Come the Night. Susan Krinard
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to treat Ethan as if he were a commoner.
Of course, he had made a mistake in allowing Kavanagh to know that Toby was his son. He had been too eager to observe the American’s expression when he realized that Gillian had concealed the boy’s presence all these years, that she hadn’t had the slightest desire to renew their relationship.
He had received some satisfaction in that, at least. Kavanagh’s pretense at indifference had been spoiled by the anger he had unsuccessfully attempted to conceal.
But was the anger merely at Gillian’s deception? Or was there something more behind it? Something that would make Kavanagh far more of a problem than Ethan had anticipated?
He had no intention of taking a chance. When the cab pulled up in front of his hotel, he already knew what he must do.
Bianchi’s secretary was polite and apologetic when she informed Ethan that the boss was on holiday. When Ethan pressed, she provided him with the mobster’s location, though she carefully reminded him that the boss didn’t like to be disturbed when he was fishing in the Catskills.
Ethan dismissed her warnings. He’d become quite wealthy as a result of skilled investments in American industry and less “legitimate” pursuits, and he’d contributed generously to Bianchi’s defense the last time the boss had been under investigation.
Bianchi owed him, and what he wanted wasn’t much of an inconvenience for a man of the boss’s power and influence. Ethan knew that there was some risk in leaving town at this juncture, but he had a number of hired men watching for Toby, including several in the police department.
And if something were to happen to the boy…why, even that tragedy could be turned to his advantage.
Ethan rang the concierge to arrange for a car and began to pack.
WALKING INTO THE precinct was like walking into the kind of nightmare where everything starts out perfectly normal before going all to hell. Ross stepped through the doors the way he had thousands of times before. He passed a couple of uniforms loitering near the entrance. They started when they saw him; then their faces went hard and blank.
It was the same with every cop he met on the way to the reception desk. Guys who’d been closer to him than brothers turned their backs as he went by. He heard more than one curse crackling in the air behind him. The young officer at the desk gave him a cold stare and suddenly became absorbed in his paperwork.
“I’m here to see Art Bowen,” Ross said.
The officer pretended not to hear him. Ross leaned over the desk, forcing the uniform to lean back.
“He’s expecting me,” Ross said. “Why don’t you be a good kid and let him know I’m here?”
The young cop obviously wanted to go on ignoring Ross. Nevertheless, he picked up the telephone and did as Ross asked, resentment in every line of his body.
Art came into the room five minutes later. He didn’t offer his hand.
“Hello, Ross,” he said.
“Art.” Ross looked past his shoulder. “You said you have my—”
Art made a cautionary gesture and glanced at the uniform behind the desk. “Let’s go someplace where we can talk.”
Ross nodded and dropped into step behind Art. He’d endured another half-dozen cold shoulders by the time they reached one of the interrogations rooms. Art waved Ross in ahead of him and locked the door.
Sitting behind the table was a smallish kid who could have been anywhere between nine and twelve years old. He jumped up as soon as he saw Ross, and they stared at each other in mutual fascination.
The first thing Ross noticed was that Tobias looked exactly like his mother. Oh, not feminine in any way, but fine-boned and intelligent, a little wary, with even and unremarkable features, light brown hair and Gillian’s hazel eyes. His smell was distinctly his own, but it held traces of something half-familiar. Something that reminded Ross as much of himself as Gillian.
“Is this your son, Ross?” Art asked behind him.
Ross looked for any sign of himself in the kid. Maybe there was something in the chin, the line of the mouth, the straight and serious brows. Or maybe that was just an illusion.
The boy stepped forward. “How do you do, sir,” he said. His voice, like Warbrick’s, was that of a cultured resident of England, high with eleven-year-old nervousness, but clear and strong. The kid wasn’t afraid. Of that much Ross was certain.
“Hello, Tobias,” he said, his own voice less than steady.
“Toby, sir. If you don’t mind.”
Art cleared his throat. “I guess you aren’t surprised to see him,” he said. “I didn’t know you had any children.”
Ross couldn’t think of a single good way to answer that question. “How much has he told you?”
“Just that he’s come all the way from England to see you. Looks like he came alone.”
“I did,” Toby said, lifting his chin. He eyed Art warily. “Am I under arrest?”
Laughter caught in Ross’s throat. “What have you been telling him, Art?”
“Nothing.” He gave Ross a direct look that suggested he had more to say on that subject. “I made a few calls. No record of a kid by his name on any ship’s manifest.”
Warbrick had said he’d stowed away. Suddenly feeling far older than his thirty-one years, Ross crouched to the boy’s level.
My son.
He took himself firmly in hand. The only way he was going to be able to deal with this mess was by treating it like any other case. Leave everything personal out of it.
“Tobias—” he began.
“Toby,” the boy said, meeting his gaze.
“Toby. I’m going to ask you some questions, and I expect you to answer them honestly.”
“Of course, Father.”
Funny how much of a punch such a common word could pack.
“Did you really travel on a ship from England by yourself?” he asked.
“I wasn’t any trouble. No one knew I was there.”
“But you didn’t tell anyone you’d left home.”
Toby gazed down at his badly scuffed shoes. “No,” he said quietly.
“How long have you been in New York?”
Toby brushed at his soiled short pants, which Ross guessed he’d been wearing for several days, if not longer. “Just a few days,” he said. He mover closer to Ross and lowered his voice. “I think someone was after me,” he said, “so I hid until they went away.”
“Who was after you?”
“I thought they might be gangsters, but I don’t really have anything worth stealing.”
Ross glanced at the battered suitcase standing beside the table. It might have held a couple of changes of clothing and a few other necessities, but not much else. “I don’t think it was gangsters, Toby. But if you thought you were in danger, you should have come straight to the police.”
“Maybe it was the police,” Toby whispered, rolling his eyes in Art’s direction. “I had to come here because it was the only way I knew how to find you.” Unexpectedly, he grinned, the expression transforming his features the same way Gillian’s smiles had always done. “I knew you’d come for me.”
Ross straightened, reminding himself not to swear in front of a kid. “Okay,” he said. “I need to talk to Art for a few minutes. Can you wait here a little longer?”
“Of course, Father.”