by Ruth Reid
He shook his head. “Doctor Wellington asked for my recommendation. And at the time, I didn’t see any reason to continue the investigation.” At the time . . . A few hours sure changed everything. Only a few days ago, Nathan was hovering under the bed with his little sister. Now he was lying in a hospital bed fighting for his life.
“Apparently Doctor Wellington feels the boy’s life is in jeopardy because you dropped the ball.”
“No. The boy’s life is in danger because the mother’s unstable. She beat him.” Even as the words left Bo’s mouth, an inner prompting told him he was wrong. Bo sank into the chair and lowered his head. He closed his eyes for a second and the boy’s image flashed in his mind. This was insane.
“That was Internal Affairs on the phone,” Norton said. “They’re going to be contacting you to set up an interview.”
Bo blew out a breath. “Fine.”
“Until then . . . you’re on administrative leave. I’ll need your employee badge.”
Bo snorted. “Don’t have it.” He slapped his legs and stood. “My wallet was stolen.”
“When did that happen?”
“Sunday. I went to check on one of my foster kids and ran into some problems in the pool hall. And no, I didn’t fill out a report.”
Norton pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.
“I’m his Big Brother. So the call wasn’t—”
“Are you talking about Josh Messer? The kid who’s run away from every home he’s been placed in?”
“Yes.”
“That is department business.” Norton’s voice rose. “You’re done bending the rules. You got that, Lambright?”
Bo nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I don’t like receiving calls from my superior about one of my best investigators.” Norton slapped his palm on his desk. “I don’t like it at all.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“I need a list of the cases you’re working on.”
Bo opened his mouth to ask if Norton would consider holding off on reassigning Josh’s case file, but decided against it. Josh had his cell number. Plus, Josh would be around the house doing odd jobs, so Bo would see him.
“Send Erica in,” Norton barked as Bo reached for the doorknob.
Bo hesitated a second before exiting the office. Apparently the internal investigation had begun, Davis being the first one called for an interview. He relayed the message as he passed her desk. If she knew anything about the complaint against him, she didn’t let on. Davis merely gathered a notepad and pen and rose from her chair.
Let Internal Affairs conduct their investigation. He’d acted within protocol, except for entering the Diener residence without a court order. The ruling would fall in his favor. Davis would back him up . . . wouldn’t she?
Bo returned to his desk, opened the file cabinet on his right, and removed the case-pending files first. He compiled a list of names of the foster children he had scheduled follow-up visits on and those with pending court dates. He stopped on Amanda Diener’s file, remembering how the frightened child had locked her arms around his neck in a choke hold. He had promised he would be back to see her again. Bo glanced toward Norton’s office. The door still closed, he picked up the phone and dialed Mrs. Appleton’s number. But before anyone answered, his boss’s door opened and Davis stormed out.
Bo hung up the phone as she marched toward his desk.
She planted her hands on his desk and leaned forward. “I’m not going down with you, Lambright.”
Bo caught a glimpse of Max in his peripheral vision, brows perked and all ears. His friend’s smile widened as he shifted his attention between Davis and Bo.
“I won’t let you destroy my career,” she added, spouting like a kettle of boiling water.
Bo took a deep breath. “What did Norton say?”
“That our case is under investigation.” She wagged her finger, the French manicured nail a blur next to his nose. “This is all your fault.”
Bo nodded. “Entirely.”
“Well, do something about it.”
He collected the files on his desk and stood. “You have nothing to worry about, Davis.”
She huffed. “Is that what you told the Amish woman too?”
He shot her an off-the-shoulder glare as he marched toward Norton’s office. Bo had no more than handed him the case files when his cell phone rang. He glimpsed at the caller ID. Mrs. Appleton.
“Hello.”
“Bo, this is Roberta Appleton. I know you were concerned about Amanda Diener when you dropped her off. Frankly, I’m concerned also. She refuses to eat and she’s a rather fussy child.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Appleton, but I’m no longer handling the Diener case. You should be receiving written notification within three business days with contact information of the new investigator assigned.”
