Maybe just this once, a case could be as simple as someone forgetting to remove a note from a file that the owner never intended anyone to find.
Ross glanced across the room, his gaze landing on two more boxes of files next to the breakfast bar. Kelly had been bringing them home frequently, cross-checking files from the office with the duplicates found inside the wall at the Harcourt mansion.
“You don’t happen to have any more Ds, do you?”
“I think so,” she said, already trying to push herself off the couch.
“Here, let me get it.”
He couldn’t get to the box fast enough. It was the thrill of the chase, and he knew it well. He flipped through the files, his hands landing on one that said “Donovan.” He carried it back to the couch, so they could look at it together.
“It might not even be the same Donovan,” he said to keep his own hopes from getting too high.
As he opened the file, his gaze, well trained from looking at so many documents, went right to the date of birth.
“It’s a match.”
That they’d both said it at the same time made them laugh, but they stopped just as quickly. Okay, they had a match. Now what?
Ross flipped through the file, reading about George and Edie Donovan and the newborn infant they adopted and named Alex. This version listed the birth mother as Mary Something-or-other, but it was probably the bogus one.
He handed the file to Kelly, already planning his steps. First, he would do an Internet search for the Donovans’ son, and then he would start eliminating from that pool those who couldn’t be this particular guy. Part of him hated to mess up another person’s well-ordered life, but the man deserved the chance to know the truth.
For a long time, Kelly didn’t look up from the file. She simply stared at it as if willing it to complete the puzzle. She leaned her head to one shoulder and to the other as if considering, and finally she turned back to him.
“Isn’t Eli Cavanaugh’s friend, the fireman who moved from Richmond, named Alex Donovan?”
“Hey, Donovan, get out here and shoot some hoops with us,” Trent Gillman called from the court adjacent to the parking lot as Alex climbed out of his SUV.
“Give me a few.” Alex shut the door and started toward the station. Basketball was one of the ways the men and women at the station killed a few hours on slow days or burned off steam after busier or more stressful ones. Today had certainly been one of the more stressful variety.
“Make it quick. We need somebody to kill in three-on-three.” To make his point, Trent drove by Cory Long for a perfect layup and then lifted his arms in a Rocky-style victory dance.
“You mean you need me to let you win?”
When a ball came sailing toward him, Alex ducked inside the gray brick structure through the side door.
He traded his khaki pants and polo shirt for a hooded sweatshirt and loose-fitting warm-ups and jogged back outside to join the game. Already, several firefighters, including Fire Chief Nevins, were taking shots.
“Think fast.”
Alex shot his hands up to his face in time to catch the ball aimed at his head. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem,” Trent said.
On the court, Alex executed a perfect chest shot. “You see boys, nothin’ but net.” Going in for the rebound, he balanced the ball on his right hand, setting up for a shot with his left.
“How was your afternoon with the preacher’s daughter?” Trent asked just as Alex took the shot.
No net this time, the ball bounced off the backboard with a thud and then dropped into the grass. Alex turned back to him, drawing his eyebrows together. “What are you talking about? I don’t know any preacher’s daughter. I was just at a conference with Chelsea’s teacher.”
“You mean Miss Fraser? Miss Dinah Fraser?”
“Daughter of Reverend John Fraser,” Bill Nevins filled in the blank when Alex turned his perplexed expression on him.
Fraser, of course. He’d met Reverend Fraser of Chestnut Grove Community Church, a few times during last year’s Community holiday toy drive.
It was strange, though, that when he’d asked Dinah about her common surname, she hadn’t even mentioned her well-known father. She’d said only that there were a lot of Frasers around. What was that all about? It had been difficult enough for him to picture someone like Dinah as an elementary teacher, but a preacher’s daughter? That just didn’t seem possible.
“Puts a whole new spin on the lovely Miss Fraser, doesn’t it?” Trent said.
Cory, who hadn’t spoken up until then, snickered.
Alex wheeled on his coworkers. It didn’t matter that Trent had only voiced Alex’s thoughts. He didn’t feel like cutting his tactless friend a little slack the way he usually did. Today even the fact that he had a good heart might not keep Trent from landing on his backside.
“Have a death wish, Gillman?” Bill asked, before Alex had the chance. “Then I wouldn’t say another word about the lady.” He put enough emphasis on the last two words to show he meant business.
After a few strange glances among the other firefighters, the subject fell away, leaving only six guys and a round orange ball to fill the void. Alex jumped higher, dribbled faster and guarded more aggressively than he had in a long time. That Trent happened to get fouled a few extra times—in the pursuit of the game, of course—couldn’t be avoided.
Alex couldn’t explain his need to defend a woman he barely knew, but there it was. As much as he would like to believe he would rush to protect any woman’s honor, he wondered if he would be as forceful in every case.
When the game ended, all six men poured off the court, drenched and a little bruised. The chief looked more winded than most as he came up behind Alex and rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Some game, wasn’t it?” Alex said, resisting the urge to shake his boss’s hand off his shoulder. His arm was sore, and he was regretting his “enthusiasm” in the game.
Bill made an affirmative grunt and rubbed his elbow where he had battled tendonitis over the years. “There’s only one thing I can say, Donovan.”
“What’s that?”
“That must have been some conference with Miss Dinah Fraser.”
Chapter Three
Dinah startled in her seat as the fire alarm squawked in deafening, repetitive bursts. As if the alarm signaled the beginning of chaos rather than an announcement for safety, a clamor broke out in the classroom around her.
“Everyone, please be quiet,” she said in a loud stage whisper. “It’s probably only a fire drill.” At least she hoped it was, though she hadn’t received advance warning of a scheduled drill.
Dinah set aside the copy of The Secret Garden that she’d been reading to the class and grabbed her grade book. She would need that to check attendance once they reached their designated meeting place by the curb.
“Now let’s line up by the door. I want everyone to stay in line and be silent until we’re past the flagpole.”
At a lower level of chaos, her twenty-four students followed her down the corridor to the side entry. Just as she reached the flagpole, two fire engines and two smaller trucks that must have been for paramedics came roaring up the street toward the school, lights flashing and sirens blaring. When all four trucks stopped, two firefighters, dressed in full gear, including helmets, climbed down from one of the fire engines and entered the building through the front door.
Definitely not a drill. Dinah’s chest tightened,