Sherry Lewis - Count on a Cop

by Her Secret Family

  She clucked her tongue against her teeth. “Well, duh. I know that.”

  “And I haven’t seen my father since I was ten.”

  “But that’s okay because Mr. Hopewell said I could do a different kind of report if you’d help me with it. All he wants us to do is learn about our personal history, so if you’ll just answer questions, I can still do the report.”

  The blood moved through his veins like sludge. “What kind of questions?”

  “Just stuff about your mom and dad, maybe about Henry. And about, you know, the Cherokee.”

  “Grandpa Hicks worked for the government for a long time, you know. He’d be really interesting to interview.”

  Debra’s mouth thinned with disgust at his predictable response. “I don’t want to interview Grandpa Hicks. I want to know about the rest of my family. The family you never, ever talk about.”

  “I have good reason.”

  “But they’re my grandparents.”

  Mason fought to keep from raising his voice. “You have no idea what kind of people they were, and I don’t want you to know. Bad enough they messed up my life. I don’t want them doing the same to you.”

  “That’s stupid, Dad. How can they if they’re not even around?”

  “Knowing those two, easily.” He abandoned his coffee and got up to start making pancakes. “You’re not going to do your report on my parents, Debra. Find another subject.”

  “Okay. Henry.”

  “We weren’t even related. How will that count?”

  “If he raised you, then he’s part of my past. So tell me about Henry and what he taught you.”

  Mason pulled pancake mix from the cupboard along with a bag of chocolate chips. “Why do you want to hear about a bunch of old legends?”

  “Because my ancestors believed them.”

  “For all the good that did them. Trust me, kiddo, the best way to get anywhere in this life is to leave old superstitions in the past where they belong. None of it did a bit of good for the Cherokee forced to walk the Trail of Tears in the eighteen hundreds. And it didn’t do anything for my parents, either.”

  Debra’s eyes lit up. “Did they believe in it?”

  “Who? My parents?” Mason snorted. “My dad didn’t believe in anything. But my mother couldn’t get enough. She’d sit around for hours, doing nothing but reading.” And drinking.

  “And that’s why you hate it all?”

  He’d stop right there, except that Debra was talking to him—really talking to him. For the first time since she came to Tulsa. “Hate’s a pretty strong word,” he said, gripping the counter with both hands. “It’s probably better to say that I resent it. A lot.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess the best way to describe my mother is to say that she liked playing the victim, and she never had any trouble finding something to blame for her hard luck. I was just a little kid when she latched on to Cherokee history as her favorite scapegoat, and she spent the rest of her life blaming white people for her misery.”

  “She hated white people?”

  “She blamed them for the fact that she couldn’t hold down a job and we never had any money. She’d complain about how much better our lives would have been if the government hadn’t forced us to relocate here.”

  “Well, it wasn’t fair,” Debra said. “They shouldn’t have been able to do that.”

  “I never said it was fair or that it was right. But it happened a hundred and seventy years ago. At some point, you’ve got to stop blaming that for the choices you make today.”

  “Is that why you hate her?”

  How was he supposed to answer that? That’s why it’s never a good idea to tell someone half of the story. But no way in hell he’d tell Debra the whole thing. He nodded and pulled a mixing bowl from the cupboard. “Yeah. That’s why.”

  “No offense, Dad, but that’s kind of lame.”

  “You think so?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, I’m not saying that what she did was good, but it’s actually kind of pathetic, don’t you think? You should feel sorry for her.”

  That’s what Henry had always told him, too. But why should he, when she’d done such a bang-up job of feeling sorry for herself? And now she had Debra’s sympathy, as well. Next time she asked about his family, he’d be smart enough to keep his big mouth shut.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TWO WEEKS AFTER Ryan had issued his ultimatum at the Blue Plate, Jolene was no closer to working through her personal issues. Not that she’d had time.

  Thanks to the department’s staff shortage they’d all been putting in extra hours. Tempers were flaring all over the building, and everyone was looking for someone to blame when things went wrong. Raoul Zika continued to slither out of their grasp every time they turned around.

  Just before their shift ended on Saturday night, Ryan and Jolene picked up a lead on someone who might know where Big Red was—a hairdresser named Vivienne Beck. First thing Tuesday morning, they planned to track her down.

  Meanwhile, Jolene finally had a couple of days off, so she hit the sack early, hoping that a good night’s sleep would help her put her personal life back together. Unfortunately, it wasn’t so easy to actually get to sleep. A storm blew in during the night, and the sound of raindrops on the pavement outside her window didn’t soothe her the way it usually did. She lay awake far into the night, longing for the warmth and security she’d had for the first thirty years of her life, and wondering if she’d ever know anything like it again.

  It was nearly four o’clock when she finally gave up trying to sleep and climbed out of bed. If she couldn’t rest, then she ought to be doing something useful, like tackling the housework she’d left for far too long. Since moving into this apartment, she’d been home just long enough to make a mess, never long enough to clean it up.

