Free Damaged by Pamela Callow

Hope Carson.”
    There was a stunned silence. “Holy shit.” He added softly, “We thought she was a street kid.”
    “No. Just a forgotten kid.”
    “Look, I gotta go. We need to get her parents down here.”
    “Right.”
    There was an awkward silence. “Thanks for the tip. I’m sorry it was your client’s granddaughter.”
    “Me, too.” She hung up the phone. She pressed herpalms into her eyes. How could she call Marian MacAdam? What would she say?
    In the end, Marian MacAdam said very little. Just, in a tremulous voice, “Is it Lisa?”
    Kate said softly, “The police need Judge Carson to ID the body.”
    Marian choked a sob. “I see.” She swallowed. “I need to call Rob. He’s in Singapore. I think… Oh, damn!” Her voice choked as another sob overwhelmed her.
    The phone buzzed in Kate’s ear.
    Kate grabbed her purse and stumbled down the hallway to the elevators, ignoring the startled looks of the support staff. She got off on the wrong level of the parkade and had to climb up a set of stairs to find her car. Once in it, she rested her head on the steering wheel.
    Why hadn’t she called Child Protection sooner? Hadn’t she learned from her own past? Why had she waited?
    She’d been persuaded by Marian MacAdam’s insistence that she had no real proof of Lisa hurting herself. But that was just scratching the surface. There were other reasons. Ones she hadn’t wanted to examine but couldn’t help drag out from under the cracked rock of her conscience.
    They flailed her with their whiplike truths. You were scared you’d hurt your client’s case for no good reason if you called Child Protection; that you’d destroy the limited faith your client had in you; and —this one made her heart curl in shame— destroy whatever shred of confidence Randall Barrett had in your judgment. She’d wanted to impress Randall Barrett with her smarts, not embarrass LMB with an unfounded call to Child Protection, bringing down the wrath of a client assigned by no less than the managing partner.

10
    Tuesday, May 1, 11:00 a.m.
    T he granary hummed with tightly controlled energy. City workers had been let in to erect a tent over the nucleus of the crime scene. Between the rain and the reporter who had been caught hanging off a nearby apartment balcony with a telephoto lens, it was clear that the scene needed tighter protection.
    And it would need even more if what Kate told Ethan was true. Cold sweat mingled with the rain on his skin. He knocked briefly on the door of the command bus and pulled it open.
    Ferguson straightened. She’d been hovering over Walker’s shoulder, both of them examining a digital photo of the victim’s neck.
    “Got anything?” Ferguson asked. A middle-aged woman of medium height, she looked like a big-boned Scottish milkmaid except for her eyes. She missed nothing and would put up with nothing.
    Ethan exhaled slowly. “We’ve got a lead on the girl.”
    Walker swiveled his chair away from the computer and looked at him.
    Ferguson’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
    “Pretty sure she’s Judge Carson’s daughter.”
    “Jesus,” Walker said softly.
    “Tell me about it.”
    “Who gave you the lead?”
    Ethan’s eyes met Ferguson’s. “Kate Lange.”
    Walker’s eyes widened. Without another word, he swiveled his chair back to the computer.
    “How is she involved in this?” Ferguson asked sharply.
    “She says her client’s granddaughter went missing yesterday. Gave me a description. It sounds like the girl.” He jerked his head in the direction of the crime scene.
    “So her client is Judge Carson’s mother?” Ferguson asked.
    Ethan shifted. He’d been so stunned to hear Kate’s voice on his cell—he hadn’t spoken to her on the phone for months—and then even more stunned by what she told him, that he hadn’t even thought of asking the exact relationship of her client to the victim.
    A flush burned under his collar. Ferguson, he was sure, wouldn’t miss it. “I don’t