by Karen Young
Gonzales returned the greeting with a politician’s suave charm, not quite meeting Jake’s eyes. Crenshaw nodded and rose with his hand outstretched. “I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time, Jake. I know it’s early, but—”
“The sheriff’s door is always open, even early on a Monday morning,” Gonzales said. “Isn’t that right, Jake?”
“Right, J.B.” Jake took off his jacket and hung it on a battered metal pole. Then, heading for his desk, he began turning back the cuffs of his shirt. He always wore a suit jacket, but it invariably came off the minute he got to his office. Mavis teased him about it. How could he maintain a spit-and-polish image if he conducted business in his shirtsleeves?
Image had never meant much to him. Results were what mattered. In his campaign for sheriff twelve years ago, he had promised to clean up a gambling and prostitution racket operating outside the city limits. He’d managed it, even though it had taken three years. In doing so, he had alienated a lot of people. And it never stopped. There were countless incidents since then when he’d been personally responsible for thwarting a criminal scheme. Or a criminal, for that matter. Forgetting the two men in his office, he stared at his hands. Was that the missing link? Was Scotty’s kidnapper a man with a grudge? But who? Which one?
How on earth was he going to find his son?
“We’ve got a problem in the high school, Jake.”
Blinking, Jake stared at Gonzales, then turned to Joe Crenshaw. “What kind of problem, Joe?”
Crenshaw shifted, crossing one knee over the other. “Well, I don’t know if it means anything yet, Jake, but in one of the lockers in the gym, we found a couple of bags of marijuana.”
“It was new stuff, high quality,” Gonzales put in.
“Whose locker?”
“That’s just it. It was an unassigned locker.”
Gonzales spoke up. “We got an anonymous tip. A kid called 911, obviously disguising his voice.”
“The problem is,” Crenshaw said with obvious concern, “that there is probably more where that came from. I’d hate to see new users cultivated just when we’ve had such a good result in reducing usage at THS.”
“That’s why we’re here, Jake.” Gonzales stood up. He moved quickly to the door, motioning Jake into his seat as he began to rise. Jake was a good six inches taller, and the chief never stood directly beside him if he had any choice. “If it’s homegrown, you need to flush out the creeps who’re cultivating it. Locate the fields, destroy them. Arrest the growers.”
“What makes you think it’s grown in Kinard County?”
“Something the kid said when he called in.” Gonzales reached into his pocket and pulled out a tape. “Here, I brought it with me. Listen to it, have your guys study it. Maybe you can come up with something.”
“Thanks,” Jake said dryly, knowing that if anything of substance had been on the tape, Gonzales would have already acted on it.
“Naturally my men will cooperate if it turns out to be something within my jurisdiction.”
“Naturally.”
“I’ll hold off making this public,” Gonzales said, pausing with his hand on the door. “For the moment.”
“Yeah, J.B. I appreciate that.”
As the two men filed through the door, Joe Crenshaw paused then turned back. “Have you heard anything new on the disappearance of your son, Jake?”
“No, nothing.” He set his jaw.
“I’m sorry. I still can’t believe it happened right here in Tidewater.”
“Yeah.”
“If there’s anything—”
“Thanks, Joe.”
“Tell Rachel that Marge said she’s in her prayers.”
“I will. Thanks again.”
When the door closed, Jake was still for a minute. Only his fingers moved, massaging the bridge of his nose. One of the hardest things he had to endure was the well-meaning sympathy of others. He knew it was crazy, but it made his failure to uncover a clue in Scotty’s disappearance even worse. Here he was, charged with the protection of the people of Kinard County, and he’d failed in the most elementary way. Did they wonder if he could do his job, having failed to safeguard his own flesh and blood?
Was that what Rachel was thinking? That he’d failed her because he hadn’t been able to find Scotty? Was that why she had closed him out? Was that why they lived like strangers in the same house?
His fingers stilled and he stared at the phone. He’d left mad. Maybe he should call….