  After throwing on a pair of faded jeans and an old T-shirt, she unpacked three boxes of books, found the extra bedding she’d been missing since the move, and her screwdriver and pliers. As the sky lightened, she broke down the boxes and made a mad dash to the trash, slowing just long enough to check out Mason’s apartment as she passed.

  Still dark. That figured. Only bakers, milkmen, drug addicts and cops were awake at this time of the morning. Normal people—like Mason—were still sound asleep.

  It had been years since she’d thought about the possibility of a regular life. Home. Kids. Husband. Dog. To tell the truth, she’d given up on it. At least she thought she had.

  She stuffed sodden cardboard into the overflowing trash barrel and wondered how other cops did it. How did Ryan go home to his wife and kids with the stink of that rat-infested sinkhole on his clothes? How did Captain Eisley bounce grandkids on his knee after watching some junkie die from an overdose? Maybe they had an emotional switch she didn’t have. Or maybe she just didn’t know how to flip it.

  She jogged across the rain-soaked lawn. Listen to her! She’d felt excited when she looked at Mason, and now her imagination was running wild. All it had taken was a little interest on his part. But with Debra fighting him at every turn, his life wasn’t in much better shape than Jolene’s was. So yeah, there’d been a spark there, but neither of them could look away long enough to see where it might go.

  Not that it mattered. Her love life had been a complete disaster for years, populated by way too many brief encounters. The closest she’d come to the real thing was Kevin Webber in her junior year of college, and that had only lasted six months. Not exactly an impressive romantic résumé.

  She glanced at Mason’s windows once more before rounding the corner. A light had come on. So he was an early riser, huh?

  Turning resolutely toward home, she told herself to get a grip. This wasn’t about Mason, it was about her and her need for emotional security. Her longing for something that made sense and someone who made her feel wanted. It was about the empty place where her family used to be, nothing more, nothing less. Mason and Debra had enough on their plates. Neither
of them needed to be used as a substitute for something else.

  She spent the next two hours straightening the living room, removing the film of dust from the furniture and washing and folding three batches of laundry. With that done, she scrubbed kitchen counters and mopped the kitchen and bathroom floors, then finally stripped out of her old clothes and jumped into the shower.

  But the physical exertion hadn’t done anything to slow the questions racing through her head. She stood under the spray for a long time, letting the pulse of the water drum away some of the tension in her neck and shoulders, then finally, before the hot water ran out, scrubbing herself clean and washing her hair.

  Think. Pretend this was someone else’s problem. What would she advise them to do?

  According to Lawrence Preston, the first step in solving any problem was to find out everything you could about it. Break it down, Jolene.

  What did that mean in her case?

  Avoiding the issue wasn’t working, so she needed to change tactics. Tackle the problem head-on. First, she needed to learn everything she could about the culture she came from. Second, when she was ready, she’d have to learn everything she could about the family she’d never met. And third?

  The third step, she supposed, would be to meet them.

  Step one. That’s all she had to think about for the moment. She could visit the Cherokee Cultural Center, but even that felt like too much of a commitment. She could research on the Internet, but how would she know the good sites from those riddled with inaccuracies? Finally, giving in to Lawrence’s influence, she decided that the most logical place to begin was the library.

  Taking advantage of her day off, she dressed in a pair of black slacks and a comfortable red sweater she’d had for years. On impulse, she changed the gold posts she usually wore in her ears to a pair of red earrings her aunt Chloe had given her for Christmas.

  As she did every morning of her life, she reached for her brush and a band so she could pull her hair into a pony tail, but this morning something made her stop. It had been a long time since she’d spent this much time getting ready for anything, and even longer since she’d taken a good, long look in the mirror. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, meeting Mason had made her more aware of herself than she’d been in a long, long time.

  Carefully setting the brush aside, she studied her reflection, searching every feature, comparing what she really saw to what she’d always assumed about herself.

  She’d spent most of her adult life not really caring about her appearance. Now she wondered what other people saw when they looked at her. Ryan saw her as one of the guys, but she’d worked long and hard to make sure he did. But what about other people, like Mason for instance? What did he see?

  Long hair. Straight, dark brown hair. One dark head in a family of blondes. And her eyes. Hers were the only dark brown eyes in the lot. A few people had commented on how different she looked from the rest of her family, but someone had told her once that she was a throwback to a previous generation, and she’d believed it. There’d been no reason not to. She’d believed in who she was.

  Even as she told herself that, she knew it wasn’t true. She’d never felt completely secure. She’d been a tomboy in a family of academics, the child whose likes and dislikes had confused her parents since her earliest memory. At least Jolene had assumed they’d been confused. Now she realized that they’d probably been terrified that she would stumble across the truth.

  What she needed was something solid to ground her—something she knew to be true about herself that could serve as a foundation for rebuilding her life. But there was nothing. Not one thing she could say with absolute certainty was real.

  She grabbed her keys and wallet and headed into the parking lot. A breeze rustled the budding leaves in the trees and the scent of freshly dug earth made everything seem fresh and new. She took a deep breath and turned her face to the sun, relishing its warmth on her skin. There had to be answers she could live with. But she wasn’t going to find them by staring in the mirror.

