The Children's Cop

by Sherry Lewis

  Easy for him to say. He hadn’t clawed his way up the ranks in a profession dominated by the opposite gender. He hadn’t spent a lifetime worrying about living up to his parents’ expectations. The spiny knot in her stomach took another twist.

  She forced a laugh, but it came out sounding choked and unnatural. “It’s not that I’m sweating it,” she said. “It’s just such a waste of time.”

  “I don’t think so.” Nick stood to face her, his expression suddenly somber. “If it’s too much, Lucy, I’ll put you on administrative leave while you’re working through this. Would that be better?”

  “No!” She caught the desperation in her response and tempered it with a thin laugh. “No. That’s not necessary, Nick. I’ll go visit Angelina Beckett’s school tomorrow.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He had no idea just how sure she was. “Absolutely.”

  “And you’ll make an appointment with Cecily?”

  Agreeing to that was a little harder, but she nodded and kept her smile in place. “First chance I get.”

  “All right, then. We’ll keep going this way for the time being.” Nick crumpled his sandwich wrapper and tossed it into the garbage can in the corner. “I want you to keep the uncle close. Maria Avila is complaining that we shut her out of the investigation, and she’s convinced that she could have made a difference if we’d let her in.”

  A steady drumming set up in the back of Lucy’s head, and a strange sort of dread crept through her veins when she thought of spending time with Jackson Davis. “You want me to use this guy to smooth ruffled feathers?”

  “Something like that. Just don’t make it obvious that’s what you’re doing. Let him think you need his help.”

  Lucy bleated a stunned laugh. “Are you serious?”

  “It’s called public relations, Lucy.”

  “I know, but—”

  “It’s only for a couple of days,” Nick assured her. “Find proof that Angelina Beckett ran away and we can take the spotlight off. Spend some time with Cecily and get yourself cleared for regular duty. Things will be back to normal before you know it.”

  Normal. With her fingertips numb and her brain not far behind, Lucy wondered if she’d even recognize normal again if she fell over it.

  Nick glanced at her, his expression stern. “Anything else?”

  It was all she could do to shake her head.

  “All right, then. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She fought to keep her head up and the tears at bay as she walked through the darkened bull pen and into the deserted corridor. But once she knew Nick couldn’t see her anymore, she sagged against the wall and buried her face in her hands.

  For one brief moment, she wondered if Cecily Fontaine really could help her, but she shoved that possibility aside almost as quickly as it arose. Somehow, she had to convince Nick that she was emotionally stable and ready to work, and she needed to do it without professional help.

  Chapter Four

  MONDAY MORNING, JACKSON began making more phone calls. Someone out there had to care about Angel’s disappearance. He just had to find the right person.

  In spite of Detective Montalvo’s certainty that Angel had run away, Jackson wasn’t convinced. He’d spent all of the previous afternoon and most of the evening trying to get somebody interested in his story, but all he had to show for his efforts were a splitting headache and indigestion from the leftover pizza he’d wolfed down some time in the middle of the night.

  Pouring his third cup of coffee, he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths as he tried to calm his agitation. Anger was his one legacy from his father, the one thing he had in common with his brother, the thing he hated most about himself.

  He hadn’t expected to find Angel the minute he set foot in Houston, but he had expected to hear that the police had a few clues. He’d foolishly—perhaps naively—expected the media to be interested in finding a missing teenager. It just went to show how little he knew about the way things worked.

  When he finally felt the return of some control, he sipped again and set his cup aside. Guilt he was used to, but it had been years since he’d had to worry about his temper. The stress of Angelina’s disappearance and the added strain of having to think about his family had brought it on.

  He knew it. Didn’t like it.

  Jackson didn’t think about his father often—almost never by choice—but Alexander Davis always seemed to show up with a vengeance when trouble came around.

