ONCE MORE A FAMILY

by Paula Detmer Riggs

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  Contents:

  Prologue

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

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  Prologue

  ^ »

  Hot damn, he felt good!

  Finally, after thirty-six years, three months and two days of never quite measuring up, Grady Hardin, the sorriest, ugliest, dumbest of the five Hardin brothers had done something right.

  Damn near half the narcotics division of the Lafayette PD had battled for the promotion to captain of the newly created drug interdiction department. In spite of the two reprimands for insubordination in his service record and a tendency to smart-off to the wrong people when his resentment of authority got the best of him, he'd snagged the prize. Since his father's retirement from the force last year, only his straight-arrow big brother Kale outranked him.

  He owed it all to his sweet Ria, he decided as he rocketed his candy-apple '69 Charger along the narrow country road. Marrying Victoria Virginia Madison nine years ago had been the best thing he'd ever done in his lazy, self-indulgent life. His lady loved him, though God alone knew why he'd been so blessed. Maybe, a good deed in a former life. He sure as shooting didn't have much to offer a lady like her in this one.

  He wasn't all that bright, he was clumsy as an ox, and he tended to stumble over his tongue when he wasn't with other cops. Which is why he tended to shy away from talking to women. But somehow she made it easy. Maybe because she laughed at his jokes. Or asked him questions that made him feel she really cared about the answers.

  His brothers had darn near swallowed their tongues when they'd gotten their first look at her. She was flat-out beautiful, with sparkling moss-green eyes, a sweet smile, and a sassy rear end.

  She was also the sweetest, kindest, strongest woman he'd ever met in his life. Wanting to earn her respect had given him a reason to stop messing up his life and do something with all that potential everyone kept nagging him about.

  Three years ago, when she'd given him a son—and then insisted the little boy carry his daddy's name, James Grady—he'd nearly burst with pride. He'd vowed then to make her—and Jimmy—proud.

  Since he was alone, he let out a Hoosier version of a rebel yell, and then because it felt so good, did it again. Feeling as giddy as a prisoner suddenly released for good behavior, he shoved his favorite Marvin Gaye cassette into the player, checked the minors and floored it. The souped-up V-8 beneath the big hood responded instantly, adding the deep-throated growl of unleashed power to the soul-stirring beat of rock and roll.

  A white-faced heifer grazing near a rusty fence looked up from a batch of sweet clover, and Grady waved at the pretty little Hereford. Damn, but it was a beautiful day in Indiana.

  The first day of summer.

  Grady loved summer. As a kid, he'd been wild to escape the miserable boredom and daily humiliations of the classroom, his clumsy hands itching to wrap around his favorite fishing pole. Lying on his back by the river with his line in the water and the breeze cooling his face, he was freed from the restrictions of a brain that didn't quite work right.

  On days when the letters on the page remained a hopeless jumble, no matter how hard he tried, he'd skip out during the lunchtime break and head for the woods.

  Grady still remembered the tanning he'd gotten one sunny day in May when Mason Hardin had tracked him down in his favorite spot on the bank of the Wabash. His butt had been sore for days, driving his brothers into gales of laughter every time he tried to sit down. But it had been the disappointment in his father's eyes that had finally gotten to him. So he'd stopped playing hooky and worked to bring his usual collection of D's up to a respectable C average. He'd even given up his dream of becoming an Indy champion and followed family tradition by becoming a cop.

  No one thought he'd last a week in the police academy. Brother Kale figured forty-eight hours max. He'd heard rumors his father had declined to take the bet. Grady'd had a few doubts himself. Bending his will to someone else's idea of discipline had never been high on his to-do list. On the other hand, giving up on a commitment was even lower on his personal hierarchy of desirable character traits.

  Besides, he loved goading those mean-as-sin instructors into red-faced fury. Seeing the frustration in their eyes had been worth the pain of the brutal training. The more they figured he'd wash out, the harder he dug in. By the time he graduated he'd earned a reputation as a tough SOB with a sneaky left jab.

