Special Forces Father - By Mallory Kane Page 0,29
he said. “I’ll call you after the kidnapper calls.”
“What if he doesn’t call?”
Dawson tipped an imaginary hat. “He’ll call.”
* * *
TRAVIS DROVE TO Myron Stamps’s home in Metairie. It was a large two-story house with white pillars. There was a brick fence across the front of the property with urns in the place of lions sitting on top of the concrete posts that flanked the driveway. Travis drove straight in and parked the bedraggled little hatchback next to a Lexus that was so dark green it could have been mistaken for black.
When he rang the front doorbell, Stamps himself answered. He was a small round man with thinning hair. He had on a polo shirt and pale green slacks. “You’re early—” he started to say as he swung the large door open. “Oh.”
“You’re Stamps?” Travis asked pointedly.
“I’m Senator Stamps,” he said, peering questioningly at Travis. “Who are you?”
Travis eyed Stamps’s clothes. “Going golfing?” he guessed.
Stamps stepped backward and started to close the door.
“This won’t take long,” Travis said, putting out an arm to stop the door. “I have some questions for you.”
“Wait a minute,” Stamps said. “I know who you are. You’re a Delancey.”
“Good job,” Travis said, then pushed past him and walked into the marble-floored foyer. “Nice,” he drawled, turning around to face Stamps, who was staring at him in mild shock.
“You can’t just walk into my home uninvited. If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll call the police.”
“No problem,” Travis said, smiling at the senator. His expression seemed to startle the man. “You can call Lucas, Ethan, Ryker or Reilly. There’s also Shel Rossi, who’s a cousin of ours. And—” he snapped his fingers “—you know, if you wanted to call a judge, you could give Shel’s dad, Judge Rossi, a ring. He’s my uncle.”
“What the hell do you want, Delancey? Which one are you, anyhow?”
“That has nothing to do with why I’m here. But what I want? Well, that’s what we’re about to talk about.”
Stamps took a couple phlegmy breaths as he studied Travis. He tucked his polo shirt a little more snugly over his belly and into his green pants, then he gestured toward the right.
If Travis weren’t mistaken, there seemed to be a small flicker of fear in the senator’s eyes as he said, “You might as well come in. No sense in standing in the foyer.” He pronounced it foy-yay.
Travis headed in the direction Stamps was pointing and stepped into a darkly paneled room. Behind him, Stamps turned on the lights. It was the very cliché of a study. Deep red carpeting and curtains, mahogany desk, leather executive’s chair, three club chairs and each wall lined with bookshelves.
“This is nice, too,” Travis said, gesturing to the dark leather and wood around him. “Never knew working for the government was so lucrative.”
“Your granddaddy did all right,” Stamps muttered, going behind the desk and sitting. He pulled the curtains, exposing French doors that opened onto a patio. Then he turned and picked up a letter opener that seemed to be a tiny replica of General Lee’s ceremonial sword, complete with tassels, and fiddled with it. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell me what you think I can do for you?”
Travis didn’t sit. Instead he propped a hip on Stamps’s desk. Then he leaned down until his face and Stamps’s were no more than six inches apart. “I’ll tell you what you can do for me, Senator.”
“Wha—” Stamps pushed his chair back. “I told you to sit down.”
“You listen to me, old man,” Travis growled. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing threatening Dr. Chalmet, but you’d better back off or I will personally put you in the hospital.”
Stamps stared up at Travis, seemingly horrified. “You’d better watch yourself. You’re threatening an elected official. That’s a federal crime.”
“I’ll tell you what’s a federal crime. Kidnapping a child. Now, that’s a federal crime with some serious teeth behind it.” He stood up and walked back around the front of the desk and sat in one of the club chairs. “Unlike, as you put it, threatening a washed-up senator who hasn’t got a prayer of getting out of court without a felony conviction.”
Stamps pulled a white handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped his face. Then he stood and rested his knuckles on the top of the desk. “I have no idea what you are talking about. What child? What threats? And who is Dr.—did you say Chalmet?”
“I’m sure you’re keeping all that well away from