  After a few more minutes his pulse slowed and the tension in his jaw relaxed. He glanced at his watch and realized that Wiley would be up by now, waiting for an update. Anxious to keep his grandfather as calm as possible during this ordeal, he picked up the phone and punched in the number for the ranch. He’d called a couple of times already, once just after he arrived in Houston and again after he’d settled in at his mother’s house, but if he waited much longer, Wiley would be on him like a duck on a June bug.

  Wiley answered on the second ring. The worry in his voice made him sound every one of his eighty-three years “You sure took your time,” he snapped when he heard Jackson’s voice. “I’ve been up for hours already.”

  “Sorry. The battery on my cell phone died overnight, and I’ve been on the house phone all morning. I was hoping to have some good news when I called.”

  “And do you?”

  “Not exactly.” Jackson lay back on the couch and covered his eyes with one arm. “Things are going as well as can be expected, I guess. The police are doing what they can to bring her home.”

  “I’ve been watching the TV regular,” Wiley said, his tone faintly accusing, “and I haven’t heard a blasted thing yet. Doesn’t sound to me like the police are doing much of anything.”

  “That’s because they’re not convinced she’s in trouble. They think she ran away.”

  Wiley sucked in a sharp breath and Jackson pulled his arm away from his eyes. It killed him to think Angel might be following in her father’s footsteps, and he knew Wiley felt the same way.

  “So maybe she ran away,” Wiley said at last. “I guess we know a thing or two about that. What are you doing to help?”

  “Everything I can. I met with the detective in charge of the case yesterday and I was on the phone all evening with newspapers, television and radio stations. I’ve got a meeting with the detective again this morning and then I plan to spend the day talking to neighbors and going through the neighborhood house by house.”

  “On your own?”

  “If I have to.”

  Wiley let out a noisy groan, a sure sign that he was either getting up or sitting down in his chair. “So how is Pat-Reese? Have you seen her yet?”

  Jackson grinned at the way his grandfather pronounced the name, but his humor was short-lived. “I haven’t seen her. As far as I know, she still hasn’t come home.”

  “Still cattin’ around, is she?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “We shoulda pushed harder, son. We shoulda hired another detective or gotten us a lawyer and taken her to court. We never shoulda never left Angel with her.”

  “We had no choice. We didn’t know where to find her. And we can’t undo the past, anyway.” Jackson reached for his cup, decided he’d had enough caffeine and wished for an antacid instead. “I talked with Hank Livingston on the phone. He seems pretty sharp. I’m planning to stop by his place as soon as I’ve finished talking with the police.”

  “Good idea. Keep in touch with him. What’s he have to say about Pat-Reese?”

  “About what you’d expect.”

  “And how’d he find us? Did he tell you that?”

  That was the one bright spot in an otherwise dark day. “Apparently, Angel told him about the ranch. How she knew about it is still a mystery. I can’t imagine Patrice telling her, but somehow she knew. When she didn’t show up yesterday, Hank remembered that conversation and called directory assistance.”

  “Well thank the good Lord for
that. What do the police say about Pat-Reese?”

  Jackson dragged his gaze from the ceiling to the window and watched the neighbors backing out of the driveway as they started their day. “You know how they are. They’re being careful not to say much of anything.”

  “They know we’re not talking about Mother of the Year?”

  “They know.” Remembering his conversation with Detective Montalvo stirred his own impatience. Though she’d seemed attentive enough, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been on her mind. “I wish I could say more, but there’s just not much to tell yet. How’s everything at the ranch?”

  “Fine. You ought to know it would be.”

  “I’m not worried,” Jackson said quickly. “But I did leave in a hurry.”

  “I ran this place on my own for forty years,” Wiley grumbled. “I think I can do it for a few days.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” Jackson said carefully. “It’s just that I was pretty distracted when I left. I’m not sure I gave Rush all the information he needs.”

  “You got information in that head of yours that Rush and I can’t find in the files?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then quit worrying. We’ll be fine. By the way, I sent Rush and Annette back home.”

  That brought Jackson bolt upright in a hurry. “You did what?”