  No one was surprised when he ended up working undercover in the murky world of drug addicts and pushers. Hell, he had a sneaking suspicion most of the watch commanders were relieved he hadn't ended up in their division.

  He grinned as he thumped the heel of one hand against the wheel in time to the music. The tender stalks of corn shooting up on both sides of the road flashed by in a blur of green, and wind flavored with sunshine slapped at his face.

  The quick flash of a strobe in his rearview brought him down to earth with a familiar thud. Just what he needed—another speeding ticket on his record.

  Damn.

  A glance at the speedometer had him grinding out his favorite obscenity, the one that had had him spitting out soap when he'd been a kid.

  Hell and blast, the old Charger still wanted to run. So did he, damn it. His butt had been glued to a chair behind a desk for a solid week without a day off. Before that he'd been cooling his heels in a courthouse corridor, waiting to testify. He was so wired he was ready to blow.

  Resigned to his fate, he heaved a sigh and signaled that he was pulling off. Tight as a tick, the county-mountie hugged his bumper all the way to the shoulder.

  "Fun's over for today, Trouble," he muttered, tossing a guilty grin at the scrawny black and white kitten peering at him over the edge of the box on the passenger seat. "We've been busted."

  Accustomed to the drill, he killed the engine and leaned across the gearshift to grab his registration from the glove compartment.

  "Act innocent," he ordered the cat, who answered with a plaintive meow. Damn thing was just about the sorriest looking critter he'd ever seen. Far as he'd been able to see, it didn't have much of a personality, either. Probably had worms as well as an ugly face and a mangled leg.

  The bill at the emergency animal hospital had had him sucking in hard. He was still working on the argument he planned to lay on Ria—after he'd softened her up with flowers and a promise to do all the cooking at the lake for the entire two weeks they would be at the cottage.

  He'd rather eat dirt than cook.

  Why the hell hadn't the damn cat crawled under someone else's vehicle after he'd been hit? he thought sourly. An entire parking lot full of wheels, and Trouble chose his.

  Still, Jimmy had always wanted a pet, he reminded himself as he watched the cop climb out of the cruiser and walk toward the Charger. Just his luck. The guy was a bruiser with a cocky walk and an impeccable uniform. Straight-arrow all the way. Grady had a sinking feeling he wasn't going to talk his way out of this one.

  Though he was tempted to deal with this one eye to eye, he stayed put. Cops got real nervous when drivers left the vehicle. Especially guys his size driving a muscle car on a deserted road. For all the trooper knew he had a trunkful of dope and a semiautomatic under the seat.

  "Afternoon, officer," he said when the trooper stopped a few feet away. Standard traffic stop procedure, Grady noted with satisfaction. Too far to be knocked over by the car door, far enough to get to his weapon fast. He squinted at the silver name tag pinned to the starch-crisp shirt. He knew a lot of state cops, some by name, some by reputation. He opened a file for Officer Jansing to the list he kept in his head.

  "The Indy 500 was last month, buddy."

  Now that was original, h
e thought as he tossed the guy a friendly grin. "You're telling me. I dropped two big ones when the rookie from Portugal took the checkered flag."

  Unmoved, Jansing narrowed his gaze behind the Rambo shades. His heavy Hoosier twang marked him as a longtime native. "License and registration, please."

  Resigned to paying for his fun, Grady handed over the registration, then flipped open the leather case containing both his driver's license and professional ID.

  "James Grady Hardin," he read aloud from the registration now clipped to his board, then frowned and glanced up curiously. "Captain Hardin, Lafayette PD? The guy who took down that scumbag drug lord, Rustakov? The one they call the Mad Russian?"

  "'Fraid so."

  Jansing swallowed hard, reminding Grady of himself when he'd busted a deputy chief for being drunk and disorderly in a topless bar. Twenty-four hours later he found himself called on the carpet for being disrespectful to a superior, something that was wasn't going to happen to this eager youngster.

  "Sorry for not recognizing you right away, sir. Me and the other guys were rooting for you when you were in intensive care."

  "I appreciate it."

  "Too bad the DA couldn't get the Mad Russian himself, instead of settling for that wimp son of his," the trooper declared in a disgusted tone. "But like the sarge says, it's an election year."

