on the left half, with two light blue stripes down either side.”

“Good eyes,” Dawson said.

“I was trained to notice everything and remember it.”

Dawson nodded as Travis handed him a piece of paper where he’d written the car’s make, model and what he’d seen of the license plate number. He’d sketched his description of the left half of the sticker.

“So he’s from out of town. He’s a pro.”

“A pro?”

Dawson nodded as he tucked the note into his pocket. “A professional. They imported him. He must be awfully good at what he does. What did he do when you drove away?”

“He pulled out behind me, but he made a left when I turned right. Left is the way Kate goes to her office. I’m guessing that his instructions are to watch Kate. But he wanted to see who owned the Maryland car. Once he got a good look at me and took some pictures with his phone, I’m guessing he headed for Kate’s office to keep watch on her.”

“I’ve got a computer whiz who can do anything. I’ll get Dusty on this as soon as I get back to the office. Now let’s look at Kate’s phone.” Dawson picked up the phone and pressed a couple buttons, studying the display. He pressed another one, then another. Then he nodded and pocketed the phone. “I’ll get Dusty started on this, too. We’ll have some information soon. I don’t know how much. What else?”

“How can I find Stamps? Do you know?”

“I know where his office is and Juliana can get his home address for you. Why?”

“I have to confront him and find out who took my son!”

“Hang on, Travis. It won’t do you any good to go throwing your weight around. I’d hate for Stamps to hang a harassment charge—or worse—on you. Why don’t I take care of it? I can send someone to watch his office and home, to see who comes and goes. Right now he’s taking time off from his legislative duties, from what I understand, and is working with his attorney to prepare his defense in his upcoming trial.”

Travis rubbed his face. “You can put somebody on him if you want to, but I’m still going to talk to him.”

“I thought you didn’t want anybody to know you’re here. If you piss off Stamps, it’s going to get around.”

“It’ll probably get around anyhow, since the Chicago guy took my picture, and it’s a cinch he’s reporting to someone Stamps knows if not to Stamps himself.”

“What’s the deal with hiding out from everybody? You haven’t even talked to your mom?”

“No, and I’m not going to until I get all this sorted out.” Travis heard his voice. He sounded stubborn, almost petulant.

Dawson assessed him for a moment. “So the only reason you checked yourself out of Walter Reed and drove all the way down here was to see Kate Chalmet? Did you want her to help you find a therapist here in town?”

“A therapist? What are you talking about?” Travis asked defensively.

Dawson shrugged. “It’s pretty obvious, kid. You’re suffering from PTSD.”

Travis laughed, but not with amusement. “No, I’m not,” he snapped, glaring at Dawson. “You think I need a shrink? I can assure you I don’t.”

“Hey.” Dawson held his hands up. “I wasn’t making a judgment. Just asking. So why’d you go to see her? You said you didn’t know about the boy.”

“That’s right,” Travis retorted. He grimaced, then unclenched his jaw. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m just a little on edge right now.” He sighed. “I went to see her because—” He stopped. He didn’t speak for several moments. To his relief, Dawson sat quietly.

Finally Travis took a deep breath. He didn’t want to talk about himself, but he figured if Dawson was going to help him, he needed to know everything.

“I wasn’t just on a long mission. I was captured,” he said finally. “It’s not important, got nothing to do with Kate and my—our—son. But the reason I drove straight to her house—” He stopped again.

Dawson picked up the tiny plastic triangle that he’d twisted off his coffee lid. He twirled it in his fingers, watching it.

“I was held captive for five months. It was beyond hell, and the only thing that kept me alive was thinking about the people I loved. My family—and Kate. Hell, Dawson. I don’t want to talk about all that. I’ll deal with it later. Now my priority is finding Max.”

Dawson nodded and smiled. “Not a problem, Trav. I’ll get right on it. Is that everything?” he asked.

“If you think it might help to tail Stamps, I’d like to know who all he sees and talks to.”

“I’ll put somebody on it.”

“Just bill me,” Travis said, and pushed back from the table.

“Hang on a minute. What do you know about Myron Stamps?”

“Me? Not a thing. Why?”