“Bo, you’re the only one Amanda’s responded to. Even the other children aren’t able to get her to warm up to them. She refuses to eat.”
He was afraid this would happen. The child’s new surroundings were so different from everything she’d known. On top of that, Amish children didn’t learn English until they were school age, another reason she should have been placed in an Amish home.
“Bo? Are you still there?”
He sighed. “Yes, I’m here. If you think it would help”—he glanced at Norton, then turned facing the wall and lowered his voice—“I could stop by in an hour or so.”
“That would be wonderful. She was so distraught after you dropped her off. I’ve never had a toddler I couldn’t convince to warm up to me.”
“I know, Mrs. Appleton, and Amanda will come around too.” He hoped.
Bo ended the call. As he tucked the phone into his pocket, someone behind him cleared his throat. Bo turned and faced Norton’s scowl.
“Do I have to remind you that you’re on administrative leave, Lambright?”
“Nope.” His boss opened his mouth to speak, but Bo cut him off. “Don’t ask.” He headed to the door. “Let me know when Internal Affairs wants to see me.”
Forty-five minutes later, Bo was standing on Mrs. Appleton’s stoop. As much as he wanted to distance himself from the Diener case, he firmly believed it was his duty to help Mattie’s daughter during the transitional period. After all, the child was innocent.
The front door opened wide enough for Mrs. Appleton to poke her head outside. “Have you had chicken pox?”
Chapter Eighteen
This is our sick zone,” Mrs. Appleton warned Bo as he entered her sitting room. He scanned the room, but only spotted one child sitting on the carpeted floor playing quietly with a wooden puzzle.
“I almost didn’t recognize her.” Bo grimaced at the pink floral shirt and matching shorts the child had on. Amanda left the toy and tottered over to him, arms held high. He swooped down and gathered Amanda into his arms. The toddler’s hot-pink outfit and rosy cheeks made her bright-blue eyes appear even larger. “I told you I would be back, angel.”
“Ich geh,” Amanda said, then pouted when Bo shook his head.
Her bottom lip protruded and Bo couldn’t contain his smile. Not many Amish children would go with a stranger, yet she had become attached to him. Bo looked the child over for spots. “What makes you think she has chicken pox?”
“So far she only has a few spots on her chest and belly.”
“Ich geh,” Amanda insisted, patting his chest. Her mother would rebuke her for pouting. The Amish frowned upon strong-willed children.
Mrs. Appleton drew closer to them. “What’s she saying?”
“I go,” Bo replied.
Amanda wrapped her arms around his neck and burrowed her head into the crook of his neck. He pivoted to face Mrs. Appleton. “You sure it’s chicken pox?”
Mrs. Appleton frowned. “She might not have a lot of spots, but I’ve taken care of children over thirty years. I know what chicken pox looks like.”
“Do you think it�
��s why she’s been cranky?”
Mrs. Appleton chuckled. “I would say it has more to do with your absence.” She gestured to Amanda snuggled against Bo’s chest. “That’s the most content she’s been in hours.”
Bo smiled. As many children as he had placed into foster homes, he’d never had one bond to him so quickly. Even Josh was standoffish at first. It took visiting the home several times before his anger subsided. Over the years, Bo had come to accept the fact that most children he removed from bad homes turned their anger toward him, which was why he made a point to follow up on their progress beyond the state requirement.
“I’m going to get her a bottle of warm milk. Maybe you’ll be able to get her to drink some.” Mrs. Appleton disappeared into the kitchen.
Bo eased into the rocking chair next to the sofa. In the corner of the room, Dora the Explorer played on the TV even though the other children were likely outside in the fenced backyard.
Bo’s gaze fell on Amanda, watching two young girls combing their pony’s mane in a commercial. He hoped Norton assigned someone to the case who would make it a priority to place Amanda back within the Amish community. Bo considered turning the TV off, but it wasn’t his place. His chest caved with heaviness. He should be the one handling the placement, making sure they adjusted properly.