  "Your sergeant's right. A prosecutor who blows a high-profile case is dead meat."

  It wasn't the first time DA Ray Harrangh had gone for the slam dunk instead of the hard slog. Grady had all but gotten down on his knees and begged, but Harrangh had his eye on the governor's chair.

  "Heard Rustakov is trying to wrangle his son a new trial."

  "Won't happen. Sergei's gonna be an old man before he walks through those big iron gates."

  The officer's grin had a cynical slant. "Nice to win one now and then."

  "Yeah."

  Russian-born Boris Rustakov had made a fortune smuggling heroin into the slums of Moscow before coming to the States with his son, Sergei, leaving his wife and daughters behind. His MO was a particularly nasty one. He targeted college campuses, using young, good-looking pushers to pass out junk at fraternity parties. In some kind of perverse reversal of status, heroin had become the drug of choice among the well-fed, well-tended students.

  It had taken Grady a solid two-years of crawling around Lafayette's underbelly to set up the sting that brought the bastard down. The trial had ended last week. Sergei Rustakov was on his way to do fifteen hard ones, thanks to twelve hardworking citizens who considered the attempted murder of a policeman a serious crime.

  Grady agreed. He'd been the one who'd taken two slugs from Sergei's .357 Magnum. The damage had been massive, the blood loss severe. He shouldn't have lived. Even the doctors had been surprised when he'd survived. The wicked scar puckering one side of his chest had made a vivid impression on the jury. Grady's testimony had sealed Sergei's fate.

  Justice had been a long time coming. For the past twenty-four months, he'd spent more time on the streets or in smoky bars than he'd spent at home. Ria had been patient at first, but when he'd missed both Jimmy's third birthday and their anniversary dinner, she'd turned prickly. He couldn't blame her. Hell, he knew he'd been a lousy husband and a worse father.

  But all that was over.

  Life was looking up. He had fourteen days to spend mending fences.

  The officer watched a cattle truck rattle by, leaving a ripe smell of fresh manure behind, then returned his gaze to Grady again. He looked acutely uncomfortable. "The thing is, sir, I clocked you at ninety-eight in a fifty-five zone."

  "That's about right," Grady admitted. "Figured with this nice stretch of road, no cross streets, I'd blow out some carbon."

  The trooper grinned. He was younger than Grady at first pegged. "Beg pardon, Captain, but I radioed in this stop which puts me in a real bind. I really should issue a citation."

  Grady admired Jansing's integrity. "Write it up, officer. I deserve it. You had me cold."

  "Yes, sir."

  The man's relief was obvious as he hastily bent his attention to the citation form. Grady checked his watch. He'd promised Ria he'd be home early enough to help her pack, but he'd gotten hung up. He'd meant to call. Damn, he had to start thinking like a husband instead of a cop.

  The trooper, too, checked his watch, then scrawled the time and his signature on the citation before handing over the clipboard. "Guess you know where to sign."

  "Guess I do." Grady scrawled his name and took his copy and ID before passing the board through the window again. Habit had him glancing at the fee schedule on the back of the citation.

  "Ouch," he muttered as he folded the flimsy and tucked it into the pocket of his shirt. "Looks like I'll be holding it down for a while."

  The trooper fought a grin. "It's been a real honor meeting you, sir. Cops like you make us all proud." He flipped a crisp salute before turning on his heel to stride back to his cruiser.

  After tucking his wallet into his pocket again, Grady glanced to his right where the half-grown cat was still watching him with unblinking eyes, clearly unimpressed. Careful not to make a quick move, he rubbed the scruffy fur between its ears. The kitten yawned.

  "Hey, show some respect, Trouble. You're riding with a gen-u-ine hero. Got my name in the paper and a nice shiny medal to prove it."

  The trooper waved as he drove past, and Grady tapped the horn before fastening his seat belt again. The big car protested the snail's pace, but he bit the bullet and kept to the limit all the way home.

