by Pat Warren
“How long have you been open?”
“Eight years altogether. Five at this location and three in a rented storefront that we quickly outgrew.” He checked his watch and saw that he had time. “Would you like to take a look around? I can give you a quick tour, if you’re up to it.”
Fallon was interested, mostly because Laurie had somehow heard of Michael’s House and had come here. She didn’t have a lot of time to waste, but it was apparent that she needed help to find her sister in an unfamiliar city, and Michael seemed to be the only game in town. Besides, she didn’t want to insult him by refusing to tour the facility he seemed quite proud of. “I’m fine and yes, I’d like that.”
With his hand on the small of her back, he guided her down the hallway. “The main house is pretty old, but it’s structurally sound. A San Diego businessman needing a tax write-off donated it to us and a crew of volunteers helped renovate it. This whole neighborhood’s in the throes of urban renewal, but it goes slowly.” Stopping at the winding staircase, he glanced up. “The second floor is where our classrooms are, six of them, plus a small lounge and a larger multipurpose meeting room. We have four bedrooms and baths on the third floor, one that I use occasionally. The others are reserved for special guests or to accommodate an overflow.”
Fallon turned and suddenly realized that he’d moved and was directly behind her as she stood with her hand on the newel post. Unnerved by his nearness, she stepped to the side, clearing her throat. “How many kids can you handle?”
She smelled a hell of a lot better than he probably did after refereeing in the hot sun, Michael thought. He inhaled her scent before answering. “The two-story building you probably noticed out back was built after we finished remodeling here. It can sleep forty kids, two to a room, with shared baths.” He led her into the dining room where two boys and a teenage girl were gathering plates and silverware.
The table was vintage, undoubtedly also donated, but made of solid oak and could easily seat eighteen. “I guess when you have a full house, you have to have two sittings.”
“Sometimes even three. Some kids wander in just to eat.”
“You don’t turn any of them away?”
“Never.” He strolled through the archway where the smell of fried onions teased the nostrils and the woman wrapped in a white apron was transferring grilled burgers onto warm buns while ears of corn were cooking in a huge pot on the stove. “Fallon McKenzie, meet Sukey, the best cook this side of the Mississippi.”
The slender woman shifted her dark eyes to the newcomer, then back to Michael. “Just this side of the Mississippi?” she asked, her smile widening.
Sukey looked to be on the far side of forty and not fighting it, Fallon thought as she greeted the cook. “It smells wonderful.”
“Good to meet you, and I hope you’ll join us for dinner,” Sukey invited.
Michael seconded the motion. “We try to come up with menus teenagers typically are drawn to, but Sukey makes sure she serves healthy things like cereal, fruit and vegetables, too. She can disguise broccoli so that even George Bush would ask for seconds.” He knew that afternoon classes would end soon and the hungry mob would be descending, so they left the kitchen.
As they retraced their steps, more questions occurred to Fallon. “I don’t imagine any of these kids have much money. Who pays the bills, buys the food and supplies, and pays the teachers?”
He’d been expecting this one. “Mostly donations and a couple of sizable grants from the private sector. We have a large garden on the side lot and an arrangement with several markets to pick up day-old stuff. Part of my job description is fund-raiser. I give speeches at Rotary Clubs, Optimist meetings and various corporations, raising money wherever we can.”
“So you’re strictly nonprofit?”
“Absolutely.”
Fallon had to admit that the man had her even more curious than the operation he ran. “What about you? Do you take a salary?”
She was certainly persistent. He smiled. “Not as such, though I take out some expenses. I am what might be called well connected.”
Fallon frowned, realizing she didn’t even know his full name. “How’s that?”
“My name’s Redfield. Michael Redfield.” He waited, watching her and knew the moment the information clicked in.
“As in Redfield Boulevard, the street I drove in on from the airport? The last time I was in San Diego, it seems I remember reading that the boulevard was named after some judge or politician. Right?”
“Judge Jonathan Redfield.”