Dawson shook his head. “I’ll fill you in so you’ll know what you’re dealing with. Myron Stamps is a long-time state senator. He’s probably only ten years younger than our granddad. You probably never heard him talk about the Good Ole Boys, did you?”

Travis shook his head. “Good old boys as in racist and bigoted with a pre–Civil War mentality?”

“Yeah, in general,” Dawson acceded, smiling. “But specifically, the Good Ole Boys are a group of elder senators and congressmen who are following in the footsteps of Con Delancey. And Con, of course, patterned his entire political career after Huey Long. In their heyday, Long in the 1930s and Con in the sixties and seventies, they each courted the rural folks by such programs as Long’s Share the Wealth and Con’s Work and Receive initiative while pushing more and more power into the governor’s hands and out of the legislature. Did you know Con ran for governor three times and lost? Grandmother was sure that he’d have been elected in 1990 if he hadn’t been killed.”

“I’ve heard some of those stories about Granddad. Not about him running for governor, though. What’s all this got to do with Stamps?” Travis asked.

“Myron Stamps followed right along in Con’s footsteps, only he and several other legislators who have been around for a long time called themselves the Good Ole Boys. These days there are only three left—Stamps, Darby Sills and Gavin Whitley. There have been rumors for years that they’ve taken bribes and kickbacks from businessmen in the import business to keep import taxes low and look the other way when certain illegal substances are brought in through the Port of New Orleans.” Dawson took a drink of his coffee, then continued. “Danielle Canto overheard the men who had killed her grandfather yelling out Stamps’s and Paul’s names. The importer, Ernest Yeoman, was convicted of conspiracy to kill Freeman Canto. Your baby brother Harte was involved in the case.”

Travis nodded. “Kate told me he was shot, but he’s doing okay.”

“Right,” Dawson said. “So, like I said, Yeoman was found guilty of conspiracy, but Danielle Canto’s testimony was the only evidence against Stamps or Paul, so they walked away. Stamps is on leave from the senate now, stating he’s working with his attorney to prepare that temporary-insanity defense that the D.A. is bringing against him for shooting Paul.”

“What’s all this got to do with anything?”

“The other two Good Ole Boys? Sills and Whitley? They’re still going strong. Still in office. Still advocating low tariffs. And they owe their careers to Stamps.”

“Sills and Whitley.” Travis frowned. “Are you saying they’re somehow mixed up in all this?”

“Word is they’d do anything for Myron Stamps. So...” Dawson spread his hands, palms up.

Travis tried to wrap his brain around the concept that three state legislators would conspire to kidnap a child. “Kidnapping a child is a federal offense.”

Dawson nodded.

“Why risk it? Stamps could plead down to simple assault.”

“But that’s still a felony. He couldn’t hold public office.”

“You said he’s out of the senate?”

“Nope. Not out. Just taking a temporary leave of absence. If he manages to make this insanity plea stick, he could be back on the job within a year or two.”

“That makes no sense. He’s probably got the best attorney money can buy. From what Kate told me, Paul is not pressing charges. Why not plead innocent and claim it was an accident?”

Dawson shrugged. “I’m not saying it makes sense. I’m just trying to follow their logic—or illogic—tree. If he pleads not guilty and loses, he’s out of politics for good.”

Travis stood. “Okay,” he said. “If you could put a man on Stamps, I’d appreciate it. But I’m still thinking about having a talk with him.”

“He’ll make you as a Delancey.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

“Let me know what happens.”

“I will,” Travis said. “Listen, Dawson. Don’t say anything to anybody about me being here.”

“I won’t, but I think you’re making a mistake.”

“I know. If it were me, I’d go to Lucas. But Kate believes the guy. He told her he’d kill Max if she told anybody. Any time I try to bring up going to one of my brothers or cousins who are on the job, she gets hysterical.”

Dawson reached for the doorknob. “She was okay with you talking to me?”

At that moment the phone started ringing.

“Don’t answer it,” Travis said. “It’s Kate. She knows I have her phone. She’s called once already.”

“This isn’t Kate,” Dawson said, holding up the phone so Travis could see the display. “It says Private Number.”

“That’s the kidnapper,” Travis said.