  “Sent ’em home. I told you I didn’t need anybody looking after me, and I meant it.”

  “But you can’t—”

  “Can’t what? Can’t spend a few nights in my own home without a keeper? Is that what you think?”

  “Rush and Annette weren’t there to act as your keepers,” Jackson said evenly. “They were there in case you need something.”

  “If I need something, I’ll call ’em. I’m a grown man, not a baby. I know how to use the telephone.”

  Losing the battle with frustration, Jackson stood and walked to the window. “I know, but what if you can’t get to the phone?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, boy! I’m fine. Rush and Annette don’t live that far away.”

  “I realize that.” And in most cases, the half-hour drive between their house and the ranch felt like nothing. But if the stress were to get to Wiley, half an hour might be too long. “Look, Grandpa—”

  “No, you look. I know exactly what you’re going to say. I can hear it in your voice. But you quit worrying about me and focus on finding that little girl of ours. If something happens to me, it happens. I’ve lived my life and I’m ready to go when the Good Lord wants me. But I won’t go out with a baby-sitter in the spare bedroom, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Another groan probably meant that Wiley was getting to his feet again. “Call me when you know something,” he snarled. “And next time, don’t coddle me and tell me everything’s fine when we both know it ain’t. Give me the truth, y’hear? I didn’t raise you to lie.”

  With that, the conversation ended and the dial tone sounded in Jackson’s ear. He tossed the handset onto the cushion and dropped onto the couch beside it. He’d never been able to pull the wool over Wiley’s eyes. He’d been a fool to even try.

  But what else was he supposed to do? Wiley was the only family he had. Maybe he wasn’t afraid to depart this world, but Jackson wasn’t ready to let him. And he sure wasn’t going to hasten the process. No matter what Wiley said.

  JUST AS THE SUN CRESTED the horizon, Lucy rounded the bend onto her parents’ street and jogged toward their house at the end of the block. The sky was awash with sunlight nearly ready to break, and already the temperature had climbed to an uncomfortable high. Heavy humidity made it hard to breathe deeply, but three miles on the road had stretched her tight muscles into working order. She found great satisfaction in the slow burn that came with exercise, but she wished she could find some peace of mind to go along with it.

  She’d slept fitfully all night. If she’d been at home, she’d have numbed her mind with some late-night television. But she hadn’t wanted to wake her parents. They’d have wanted to know why she couldn’t sleep, and she wasn’t ready to answer that question yet.

  Now, with two hours until the meeting she’d arranged with Jackson, she had just enough time for a quick shower before heading through rush-hour traffic to the station. Even if she ran into construction delays, she should be early for the morning briefing—a move she hoped would earn a mark in the plus column of Nick’s running tally.

  Dashing a trickle of perspiration from her temple, she checked the quiet neighborhood street for traffic, then crossed the pavement and began her cooldown routine in front of her parents’ house. Her mother was probably making breakfast, she thought as she waited for her heartbeat to slow. Bacon. Eggs. Coffee. Her mouth began to water. Cinnamon rolls, too.

  She’d lived on her own for the past five years and cooking, like housework, had never been a strong point. Most of her meals consisted of takeout and visits to the drive-through, so the aroma of homemade anything made her almost weak in the knees. She would learn to cook one of these days, she vowed as she mopped her face with her towel. When her schedule became less hectic. When she stopped putting in ten-and twelve-hour days.

  When she retired.

  Checking her watch again, she hurried across the lawn, but as she opened the door her step faltered. Her mother’s breakfasts weren’t the kind of meals she could eat on the fly and the last thing she wanted this morning was a lengthy conversation with her parents. They both had some kind of parental radar that zoned in whenever Lucy had something on her mind. She’d always harbored a secret wish for brothers and sisters, but never more than when she found herself under her parents’ magnifying glass.

  Feeling guilty, Lucy closed the front door soundlessly behind her and tiptoed up the first couple of steps.