So he came from a wealthy family. That intrigued more than it explained. “With all that, you chose to work with runaway kids in the inner city? Why?”
Michael wished he had a dollar for every time he’d been asked that question. He wondered if even Jonathan understood. He surely wasn’t going to let this woman he’d just met, attractive and intelligent though she was, look into his heart and discover what made him tick. He gave her a crooked grin and shrugged. “I guess I just like kids.”
Uh-hmm. There was something more there, something hiding behind that flash of dimples. “How many kids would you say have been through Michael’s House over the past eight years?”
“Hundreds. Well over a thousand. I’ve lost count.”
Fallon paused outside his office, anxious for the answer to her next question. “And what is your success rate, honestly?”
“If you mean how many runaways’ lives have we helped to straighten out, I’d say we’re hovering around a sixty-percent success rate.”
She raised a questioning eyebrow. “That’s all? Just sixty percent?”
Irritation flickered across his features, then was gone just as quickly. “That’s damn good. Check around if you don’t believe me.” He walked inside and sat down at his desk. She hadn’t a clue, not the smallest idea how good a record that was. He was suddenly annoyed that he’d allowed her to make him defensive. “You came to me for help, remember? I didn’t go looking for you, begging you to let me assist you. If you’re looking for some facility that has a higher success rate, go to it and good luck.” He picked up a file folder and pretended to read it.
She’d certainly hit a nerve, Fallon decided as she followed him in. “Look, I think it’s wonderful if you can help sixty out of a hundred kids find their way back. But I honestly don’t believe my sister is one of those lost kids. She isn’t on drugs or in trouble with the law or whatever. She doesn’t need to be in a place like this to straighten out, terrific as it might be. I believe that Laurie feels inferior to Danny, is annoyed at Roy’s constant harping and she’s probably angry with me for not allowing her to visit me in Denver more frequently. So she ran away to prove a point, to make us sit up and take notice.”
Feeling confident of her facts, of her analysis of why Laurie had split, she nevertheless still had to locate her. “Now all I have to do is find her and reassure her, and I’m sure things will once more return to normal.” She saw that his eyes had lost some of their welcoming warmth, but she’d come too far to back down. “Will you help me find Laurie or are you too busy?”
Michael rose and walked around the desk until he was standing very close to her. “How do you know she isn’t on drugs? You told me you haven’t seen her in months. Or possibly in trouble with the law? Do you know how many teenagers shoplift, for instance — some in order to eat, but others just for the thrill of it or to get attention? Or how about this? Maybe she’s pregnant and too frightened to tell anyone. You admitted you’re no longer her confidante. What have her grades been like recently? Maybe she ran because she’s flunking out and afraid of Roy, the stepfather who’s so strict.”
He saw that he had her attention now. “Any or all of those could have her scared and wandering around an unfamiliar city all alone. And you come here, calm and confident, sure that you’ll run into her after a quick look around, then give her a hug, tell her you love her and she’ll return home, happy as a clam. Get real, lady. Face some facts
, even if they’re not sugar-coated. You can’t help your sister with your head stuck in the sand.”
Fallon felt a shiver race down her spine, a mixture of shock and awareness. The sheer maleness of him so close to her that she could feel his breath warm her cheeks as he spoke was as unnerving as what he said. She stared up at him wide-eyed, as he reached for her hand, gliding his thumb along the sensitive skin of her wrist, causing her pulse to skitter, his eyes boring into hers.
She couldn’t step aside since her back was to his desk. And she needed to – needed some distance from his penetrating gaze, his wrenching words and the underlying tension that was suddenly between them. What on earth was happening here? This was ridiculous. She’d come here to find her sister, not find an overwhelming attraction to a man who thought he knew all the right answers.
Fallon cleared her throat nervously. “You’re right, I suppose. I really don’t know if any of those things are so with Laurie. I just have this gut feeling that—”
“Do you know why most young people get into drinking and drugs and trouble with the law?” Michael asked, unwilling to abandon the discussion even though he was suddenly struggling with an irrational urge to pull her into his arms, to see if she tasted as good as she smelled. “Because of low self-esteem. How’s Laurie’s self-esteem? Does she have a good self-image?”