As his hand hovered over the receiver, his intercom buzzed.
“Yeah, Mavis. Who is it?”
“You’ve got another visitor, Jake. He’s—”
“Can somebody else handle it, Mavis? I can’t get a thing done around here if I spend the day talking.” He thumped the unopened mail stacked in his in basket. Lined up neatly beside his phone were half a dozen pink phone messages. “I haven’t even had time to return my calls. If anything was important, it’s probably too late.”
“Nothing was a matter of life and death, Jake. You know I always handle those calls.”
He chuckled in spite of himself. “Okay, Mavis. For a minute there, I got carried away thinking I was indispensable around here or something.”
“About this visitor, Jake…”
“Okay, who is it?”
“A kid. His name is Michael. He—”
“Mavis, I’m up to my armpits in here. Get Jacky. She’s the juvenile officer.”
“He insists on seeing you.”
“Well, who’s in charge out there! Tell him—”
“Jake, I think you ought to see this kid.”
He slammed the receiver on its cradle and closed his eyes. When Mavis was that determined, there was little point in arguing. He drummed his fingers on his desk. Actually, on a regular day when Mavis was that determined, he wouldn’t argue with her, because she usually had a good reason for making a stand. As the thought formed, his door clicked and opened slowly. Jake waited expectantly. When no one appeared, he called out, “Come on in.”
Finally, the door swung fully open to reveal a tall, skinny, scruffy-looking kid wearing a cap bearing the logo of the Miami Dolphins. He quickly gazed around the room, then looked shyly at Jake.
“Hello, sir.”
“Hello…Michael, is it?”
Michael nodded, shifting the strap of a worn denim knapsack so that its weight rested on the floor. Despite the warm May weather, Michael wore a denim jacket that was nearly as worn as his knapsack. Looking closer, Jake could see that his jeans, too, were threadbare, as though they’d seen a lot of miles and countless washings. His orange T-shirt looked new, though. Across the front was a huge ocean wave and the words “Pensacola Beach, Florida.”
A runaway. First thing they did was spend their precious resources on an overpriced T-shirt. Jake ran an experienced eye over him, stopping at his feet. He’d have been better off buying new shoes. His were battered beyond recognition. And big. The kid must wear a size twelve. If he ever grows into those feet and hands, Jake thought, he’ll be my size.
“Have a seat, Michael,” Jake said.
Michael eyed the chair for a moment or two, then shifted his knapsack and sat, awkwardly bending his long legs to fit the straight contours of the chair. He pushed at the bill of his cap and looked into Jake’s eyes. For the first time, Jake noticed their clear, bright color. They were gray. He was a good-looking kid. Looked you right in the eye. Jake liked that. So many kids today didn’t. Of course, a lot of the kids he talked to these days were already criminals. Many of them—some no older than Michael—had already killed.
Jake leaned back in his chair. “How old are you, Michael?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
“Fourteen. You live around here?”
“No, uh…not—”
“Where do you live?”
“I used to live in Des Moines, Iowa.”
“Des Moines, Iowa,” Jake repeated slowly. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you
?”
“I don’t live there anymore.”
Jake drew a deep breath. A runaway—he knew it. “Do your folks know where you are, Michael?”
“I haven’t got any. At least, none in Iowa.”
“Haven’t got any folks? What about your mother? Your father?”
“My mother was killed in an accident a long time ago. I lived with my grandmother, and she just died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m on my own now.”
“You don’t say.”
“I can do it. I’ve already been on the road six weeks and I made it all the way down here.”
Where, Jake thought grimly, was the kid’s father? Here was a boy who ought to have someone taking care of him while he grieved for his dead grandmother.
“Why are you here, Michael?” he asked, recalling that the boy had insisted on seeing him.
Michael’s eyes met Jake’s. Jake wondered at the look. There was a world of wisdom in those eyes. What had he seen since he’d been on his own? What had he survived? Jake hoped suddenly, painfully, that the boy hadn’t suffered things that would never leave him. He wouldn’t be the first fourteen-year-old who got a sordid education on the streets in six short weeks.
