She paused in the door of her office and watched. His hands dwarfed the keyboard, but he typed quickly. She’d expected he would use the hunt-and-peck method.
After a moment, she turned away and opened the newspaper again. Bascombe’s picture stared back at her, all smug bureaucrat. She remembered the tail of the lanyard hanging out of his pocket that day so many years ago. She clearly wasn’t the first girl he’d molested. He’d been smart enough to take off his ID badge and give her a false name.
As she studied the picture and figured out what she would say to Emma, the rhythmic clatter of the keyboard in the other room distracted her. Finally, Frankie reached out and pushed the door closed.
“Hey, Emma,” she said into the phone a few moments later. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good, Frankie. You want to catch dinner one of these nights?”
“Love to, but do you have time now to answer a few questions?”
“Sure.” Emma’s voice sharpened. “What’s up?”
“I just saw that Doug Bascombe has been appointed head of DCFS. Do you know anything about him?”
“Like what?” her friend asked cautiously.
“Do you know him?”
“We’ve met. He started as a social worker, so he takes an interest in the kids—who they are, how they’re doing. He’s asked me about a few of them.”
Frankie’s stomach churned. She’d been clinging to the very faint hope that he’d changed. “Really? He’s that high up and he still works with kids?”
“Less than he used to. He’s mostly an administrator now.”
“So what do you think of him?”
“Why do you ask?” Emma said after a pause.
“Just wondering how to get along with him.”
Frankie could hear the sound of Emma’s door closing. “Stay away from him, Frankie. He’s the kind of guy who will drive you nuts. He’s pretty impressed with himself, and he lives for opportunities to be in the spotlight.”
“Sounds like a gem,” Frankie answered, forcing herself to laugh. “Thanks, Emma. I’ll steer clear. Appreciate your candor.”
“Take care, Frankie.”
Frankie stared at the phone in her hand for a long time before she slid it into her pocket. There was no way she could steer clear of Bascombe. She had to confront him. Especially if he still had contact with kids.
SEATED AT A HOMEWORK TABLE, Cal finally let out a long breath and released the tension that had been building. She’d promised him only another day, but she would let him stay. He’d make sure of it. He should have just asked, explained why he needed to stay, but he couldn’t do it.
Show No Weakness had been his mantra since his days in peewee-league football. He’d learned early that his old man would jump on any sign of hesitation or uncertainty.
Cal’s ploy had been risky, but any successful athlete was a gambler. Which way was the ball going to be thrown? How was the other guy going to break? He could usually read his opponent’s moves. Sometimes, though, he had to roll the dice and take his chances.
And this time, he’d rolled a winning number. He’d take care of his community service and get to training camp on time. There were worse places he could spend six weeks.
Cal’s mouth curled into a bitter smile. His old man had always warned him that if he didn’t concentrate on football, he’d end up in the county public-works department, picking up roadkill.
Compared to that, FreeZone was a cushy assignment. Playing basketball with a bunch of kids versus scraping flattened carcasses off the asphalt? It didn’t take a genius to choose.
The sun was hidden behind tall buildings, and dark shadows crept across the floor. Without sunlight to brighten it up, the empty space looked even shabbier. The sliver of light from beneath Frankie’s office door sliced across the linoleum, and he studied it for a moment. Then he stood up and dragged the table to her doorway.
She nudged the door open. “Is something wrong?”
Her blue eyes seemed sad, and he wondered why. “I thought I should work over here. In case I have any questions.”
Sadness changed to annoyance. “It’s not rocket science. You just copy the letter. You don’t need my help for that.”
“It’s cozier over here in the corner.”
“You want cozy?” She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. “Did you bring your knitting?”
The coldness that had settled in his stomach when he’d thought about his father began to dissipate. “No, but thanks for reminding me. I’ll bring it tomorrow. I’m working on a darling little hat.”
Her mouth twitched for a moment, then she scowled. “I’m immune to charm, so don’t bother.”
“Good to know,” he said as he settled into the uncomfortable chair. He glanced over his shoulder, but her head was bent over her desk. The light caught the fine hairs at the nape of her neck, making them gleam. In the stark light, she looked small and delicate. Fragile. Nothing like her tough, in-control persona.
A neck is what holds the head up. That’s all. Focus on your job and getting out of here ASAP.
He finished typing the first letter, then noticed her name at the bottom of the page. Francesca Devereux.
He swiveled in his chair. “Is your name really Francesca?”
Her back stiffened, then she looked over her shoulder, her expression wary. “Yes. Why?”
“I figured you called yourself Frankie because you didn’t like your real name. But Francesca…that’s a beautiful name.”
“I’ve been Frankie since I was a kid.” She tapped a pencil on her desk. “I don’t answer to Francesca.”
“I bet your mom doesn’t call you Frankie.”
The pencil stopped bouncing, and she turned in her chair so all he saw was the rigid line of her spine. “Just write the letters, Caleb. I’m not giving you CS hours for psychoanalyzing me.”