His question had Fallon recalling an incident in early summer when she’d taken Laurie shopping in her store. Nothing she’d tried on suited her, she’d told Fallon, and everything made her look too fat or was too frilly or the wrong color. She was the problem, not the clothes, Laurie had dejectedly told her sister. When Fallon had tried to tell her that she had a cute figure and was a pretty girl, Laurie had stood firm, insisting she was too short, bordering on fat, and almost ugly.
Tugging her hand free of Michael’s, Fallon finally managed to step aside. “I guess maybe Laurie has a fairly common problem with self-image,” she admitted. “Like a lot of teenage girls, she doesn’t think she’s very attractive.”
It had been a mistake to move so close to her, Michael realized belatedly. He could still smell her scent, still see the pulse in her throat throbbing. Was it due to the subject matter or his nearness? He picked up the discarded towel to give his hands something to do as he searched her face. “Did you go through that stage?”
A rather personal question, Fallon thought, but decided to answer anyway. “Naturally. There aren’t a lot of confident young girls walking around.”
“Nor teenage boys,” he answered, turning away. “It’s a rough time of life for all of us.” He swung back. “Amazing that we survive it, don’t you think?”
A knock at the door had them both looking up to find Opal with her hand on the knob. “Michael, Sergeant Damien’s on the phone. Says he’s got Daryl down there again. If you won’t sign for him, they’re going to send him to Juvenile this time.”
“Thanks, Opal. Tell him I’ll be right there.” After the nurse left, he turned to Fallon McKenzie, his look appraising. She’d come a long way and he hated for her trip to be in vain. But if she didn’t go about her search the right way, she would never locate her sister. And if she didn’t understand runaways, even if she found Laurie, she wouldn’t be able to reach her. “I need to grab a quick shower and change clothes, then go down to the police station. Daryl’s a runaway, probably picked up for his same old offense, shoplifting. I think it might be a good idea for you to come with me.”
Fallon was exhausted, utterly drained, from her restless night, the emotional turmoil and the encounter with Michael. All she wanted was a hot meal and a clean bed. Wearily, she looked up at him. “Tell me why I should go.”
“Because I think you’ll understand better how things work with runaways if you see for yourself. Afterward, if you still want me to, I’ll help you find Laurie.” Provided she followed his game plan and not her own agenda.
It would seem he had her over a barrel. If she didn’t agree, she would be on her own. The prospect held little appeal. She sat down in the chair. “I’ll wait here while you change.”
Chapter 3
Police headquarters in downtown San Diego at Fourteenth and Broadway was a sleek, modern high-rise that resembled a tall, silver box. As Fallon followed Michael through the lobby and into the elevator to the fourth floor where Juvenile Division was located, she couldn’t help noticing that several police officers and plainclothesmen walking by greeted Michael with a wave or a word.
“You must come here a lot,” she commented as they turned the corner.
“More often than I like,” Michael said as he reached the familiar office. The door was ajar, but he gave a quick knock anyway before walking in. The sergeant was on the phone and acknowledged their presence with a nod.
Fallon took the chair Michael indicated alongside the one he settled his tall frame into. She hadn’t ever visited a police station before and found it to be as institutional looking as so many other government buildings, despite this one’s newness. Beige seemed to be the color of choice and there was a lingering smell of unwashed bodies and stale smoke that permeated the place. More than that, the ringing phones and people hustling up and down the hallways gave the place an air of increased anxiety on a level that was almost palpable.
She took a moment to study Sergeant Sam Damien, who sat behind his nameplate. Even seated, he seemed quite short, with a balding head, round face and intelligent blue eyes behind glasses framed in black. His voice was extraordinarily deep, seemingly out of place in a man of his small stature. But his handshake, when Michael introduced them after he’d finished his call, was firm and his smile friendly enough.