“I’ve heard a lot about Florida,” Michael said hesitantly, as though the words didn’t quite express his thoughts.
“Florida,” Jake asked, “or someplace special in Florida? Did someone in your family live here?”
“Not in Tidewater, no.” Then, with a frown, he added quickly, “At least, I don’t think so. But my mother lived in Miami. Mama Dee told me that much.”
“Mama Dee is your grandmother?”
He nodded. “Margaret D’Angelo.”
D’Angelo. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the name rang a bell. But he couldn’t place it. The DEA came to mind. He’d been in Miami then, but still… He shook his head.
“So…” Jake studied him closely. “You’re from Des Moines, Iowa, and your name is Michael D’Angelo.”
“No, sir.” Michael, who’d finally relaxed a bit in his chair, sat up straight again, as though bracing for something. “I mean, I am from Des Moines and my name is Michael, but not D’Angelo.”
Jake was getting impatient. Questioning the kid was like chasing a bubble. But he didn’t think it was a deliberate tactic on Michael’s part. He just seemed to find it difficult to say whatever it was he had to say. Jake glanced at his watch. He had a full day’s work—and more—in front of him. He’d have Mavis call Jacky Kendall in and maybe Juvenile would be able to work something out. They’d know how to begin trying to locate the boy’s father. That is, if Michael knew his name.
“What’s your name, Michael? We’ll see what we can do about locating your father.”
“McAdam, sir. Same as yours.”
“What?”
“Yes, sir. Michael McAdam. And I think you’re my father.”
CHAPTER TWO
FOR A FEW SECONDS Jake simply stared. Through the door, which Michael had not quite pushed shut, came the sounds of office routine: a ringing phone, raised voices, footsteps, a sharp clatter as somebody dropped something. None of it made any impression on Jake. It was simply background accompaniment as he took in Michael’s words.
“How could I be your father, Michael? I don’t know you. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“I know that, sir.” He shook his head and suddenly looked as young as his years. “I never knew anything about any of this until Mama Dee died. There was this chest in her bedroom and it had a bunch of old stuff in it. One thing was a metal box with my birth certificate.”
As he spoke, he leaned down and ripped at a zipper in the knapsack. To Jake, the harsh sound was like the scrape of nails on a blackboard. He tried to collect himself as Michael rummaged through the articles in the opened pouch. There was no order in the way he had packed his belongings, Jake thought vaguely. Rachel would never allow Scotty to pack like that. She would—
He pushed aside the thought of his wife and son almost as soon as it flashed into his mind. He got to his feet like a man who’d been kicked in the stomach. Michael had located whatever it was he was looking for and now he, too, stood.
“Here it is.” He held out a paper, expecting Jake to take it.
Jake did so, but did not look at it immediately. His gaze was fixed on the boy. Had he noticed Michael’s gray eyes because they were a mirror image of his own? No! What was he thinking? It was crazy! Impossible! He was married to Rachel and had been for eighteen years. To have a fourteen-year-old son, he would have had to have sex with another woman, what, fifteen years ago!
“Look at it, sir. I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s the real thing.”
Jake stared blankly at Michael’s earnest expression before slowly dropping his gaze to focus on the document the boy had given him. Name, birth weight, time, place of birth. The facts swam together before his eyes. It was all there. Parents. Mother: Anne-Marie D’Angelo. Father: Michael Jacob McAdam.
Anne-Marie D’Angelo. Could it be?
Jake’s hand shook, making the document waver slightly as both Jake and Michael studied it. With his heart thudding, Jake suddenly sat down on the edge of his desk.
Anne-Marie. He remembered her now, although if he’d been pressed to recall her last name, he never would have been able to. It had been in Miami, a DEA undercover assignment. She had been involved in a major case. A DEA contact. He had been the one to recruit her.
“You say your mother died in an accident. What kind of accident?” he demanded suddenly.
