A Mother's Love - By Dawn Stewardson Page 0,2
again, he vaguely recalled Audrey saying something about a delivery. He hadn’t thought she’d meant today, but he decided he’d better go check things out.
Wiping his hands on his jeans, he headed up the stairs and along to the front door. A glance through its small window almost started him rubbing his eyes in disbelief.
The woman standing on his front porch had a long tangle of dark hair, a trim figure and a sweet face that would make any man take a second look. A third one, too.
She was downright gorgeous. And gorgeous women did not routinely come calling. Not to his door, at least.
In fact, he was positive it had never happened before. It was definitely the sort of thing he’d remember.
Opening up, he gave her a warm smile.
“Hank Ballantyne?” she said.
He nodded. This was getting better by the second. She hadn’t just rung the bell because she was looking for directions or something. She was looking for him.
Of course, that briefcase she was carrying could mean trouble. She might be a lawyer or a process server—it wouldn’t be the first time one had appeared out of nowhere. Or maybe she wanted to sell him something. Or she could be some sort of scam artist.
But his instincts were telling him she wasn’t. And like most cops, his instincts about people were usually reliable.
“I’m Natalie Lawson,” she said. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.”
Okay, not a process server. If that was it she’d have told him straightaway.
“Would you like to come in?” he said, taking a backward step.
“I... Are you alone?”
He nodded again. “I’m a pretty safe risk, though. I’m a police detective. NYPD.”
“Yes. I know.”
She knew. Okay, then, she’d done some homework—which got him back to thinking either lawyer or a sales pitch. But if it was the latter, wouldn’t she be acting friendly instead of looking so serious?
Glancing across his greening property to the Taurus parked in his driveway, he noted the Atlas Car Rentals sticker on its front bumper. Salespeople didn’t normally drive short-term rentals.
He ushered her inside and began gathering up the toy trucks that were parked all over the couch while she stood gazing at the pictures of Robbie on the mantel.
“There,” he said. “That gives you room to sit down. Would you like coffee? Or something cold?”
“Thanks, but no. I just... Where’s your little boy?”
“My housekeeper took him shopping. He outgrows his clothes awfully fast. Either that or he plays hard enough to destroy them.”
Natalie smiled. It was a great smile that made him smile back—yet he was still wondering what she was after.
As he sat down on one of the wing chairs facing the couch, she said, “He’s pretty active, then.”
The comment was almost enough to make him laugh. When he wasn’t asleep, Robbie seemed to be in perpetual motion.
“That’s a real understatement,” he said. “He gets into more... But you aren’t here to talk about my son.”
“Actually, I am.”
“Oh?” He glanced at her briefcase again, an uneasy feeling creeping up his spine.
Had she come in some sort of official capacity? If so, he had no idea what it might be. But there was a simple way to find out.
“You’re here to talk about Robbie because...?”
Instead of replying, she opened the briefcase, pulled out a spiral-bound document, then leaned forward and handed it to him.
The title page read, Final Report on Benjamin Lawson-Garcia. Prepared by Rodger Spicer, Private Investigator, Licensed by the State of Michigan.
“Michigan?” He looked at her uncertainly.
“That’s not really relevant. I just hired him because he was recommended by a friend. One who lives in Detroit, which is where I grew up.”
She bit her lower lip for a moment before saying, “Look, I know what a shock this is going to be, and I’ve spent days trying to think of some way to lessen it. There isn’t one, though. Benjamin Garcia is my son, and...my Benjamin is your Robbie.”
For an endless moment Hank felt as if he’d been punched in the solar plexus. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t think. He could only stare at Natalie Lawson while the meaning of her words sank in.
He finally managed to take a deep breath, which started his brain working properly again. After that, he only needed half a second to realize this picture was completely out of focus. And that maybe his instincts had been wrong. Maybe Natalie was a scam artist. Because she was not Robbie’s mother.
Ordering himself to deal with this calmly, he set the report down on