Her pencil scraped across paper, but he would bet his next paycheck she wasn’t writing anything legible. Her spiky black hair bristled. The three metal hoops in her right ear glittered beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. Right now, there was nothing soft about Frankie Devereux.
Francesca was a soft name. Feminine. Gentle.
Which was the real woman?
It didn’t matter. He was here for one hundred hours. He didn’t have time to unravel the secrets of his annoying, controlling boss.
With the single-minded focus he’d learned years ago, he forced himself to concentrate on the letter. It was well written. Professional. But he could see a couple places where he could tweak it a bit. Play on the donors’ compassion. Or their vanity. Whatever would nudge them to contribute a little more money.
FreeZone clearly needed it. And it sounded as if Frankie was always scrambling for funding.
Too bad she wouldn’t take his money, but he wasn’t surprised. She was a do-gooder. A save-the-world idealist. She was determined to save these kids—even the ones like Ramon, who didn’t want to be saved.
Cal was lucky she hadn’t booted him out when he’d offered the bribe.
But she still could. And if she did, the judge would throw his ass in jail.
That would be the end of his football career.
The doctor’s words echoed in his head, but he ignored them. He was ready to play. Or he would be, in six weeks.
He sent the letters to the printer, suddenly anxious to get out of here.
As he pulled the table back where it belonged, he heard the printer clanking as it slowly spit out the pages.
When he got back to the office, Frankie was frowning as she read the top one.
“This isn’t the letter I gave you.”
“Yeah, I made a few improvements,” he said easily. “You want to ge
t repeat donations. I thought the changes in the second paragraph would persuade some of your donors to fork over more money.”
“This doesn’t sound like me.” She slapped it onto the desk. “I didn’t ask you to rework the letter. I asked you to make copies.”
“I thought this might be more effective.”
“Not your job, Stewart.” Her movements were jerky as she squared the papers on her desk. “I give my CS volunteers specific jobs for a reason.”
“Fine. Don’t use it,” he said coolly. His letter was better than hers. Why wouldn’t she admit it?
“Good night, Cal. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Her shoulders were tight and she didn’t turn around. Her hand were trembling.
“You okay?” he asked. All this tension couldn’t be because of a stupid letter.
“I’m fine. Good night.”
CHAPTER FIVE
AS FRANKIE APPROACHED Doug Bascombe’s assistant two weeks later, she smoothed her damp palms down the skirt of her black business suit. She was an adult, she reminded herself. Not a powerless child. She was doing the right thing.
She smiled at the young woman sitting at the desk. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Bascombe, please.”
The woman looked up. “I’m afraid he’s on a conference call at the moment. Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I don’t. But I think he’ll see me.”
The assistant—Miranda, according to her nameplate—didn’t seem convinced. “What’s your name? I’ll ask him when he’s finished the call.”
“Frankie Devereux.”
Miranda wrote it down, and Frankie seated herself in one of the plush chairs lining the wall. She pulled a book out of her bag and opened it, but none of the words made sense. She continued to stare at it, though, turning pages occasionally. She wanted to appear calm. Cool. Confident.
After a while, Miranda disappeared into the office behind her. When she emerged, she sat back down, shaking her head apologetically at Frankie.
After another ten minutes, her phone buzzed and she stood up. “Mr. Bascombe will see you now.”
As if he were a king, granting her an audience. It made Frankie straighten her shoulders and hold up her head as she marched into the office.
His desk was massive and made out of cherry. Artwork hung on the walls, and all of it looked expensive. A leather couch stood along one end of the room, and two chairs were positioned in front of the desk.
“Ms. Devereux. To what do I owe the pleasure?” He smiled impersonally, as if he didn’t remember her.
Maybe he didn’t. It had been a long time.
His suit was expensive and tailored, his hair carefully styled. But his eyes were the same—cold. Predatory.
Her hands began to tremble, and she gripped the strap of her purse.
“We need to talk. Dave.” Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it against her ribs.
His smile faltered. “My name is Doug.”
“Not always.” She held his gaze until he looked away, then she sat down.
“What is this about?”
“I think you know.” When he simply stared at her, she gripped the strap of her handbag even tighter. “I’m your past, come back to haunt you.”
When his eyes flickered, Frankie relaxed her hands. “So you do remember. Juvie. Twelve years ago. A small conference room.” Her stomach threatened to rebel the way it had two weeks ago, and she struggled to ignore it.
“I helped a lot of kids back then.”
She held his gaze. “I’ll bet you did, Dave.”
His mouth thinned. “Let’s cut to the chase, Ms. Devereux. What do you want from me?”
“I want you to resign as DCFS director. Immediately.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “You’re out of your mind.”
“No, I’m not. I’m offering you a choice. Resign or I go public.”
He dropped all pretense of politeness. “Go public with what? Baseless accusations? You have no proof of anything, and no one is going to believe the word of a street punk. Which is what you were.”