“A trucking accident, I think. I don’t know any more. It happened when I was about five years old,” Michael explained, his eyes trained on Jake’s. “I don’t remember much about her. Mama Dee hardly ever talked about her. To be honest, I don’t think they got along.”
“Did you live with her until she died?”
“No, I’ve always lived with Mama Dee.”
The hand holding the birth certificate curled into a fist, wrinkling the document. Just another unwanted kid shunted off by his mother to a more responsible grandparent. “Why didn’t someone contact me before now!”
“I didn’t know about you, sir. Whenever I asked about my dad, Mama Dee always said you were some kind of lawman in Miami and that you’d probably been shot down on the street, considering the way things are there. She said my mom had always had bad taste in men and that it was just as well she had raised me herself.”
What kind of upbringing was that? Mama Dee sounded deeply resentful and more than a little bitter. It seemed she’d had good reason.
“How did you locate me?”
“There was a letter.” Michael went down on one knee and began rummaging again through the items in the knapsack on the floor. Jake stared at the dark head bent to the task. Scotty had Rachel’s blond coloring and except for his gray eyes looked like her people. This boy, Michael, was like Jake—the same dusky skin, same nose, same high cheekbones and a firm, square chin. Even those rangy, long limbs with their promise of above-average height proclaimed his paternity. No wonder Mavis had been insistent that he see this kid.
“Here it is.” Michael straightened up, holding a single folded paper. There was no envelope. “It tells everything. Your name, the town you live in, where you work, stuff like that. She didn’t give me your address, I guess because she didn’t think I ought to just walk up and ring your doorbell one day.” He handed the letter to Jake.
“I think Mama Dee wrote it after she got sick and knew she wouldn’t ever get well.”
Jake stared blindly at the letter, but so many emotions coursed through him that he couldn’t read it. Not yet. He cleared his throat. “Was she sick long?”
“Not really. Only six months.”
“What was it?”
“She had a heart attack. I found her when I got home from school. When she got out of the hospital, they got the hospice people to watch over her during the day. I wanted to stay wi
th her but Mama Dee had a fit. She said I shouldn’t miss school that much. But she was going down, I could tell. Then one night she told me she was too tired to watch TV.” He looked up at Jake. “We always ate and watched TV at night. So I helped her to bed, and when I went to check on her a little later, she, uh, she was… She…”
Jake pushed away from the desk. He sensed Michael was holding himself together by sheer willpower. Reaching out, he squeezed the boy’s shoulder and felt the shudder that ran through his body. Michael ducked his head quickly and sucked in his breath.
“I’m sorry, Michael.” More sorry than you know. Jake’s features were grim as he thought of the hardships the boy had been forced to endure alone.
Michael drew another breath, fighting for control. “It’s okay,” he mumbled. Unconsciously, Jake began kneading the bony shoulder with his hands. He felt Michael begin to tremble, and moved closer. His own throat was thick with emotion. Then, with a rough sound, he pulled the boy into his arms. Michael’s arms went tightly around Jake’s waist. After a moment, he realized the boy was crying, a deep, silent outpouring of grief that racked his lanky body. Inside, Jake felt the boy’s pain and loss as though it were his own. What difficult choices Michael must have faced to wind up here today. His arms tightened, and a feeling, something new and deep and warm, was born.
With a strangled sob, the rest of the boy’s control fled, and he gave in to the wonderful, healing luxury of tears. After a while, Michael pulled back from Jake and self-consciously wiped his wet cheeks. Jake handed him his handkerchief.
“S-sorry,” Michael mumbled, blowing his nose.
Jake smiled, looking briefly over Michael’s head to a picture of Scotty and Rachel on his credenza. “It’s okay to cry when you lose someone you love.”
“I never have before.”
Which meant he hadn’t cried over his mother’s death. There’d been precious few people to love in this boy’s life. Fate had certainly dealt Michael more than his share of bad luck. Suddenly Jake felt every single one of his forty-two years. What on earth was he going to do about this?