Special Forces Father - By Mallory Kane Page 0,41
the same year.
College. That was a thought. Maybe there was more than one Delancey family member who went to LSU. He entered Travis Delancey graduated LSU. The search engine asked him if he’d meant Delancy. He amended his search to Travis Delancey college LSU. That brought up a list of Delancey grandchildren and where they’d gone to college. Travis Delancey, about halfway down the list, had LSU beside his name. Bingo.
Bent then searched images for Chalmet and Delancey and LSU. There were several of Cara Lynn and Kate, together at various school functions. But nothing else.
He looked closely at the photos of Cara Lynn Delancey. It wasn’t that much of a stretch from Dr. Chalmet being friends with Cara Lynn Delancey to the theory that Dr. Chalmet’s little boy was Travis Delancey’s son, especially considering he’d shown up in New Orleans within hours of the kid’s kidnapping.
Excitement churned in Bent’s gut, along with the espresso drink. He saved the link to the photo in his bookmarks and shut down the laptop. Then he walked over to the office supply store and got an enlargement of the photo of the doctor with Cara Lynn Delancey.
Back in his car, he studied the picture. He could easily make a case that the whiny brat was related to the Delancey girl. There was a striking resemblance. Yep, the kid could definitely be a Delancey. Bent felt his scalp burn with excitement. This little tidbit could turn out to be a gold mine.
* * *
AFTER KATE LEFT for her office, Travis headed to Baton Rouge to confront Congressman Gavin Whitley at his office. When he walked into the suite, he saw that the door to the plush inner office was open.
He didn’t stop at the secretary’s desk. Instead he walked right around it.
The fiftysomething woman said, “May I help—?”
But by then he’d left her in his dust and was in the congressman’s office. Whitley sat behind his desk, staring out the window.
Travis quickly took in the items on the top of the dark wood desk. They included several legal-sized manila file folders haphazardly scattered across the surface, a Styrofoam take-out container and a cell phone. “Congressman Whitley,” he said.
Whitley’s head snapped around. “What?” He blinked as his eyes focused. “Who are you?”
“I think you know,” Travis said, “but I’ll introduce myself. I’m Travis Delancey. I spoke to your colleague, Myron Stamps, yesterday.”
The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He leaned forward and started to lift the receiver on his desk phone, but then his gaze snapped to the office door behind Travis.
Travis figured it was the secretary at the door, but he knew better than to turn around and look.
“Congressman, I’m sorry. I couldn’t—”
“It’s all right, Mary. Call security please, to escort this—gentleman—out of the building.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell the guards no hurry, Mary. I’ll just need a few minutes,” Travis said.
Mary looked at each of them in turn, then compressed her already thin lips as she left the office and closed the heavy wooden door behind her.
Travis calculated that he had two minutes at most, if he wanted to get away without being detained and asked a lot of questions. “I have one simple request,” he said to the congressman. “Return Dr. Chalmet’s child to her immediately and she won’t press criminal charges. I haven’t decided what I will or won’t do yet.”
Whitley’s brows drew down and he shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t have the time or the patience to play this game, Congressman. I don’t have a security force to call, but I do know several police detectives. I can call them. They’ll be glad to come over here and put you in handcuffs for kidnapping a child—a federal offense, by the way. Or maybe you’re ready to start talking, right now.”
Whitley’s lips began to tremble, but he stuck to his guns. “I will repeat. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Travis reached out and picked up the cell phone. “Really? I must be mistaken, then,” he drawled as he looked at the recent call log on the phone. There were several calls that appeared routine—other congressmen and senators, his wife, his country club. But there was one that was labeled Unknown. Travis’s pulse skittered. “So this recent seven-minute phone call right here?” He held up the phone’s screen so Whitley could see. “The one that says B.W. Who’s that?”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember that call,” Whitley said. “Perhaps it was a wrong number.”
“Wrong number? You