  “Lucy? Is that you?” Her mother appeared in the doorway and beamed a smile far too bright for Lucy’s foul mood. “Come to breakfast, honey. It’s almost ready.”

  Offering excuses would only draw attention to her so, with a silent sigh of resignation, Lucy tossed her towel over the banister and headed downstairs again. In the kitchen, she found her mother standing over the stove, slowly stirring something.

  Just two years younger than her husband, Ellen Montalvo was every bit as vibrant as he was. She kept her hair carefully colored its natural ash-blond and cut in a classic chin-length style. While Lucy’s beauty routine consisted of Ivory soap and mascara on special occasions, makeup was an absolute necessity to Ellen. In thirty years Lucy had seen her mother without her face on only a handful of times.

  She looked up as Lucy strolled into the breakfast nook and motioned her toward the table where a small vase of late roses, matched perfectly to the intricate pattern on the dishes, sat on a pressed linen cloth. A far cry from the typical centerpiece of unsorted junk mail that usually sat on Lucy’s table.

  Mopping her face with her sleeve, Lucy tried to stop the inevitable list of comparisons between herself and her mother. Though Lucy only stood five-five, she’d always felt big and clumsy next to Ellen. The differences were more glaring than usual this morning—Ellen in her peach silk blouse, beige pants and sandals; Lucy in her frayed jogging suit with holes in the knees, a stain on the butt, and shoes that looked as if she’d been jogging through mud.

  Readjusting the rubber band that held back her hair, Lucy gave her watch a cursory glance. “Everything smells great, Mom. What can I do to help?”

  Ellen smiled over her shoulder. “Nothing, sweetheart. I have it under control. You can turn on the news if you’d like. Daybreak should be on.”

  Lucy aimed the remote at the portable TV and snagged a piece of toast from the unguarded plate beside it. “Is there coffee?”

  “Of course. Help yourself.” Ellen put her spoon on a trivet and turned toward her next task. “What time do you need to be at work?”

  “In about an hour, but I still need to shower.”

  “Then we’ll eat fast.” Ellen pulled jam and marmalade from the
refrigerator and began spooning some of each into a crystal serving dish. “What time will you be home this evening?”

  “Tonight?” Lucy shrugged out of her warm-up jacket, crossed to the coffeemaker and poured a cup. “I’ll probably be late again. I have a full day scheduled, and I want to stop by my place to pick up a few more things after my shift is over.”

  Ellen recapped the marmalade jar and pulled spoons from a drawer. “Don’t be silly. I have some errands to run this morning. I’ll be happy to go over there while you’re at work. Just leave me a list of what you want.”

  And have her mother see her disorganized sock-and-underwear drawers, or the mound of laundry on the floor of her bedroom? Not on her life. Lucy hid her dismay behind her mug. “I appreciate the offer, but it’ll be easier if I just do it. I don’t know what time I’ll get here, though, so don’t hold dinner for me.”

  Her mother’s smile faded. “Oh, but you promised to be here for dinner tonight. We’ve invited the Spanglers.”

  Lucy scowled in confusion. “I promised? When did that happen?”

  “Last night when you came in. I told you all about it. They’re bringing their daughter. The one who went through such an ugly divorce? You know how long they’ve been wanting to introduce the two of you.”

  Lucy thought back over their conversation, but she couldn’t remember her mother saying anything about dinner guests. “I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t—”

  “Oh, now, don’t tease me, sweetheart. I know darn well you remember. Janelle is the daughter whose husband took off with another woman and got her pregnant, remember? Poor girl has been in a funk ever since.”

  Cradling her mug in both hands, Lucy leaned into the corner of the cabinets. Had she really been so lost in thought that she’d missed an entire conversation? “I’m sure you did tell me,” she conceded, “but with this new case and the trouble at home, I really can’t commit to anything.”

  Disappointment pinched her mother’s expression. “Can’t you get away for just one evening? We won’t eat until eight.”