  In spite of the warm spring weather, the drive to the library seemed endless. Traffic was heavy and snarled in almost every direction by closures from road construction. By the time she pulled into the library’s small, crowded parking lot her already frayed nerves felt as though someone had set a match to them.

  She was about halfway to the building when she heard someone call her name. Half-convinced that she’d imagined it, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Mason jogging up the sidewalk behind her.

  Sure enough, she felt that tingle of awareness and was inordinately pleased with herself for going to all the trouble to dress up.

  “I thought that was you,” he said, panting slightly. “What are you doing here?”

  His eyes darkened as they traveled along her sweater, the length of her legs, and slowly, slowly back up to her face.

  She caught her breath and her pulse sped to an unsteady rhythm she tried to ignore. Getting all hot and bothered over Mason couldn’t possibly make her life better. “I came to do some research,” she said, casually assessing the deep brown of his eyes and the way the sun found golden highlights in his dark hair. “What about you?”

  “Same.” They fell into step as if strolling along the sidewalk together were the most natural thing in the world. “Debra’s doing a report for history, and I thought I’d pick up a couple of books that might help her.”

  “That’s nice of you. My dad would have made me find the books myself.”

  “Yeah? Well, what can I say? I’m a swell guy.” He grinned and she wished he’d do that more often. “What are you researching?”

  Good question. What was she researching? She didn’t even know enough to have questions. “Actually, I’m looking for some basic information on the Cherokee. Any suggestions?”

  Did she only imagine it, or did Mason’s step falter? If it did, he recovered smoothly. “Does this have anything to do with the former Margaret Starr?”

  Her first instinct was to say no, but how would that help? She made herself nod. “Yes, it does.” But that was only partially true. Taking a deep breath, she said, “What I’d like even more than research material is for you to tell me everything you know about Billy Starr.”

  Mason nodded as if people asked him about Billy Starr every day of the week. “What do you want to know?”

  Jolene’s next question was a little easier to ask. “What kind of man was he?”

  “I don’t know a lot about him, but I’d say he was interested in his heritage. Must have been to spend so much time starting the Cultural Center.”

  “Does he have family around here?”

  Mason slowed his pace. “Yes, but if you’re going to ask about people who are still alive, you’re going to have to tell me why you want to know. Is this a police matter?”

  She shook her head quickly. “No.”

  “But it has something to do with his wife.”

  She nodded again. “With the woman in the article, yes.”

  “Who is she? A friend of yours?”

  Why was it so hard to tell him? What was wrong with her? Slowly, she met his gaze. “Don’t make me answer that yet.”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Mason said with a casual shrug, “but I reserve the same right. If you want answers from me, you’re going to have to give a few.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. Fair was fair. “Would it make any difference if I told you that I’m part Cherokee?”

  “You?” Mason studied her face but she couldn’t tell whether he was pleased or disgusted. “Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “Because I didn’t know until recently.”

  “Let me guess—you found a long-lost Cherokee princess on your family tree.”

  “You really shouldn’t say something that stupid to a woman with a gun.

  He managed to look a little sheepish. “I apologize. No Cherokee princess.”

  “Nope.”<
br />
  “Okay, then, fill in the blanks for me. How did you find out you’re part Cherokee?”

  “I mentioned that article I found at your place to my mother. She reminded me of the woman in the photograph, and I thought it was an interesting coincidence.”

  “Are you telling me your mother is Margaret Starr?”

  “She was.” Jolene pressed her fingertips to her eyes. “I had no idea. I just thought it was odd that Margaret Starr looked so much like her. I didn’t even know my mother had been married before. It was quite a shock. I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “I’ll bet it was. And not a pleasant one, either, judging from the look on your face.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “Does that mean you’re Billy Starr’s daughter?”

  “So I’m told.”

  Mason whistled softly. “Well, I’ll be damned. So what do you want from me?”

  “I don’t want anything. I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about it.”

  “About being Cherokee?”

  “About not being who I thought I was. Race has nothing to do with it, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  Mason pretended to believe her, but even she knew that her protest hadn’t rung quite true. “So why don’t you just contact Billy’s family and ask?”

  Jolene shook her head quickly. “I’m not ready for them to know about me yet.”

  “You’re not going to tell them?”

  “Someday. I just don’t know when. In the meantime, I’m just trying to keep breathing. I’m not trying to hurt anybody, Mason.”

  Mason stuffed his hands into his pockets and tilted his head to the sky.

  Suddenly, it seemed very important that he agree to help her. She knew Mason had negative feelings about his heritage, but that meant he wouldn’t push her into anything. The perfect resource.

  “So what do you want to know?”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “I wish I could answer that. All I know is I have to figure this out. Decide who I am again. Figure out how I feel about that, and get back to normal—whatever that is—before my partner convinces my captain that I’m a risk to the other guys in the squad. The captain would use this as an excuse to transfer me out.”