His stomach knotted at the thought of being on administrative leave. He’d heard rumors about how rough an Internal Affairs investigation could be. They wouldn’t like the idea that he went inside Mattie Diener’s house without consent—even though it wouldn’t have been right to leave the woman passed out on her porch.
“Here you go.” Mrs. Appleton handed him a bottle. “She’s old enough to be drinking from a sippy cup, but that’s for another day.”
“Thank you.” Bo tipped the bottle close to Amanda’s mouth. She turned her head, batted the bottle away with her hand. Finally, after a few more tries and a little coaxing, she drank. It wasn’t long before Amanda was asleep in his arms, but even in her sleep she tugged at her unfamiliar clothes. Guilt seared his heart. She should have her own clothes to wear. Not every outsider understood the importance the Amish placed on their appearance. Not that Amanda understood the concept either, but his conscience would be clear.
He glanced at Mrs. Appleton, sitting on the blue-and-white plaid sofa. “If I can bring you a supply of her clothes, would it be a problem to change her?”
“Not at all. I’m washing the dress she arrived in now.”
“Thank you. I think she would be . . . more comfortable.”
“You’re probably right. She has been pulling on the shorts. I’m not sure if it’s the clothing or the disposable diaper that’s giving her trouble.”
“I’ll see if I can arrange for more clothes.” He gazed at the sleeping toddler in his arms. Her light-brown hair, damp with sweat, curled into tightly coiled locks around her face. She had her mother’s button nose.
“You have a gentle way with children, Bo. You’ll make a great father one day.”
He smiled, although deep down, he couldn’t agree. The past had a wicked way of repeating itself. He’d seen it over and over in his line of work. Abusive fathers raised abusive sons. Only he refused to fall into those statistics. If he never married, never had children, then the generational curse would be broken.
“Have you someone special?” Mrs. Appleton’s eyes twinkled.
“You’re beginning to sound like my mother,” he said. “And no, I’m not seeing anyone special.”
“My niece, Helen, is a sweetheart. Now, she’s a little shy, but she is such a dear and she isn’t seeing anyone either. Maybe I could—”
He glanced at his watch. “Oh, wow, look at the time. I should probably be going.” He eased up from the rocking chair. “Where would you like me to lay her down?”
She rose from the sofa and motioned him to follow. “I had the crib brought down from the attic last night. It’s set up in the first bedroom.”
He followed her down the hall and into a bedroom with pink walls. Inside were two other twin-sized beds with matching pink-and-green bedspreads and a white shaggy rug between them. Bo gently lowered Amanda onto the crib mattress, then stepped aside as Mrs. Appleton covered her with the lightweight blanket. He tiptoed out of the room, then waited in the hall for Mrs. Appleton.
Bo walked to the front door and paused. “I’ll see that you get the clothes and anything else she might need.”
“Come by anytime.”
He turned to leave, then stopped. “One more thing,” he said. “How long does chicken pox last?”
“The contagious stage lasts until the sores scab over. Several days usually, but maybe sooner if she has a mild case and no more spots erupt.”
“Will you call me on my cell phone if anything changes with her condition?”
“Absolutely. She has a doctor’s appointment later this afternoon, so I’ll give you an update after the appointment.”
“She’s lucky to have you. You’re terrific.” Bo meant his words wholeheartedly. If Amanda were his child, he would feel safe leaving her in Mrs. Appleton’s care.
“My niece is terrific too.” She winked.
“I’m sure she is.” He tapped the porch banister. “I’ll talk with you later.” He tramped down the porch steps and went to his car parked behind Mrs. Appleton’s minivan in the driveway. Amanda would warm up to her soon. Hopefully, the new investigator assigned to the case would look beyond the woman’s age, as toddlers were normally placed in younger families.