  Ria's van was in the driveway instead of the garage. The side door was open, a laundry basket of Jimmy's favorite sandbox toys on the floor. Item one on her list of things to be taken to the lake. Ria was compulsive about being organized.

  "Stay cool while I soften her up," he told the cat before slipping out from under the wheel. After retrieving his briefcase and the bouquet from the back seat, he headed up the brick walk he'd laid the summer after they'd bought the big old farmhouse. At the end near the porch were Ria's prized rose bushes. Damask, Ria had called them when they'd first seen the place. Like that made them special.

  While she'd been burying her face in the blossoms, he'd been mentally adding up the cost of repairs the neglected structure would need before it would be even marginally fit for habitation.

  He'd had his arguments all ready, lined up all neat and tidy like recruits at muster—and then she'd lifted her gaze to his. As soon as he'd seen the dreamy look in her moss-green eyes, he knew he'd just bought a house. He'd signed the papers the next day.

  He had his key in the lock before he realized the front door was ajar. He felt a tightening across his shoulders before he remembered the basket of toys. At least he was in time to carry the bags to the van for her.

  Hiding the flowers behind his back, he nudged the door wide and walked in. He smelled dinner. Something with spices and tomato sauce. The TV was on in the family room at the back of the house. He recognized the music. Jimmy's favorite Winnie the Pooh video. The little dickens had talked his mom into letting him watch that sucker again, even though Ria had sworn she could recite the dialogue in her sleep.

  "Ree? Sweetheart?"

  There was no answer. Nothing but the muted sounds of Christopher Robin and his buddies. His mood spiked a little higher. When Jimmy was watching Pooh, nothing distracted him. Grady closed the door and twisted the dead-bolt, then headed upstairs, already undressing Ria in his mind. Better yet, maybe she was grabbing a quick shower, the way she did sometimes when Jimmy was glued to the tube.

  His mood heated at the thought of finding her naked and wet, her skin dewy from the steam. He figured he could shuck his clothes in two seconds flat and be inside her in three. His usually proper lady liked it that way sometimes. Fast and wild.

  "Ria? Honey? Haven't you finished packing yet?"

  There was no answer, and the smile in his mind died. "Ree, answer me."

  Several stacks of neatly folded cl
othes lay on the bed next to a suitcase already half-full. The door to the walk-in closet was open, as was the bureau drawer where she kept her panties and bras.

  He raked the room with a trained gaze, his mind icing at the edges. She wasn't in the bedroom. Nor, he discovered, in the master bathroom. Damn.

  Worried, now, he dropped the flowers next to the suitcase and unsnapped the holster holding his .45. Moving quickly, his mind already ticking into well-worn grooves, he headed down the hall to Jimmy's room.

  The door was ajar, the room beyond silent. The fear came hard and fast, like the slug that had taken him down. Almost as quickly, he blocked it out.

  Heart thudding, he drew his weapon. Standing to one side, he used his free hand to nudge open the door. He saw the pint-size bed shaped like a squad car, small shirts and shorts, neatly folded.

  He edged inside, then went cold. Ria was lying on the floor, in the fetal position. Her face was obscured by the dark curtain of tumbled hair. His heart wedged in his throat as he knelt down, his hand already reaching for her pulse.

  She moaned then, and stirred. His hand shook as he lifted her hair away from her face. Her forehead was gashed, her eye already turning black. Blood oozed over half her face.

  "Ria, baby. Wake up."

  Her lashes fluttered open, and she stared up at him, her expression blank. And then suddenly, fear contorted her face, and she jerked.

  "Oh, God, Grady," she cried, panic in her voice. "I heard a noise and … Jimmy! Where's Jimmy?" She darted a frantic look around the room, her fingers clawing at his arm as she struggled to sit up.

  Grady gathered her into his arms and folded his body over her. "Calm down, baby. I need you to be strong for a minute, okay? I have to call this in."

  "No, no, I have to find him!" She was amazingly strong all of a sudden, a mother desperate to find her son. His heart tore.

  "Hold tight, sweetheart. I'll be right back." Moving fast, his mind focused, he methodically checked each room, calling his son's name, opening closets, looking under beds and behind furniture.