“Are you working with Michael and his kids, Ms. McKenzie?” the sergeant asked, finding himself sitting up a little taller, sucking in his stomach.
“Not exactly,” Fallon answered.
“Her sister’s a sixteen-year-old runaway,” Michael explained.
Sam’s expression softened momentarily, then he became the cop again. “If you want to give us a picture or a description, I can have my guys look around.”
“Thank you.” Fallon glanced at Michael. “I’d hoped to get some flyers made up tomorrow, using the picture I showed you.”
Michael nodded. “Fine, we’ll do that.” He turned back to Sam. “So, what’d Daryl do this time, as if I can’t guess?”
Sam leaned back in his groaning desk chair. “You got it, only it wasn’t food he stole this time.” He glanced down at his notes. “A pair of fifty-dollar running shoes from one of those sidewalk sales at the mall. Only reason I didn’t book him was because I promised you I’d call if he ever showed up here again.” The sergeant ran a chubby hand over his bare scalp. “That and the fact that the tennis shoes he had on when we caught him were ragged and full of holes.”
Michael ground his teeth. “So, the first time he stole to eat and this time because the pavement still gets pretty hot during sunny days and he was down to bare skin.” He swung his eyes to the grimy window, feeling the frustration. “Did you ask him what happened at the foster home we arranged for him to live in?”
“Yeah, but he wouldn’t say anything except he didn’t like it there.” Sam gave a snort. “Like he’s got a lot of choices.”
“Okay, Sam, what can you offer me? Will you release him to my custody and see if I can get through to him this time?”
Sam straightened to the music of his protesting chair.
“Okay, but I have to tell you, it is the last time. If the kid can’t learn from you, he’ll have to learn from us.”
Michael stood. “I appreciate it, Sam. I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will.” He held out a slip of paper. “This is the name and address of the store owner. We talked him out of pressing charges, but someone’s got to pay for Daryl’s new shoes”
Nodding, Michael pocketed the paper. “I’ll take care of him. Is Daryl in Holding?”
“Yeah.” Sam picked up the phone. “Wait for him downstairs and I’ll
get him released.” He glanced at the woman with the green eyes and fleetingly wished he were twenty years younger and a foot taller, like Michael. “Nice to meet you. Bring those flyers by and I’ll personally see to them.”
Fallon smiled. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Yeah, thanks, Sam.” Michael ushered Fallon out into the hallway. At the bank of elevators, he pushed the button.
“Can you tell me a little about Daryl?” Fallon asked. She’d watched and listened and had a million questions.
“He’s fourteen. Been on the streets three years. Abandoned by both parents, which probably was all for the good since they were raving alcoholics—mean drunks who used to vent their temper on him. Daryl got into the system and was placed in a foster home, his younger brother into a different one. The brother adjusted. Daryl never has. He runs away repeatedly, lives hand-to-mouth, steals to eat, as you heard.”
His words were clipped and angry, but she knew it was directed at the system, the fates or whatever, not at the boy. “How did you run across him?”
The elevator arrived and Michael stepped in after Fallon. “He knew about our place from the other kids, but he didn’t show up until he was desperate. He’d caught a cold sleeping in the park and it worked into pneumonia. His clothes were like rags, he was starving and sick. We fixed up his body, but his mind was still troubled. We arranged another stay with a foster family, but he didn’t stick it out for long.”
On the main floor, they walked to a bench. Fallon turned to him, noticing a muscle in his cheek clench. “I don’t understand. Why would he want to go back to life on the street?”
He knew she wasn’t asking just about Daryl, but about Laurie as well. “You have to understand the mind of a juvenile runaway. They’re filled with terror at being suddenly alone. The feeling of abandonment, of having no one to go to, doesn’t go away. They’re afraid to trust anyone. It isn’t as if they choose to be on the street, but often it’s the lesser of two evils. There are plenty of foster parents who are sincerely interested in helping kids, but others are in it for the money. All of them have rules, naturally. A kid who’s known the freedom of the street, dangerous as that is, has a hard time with rules.”