Free A Stranger's Touch by Roxy Boroughs Page A

front of the hotel clerk. She took a wide stance, balancing herself on legs that could have been straddling the San Andreas Fault given their quaking.
    They’d been to every other hotel and motel in High Level. A dozen of them. All sounding as if they should have been in Reno or Las Vegas: the Sahara, the Stardust and Caesars. The Vagabond was their last chance.
    At Maggie’s insistence, they’d first cruised the streets, checking driveways for the tan car. In a town of less than five thousand, that didn’t take long.
    Logically, more canvassing should have been their next plan of action—visiting the business center to ask if any local women matched the suspect’s description. But Stafford had disagreed. He felt the abductor was headed further north. So they’d split up. Maggie on foot, stopping at every shop on the main street, and Stafford in the car, exploring the accommodations. When Maggie’s trail of crumbs had run out, she walked the couple of blocks back to Highway 35 to meet him at the end of the hotel strip. With each step, she’d sank a little further, as though she carried fifty-pound weights in both hands.
    “He was kidnapped from a schoolyard in Calgary, yesterday.” Maggie heard her voice crack on the word kidnapped. When she continued, she spoke louder, to compensate for the chink in her armor. “Is your manager in?”
    “I’m the manager, Noreen Spence.” The short, stocky woman reminded Maggie of her Aunt Jen, who made regular trips to the makeup counter of her local department store to sample...everything.
    Maggie nodded and stated her name. Acting unofficially, she hesitated to give her rank. She’d had the presence of mind to switch back into her navy blues before their investigations resumed, using the uniform as a way to lure information from people. Hardly on the up and up, but she’d think about her actions later. For now, nothing mattered. Only Davie.
    “What can I do to help you, officer?”
    “I have reason to suspect the abductor, a woman, brought the boy to this motel late last night or early this morning. I was hoping to check your records.”
    Noreen blanched. “Do you have a warrant?”
    “Do I need one?”
    The manager chewed her bottom lip, leaving a pink streak on her front teeth. “No. That’s okay. We want to be helpful.” She drifted to the computer at her side. Her long nails clicked over the keyboard.
    While Maggie waited, she took in the compact lobby, checking corners, noting each exit, scrutinizing every patron that came her way—everyone a possible suspect.
    The door marked POOL opened and a woman appeared. Her dark hair dripped onto the towel she’d draped over her shoulders. A small wailing boy, shivering in his wet trunks, trailed behind her.
    The woman pulled on his hand. “I told you, we only had a half-hour. Open your ears.”
    Don’t scold him, Maggie wanted to say. How would you feel if he disappeared tomorrow? Her chest rumbled with a moan that came up from her toes. She harrumphed to cover the noise with what she hoped sounded like a hum of professional interest, as the woman led the howling boy to the elevator.
    Then Stafford was at her side, his hand covering hers. Mr. Compassion. Mr. Johnny-on-the-spot. The man’s presence both calmed and irritated her.
    She hated being helpless. Hated having to rely on anyone. Hated the burst of confusion she felt at his touch.
    She was an independent person, an officer of the law. Ordinarily, she would have relished the chance to point out the absurdity of using psychic visions to solve crimes. To show that sober, logical, tangible police investigation was the only way to solve a case.
    But a child was missing. Her child. So she desperately wanted to believe, to float on a sea of faith, to abandon reason and cling to the hope Stafford offered like a buoy.
    She slid her hand out from under his.
    “Our last customer was Angela Marshall,” Noreen reported, finally. “Her license plate number is