Bo fastened his seatbelt, but before starting the engine, he checked his phone for messages. None. No news was good news, or so he hoped. He dialed the office. Don’t be a fool. If he told Norton about Amanda’s chicken pox, he would also have to explain why he’d disregarded his boss’s orders.
Bo disconnected the call. He’d worked hard to become an investigator. Why would he risk throwing away his career by reporting this illness? After all, chicken pox was a normal childhood disease.
Mattie used the sleeve of the orange jumpsuit she’d been assigned to wipe the tears from her eyes. “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know why mei sohn is sick. Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”
“You keep referring to your son as being sick, Mrs. Diener.” The man, who only moments ago had introduced himself as her court-appointed lawyer, leaned forward. “He’s bruised. I’ve seen the pictures. Now, I’m going to do everything I can to—”
“When were pictures taken of mei sohn? We don’t believe in having our images engraved.”
“We?” Mr. Lewiston cocked his head.
He didn’t care. Just like the police officers hadn’t last night. She tried to explain why her religious group didn’t allow photographs, but these officials mocked her. It turned out being photographed wasn’t nearly as humiliating as being searched with gloved hands and ordered to change into a bright-orange jumpsuit.
“The Amish. Our Ordnung forbids photographs.”
“But you believe in the principle that to spare the rod, you spoil the child.”
“Of course. Discipline teaches a child in the way he should go. So, yes, I am a firm believer of not spoiling a child. And that is based on biblical principles, Mr. Lewiston.”
He frowned. Reaching into his briefcase, he removed a large envelope. “I probably don’t have to show you the marks on your son’s body. But this is what the judge will look at as he considers your eligibility for bond.” He slid the envelope across the table.
Mattie removed the photographs and gasped. Tears welled, blurring the purplish markings on Nathan’s body. “What happened to mei sohn?”
The lawyer’s puzzled expression barbed her with anger. “Tell me,” she said. “Who did this to Nathan?”
“So, are we going for a plea of insanity?” Mr. Lewiston leaned back in his chair, folded his arms over his chest, and stared.
She studied the photos. His eyes appeared puffy, swollen. The child in the photo looked nothing like Nathan. “This i
sn’t Nathan,” she muttered.
“You don’t recognize him?” Mr. Lewiston scoffed. “Or you don’t remember inflicting that much force?”
Didn’t the lawyer say he was there to help her? He certainly wasn’t being very helpful, making her feel even worse than those police officers.
Mattie lifted her gaze. “I just want to know what happened to mei sohn.”
Mr. Lewiston sat forward in his chair and clasped his hands on the table next to a thick pad of paper. “As I told you earlier, anything you tell me will be kept in strict confidence. That’s what is known as attorney-client privilege.”
She nodded, giving the impression she understood, but she didn’t. Unless . . . She swallowed hard . . . Maybe he is looking for me to confess to hurting my son.
A loud buzzer sounded. The lawyer collected the photos. “That sound means our time is up,” he said.
The door opened, and a uniformed police officer entered the room. “The video arraignment is scheduled to start in ten minutes.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Lewiston gathered the tablet and pen from the table, shoved them into his briefcase, and stood. “Do you know who is presiding over the cases today?”
“Judge Steinway.” The officer cupped her elbow, and she rose to her feet.
“That’s good to hear.” Mr. Lewiston turned his attention to her. “Judge Steinway is fair.”
Led like a dog on a leash, she followed the officer’s instructions and went with him into another windowless room. The room was crowded with other inmates wearing the same pumpkin-colored jumpsuits, many oddly at ease leaning back in their chairs, arms crossed. These weren’t people she would want to drift into their settlement as two mental escapees had done almost four years ago. Now, wearing a matching colored jumpsuit and awaiting the same judge to determine her fate, she was marked as one of them. The thought roiled her stomach.
She spotted the video camera set up on a tripod facing the chairs in the center of the room, a large television off to one side, and cringed.
“The judge will appear on the television screen shortly,” the lawyer said, motioning her to have a seat. “He will state the charges filed against you, ask you how you plead, and determine bail.”