“Really, Dave? You want to risk that? You want me to go to the newspapers? The news stations’ investigative reporters?”
He leaned toward her, his eyes narrowed. “The head of DCFS has a lot of power, Ms. Devereux. You start making accusations, and I’ll shut down your little teen center so fast that you’ll be on the street before you have time to take a breath. Is that what you want?”
“Threaten me all you like. It doesn’t change what you are. Or what I have to do.” She stood up, her legs shaking. “I’ll give you a week or two to come up with a face-saving explanation. If you don’t resign, you’ll leave me no choice.”
“I’m not resigning, Ms. Devereux.” He leaned back in his expensive chair. “So bring it on. I’ll be waiting for you.”
She walked out of the office and down the hall. When she was out of sight, she slumped against the wall.
Had she really expected him to agree? To resign? From everything she’d learned about Doug Bascombe over the past two weeks, he was too power hungry, too egotistical to do that. But maybe she’d shaken his confidence a little. Maybe he’d think twice before he harmed any more children.
Until she could figure out a way to get him out of power, it was the best she could do.
HE’D BEEN AT FREEZONE for two weeks, and his knee hurt like hell.
Cal let the weights drop for the final time, then grabbed his towel from the floor and wiped down his face. He had four more weeks. He needed to improve faster than this.
“Hey, Cal.”
His agent, Jonas Grant, strolled up, wearing a suit and tie. Cal had never seen the guy without his armor, even here in the Cougars’ weight room.
“Jonas. What are you doing here?” Cal swung his leg over the machine and managed to stand up without bracing himself.
Jonas glanced at his knee and quirked one eyebrow. “You’re favoring that leg.”
“Of course I am. I just finished lifting.”
“How’s it doing?”
“The knee is great.”
Jonas glanced at it again and then looked quickly away, as if the thing had a contagious disease he didn’t want to catch.
Like end-of-career-itis.
“You’re good to go, then?”
“Absolutely. I’m here every morning, working with the trainers.” Cal slung the towel over his shoulders and headed toward the lockers. “Four, five hours a day.”
“Cal.” Jonas put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “You can be honest with me. You’re limping.”
“Jeez, keep your voice down. It’s a minor setback. Temporary.”
“What was this setback?”
“I was playing basketball with the kids at CS yesterday.” He played every day, and it had finally caught up with him.
“Are you out of your frigging mind? Basketball?” Jonas spoke in an incredulous whisper. “Do you want them to cut you?”
“It was mostly catch and throw,” Cal muttered.
“Don’t do it again, you dumb-ass. Do you have any idea how many hours I’ve spent on the phone massaging the coach’s ego, trying to make sure you have a shot at a roster spot? And you’re playing basketball with a bunch of loser kids?”
Those loser kids were keeping him at FreeZone. If they liked him, Frankie wouldn’t be able to fire him and send him to jail. “Did you drive all the way here to harass me, Jonas? Or was there another reason?”
“Your father called me the other day. He wanted to know how your knee was doing. If you’d be ready for the season.” The agent paused. “You should call him, Cal.”
“What, now you’re my mother?” He threw his towel in the hamper
with a little more force than necessary. “He wants his season tickets. Get him a set, send them to him and keep him off my back.”
“Whoa.” Jonas held up his hands. “He’s concerned about you.”
“He’s concerned about losing the perks that come with having a son in the NFL.”
“That’s harsh.”
“It’s the truth.” His father had pushed him relentlessly for as long as he could remember. Cal’s life had been about nothing but football since the first time he’d strapped on the pads. It had always been about what his father wanted. Not what he wanted. “Anything else, Jonas?”
“Nah. I’m stopping in to see the coach. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Can’t wait,” Cal muttered as his agent walked away.
FRANKIE WAS STILL SHAKING when she left the building housing the DCFS offices. She made her way to her car and sat in it until her breathing steadied and her heart slowed. She didn’t want to go to FreeZone yet—she’d just sit and think or pace and think, and she’d done too much of that already. She needed to be distracted.
She needed her brothers.
Thirty minutes later, she opened the door to Mama’s Place, the family restaurant in Chicago’s Wildwood neighborhood. The rich scent of simmering sauces drifted over her. She was home. The restaurant wouldn’t open for several hours, but she knew her brothers would be here.
Nathan managed the restaurant, and Marco was the chef. Frankie and all three of her brothers had grown up in the restaurant, walking there after school and doing their homework at the big round table in the corner of the dining room. Nathan and her second brother, Patrick, had worked as busboys, then as waiters.
When their parents were alive, she and Marco had been too young to work. But they’d been at the restaurant every day after school, helping to set up, doing homework, harassing the cooks.
The short hallway to the hostess table was lined with pictures of local celebrities, taken with her beaming mother and father. Yellowing reviews, raving about the food, were interspersed with the pictures.
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