Bending the Rules

by Susan Andersen

  “Sonuva—!” A man’s head appeared over the edge of Mrs. Stories’s roof. “Is everyone okay down there? Sorry, dudes—I accidentally kicked it off the ledge.”

  Her heart still pounding out a rhythm like a rapper on speed, she watched Ms. C. grab de Sanges’s arm when he took a hot step toward the building.

  He looked down at her all tenselike, listened as she murmured something, then with a curt nod walked away. Ms. Calloway inhaled and exhaled a couple of times, then straightened her shoulders and shook out her hands. “Thank you, Danny. Cory, are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I think. That was spooky.”

  “No kidding.” Ms. C. bent to pick up a white plastic tub that she, too, had dropped. After reading the instructions on its side, she shot Henry a sly smile.

  “Hmm. No methylene chloride, MEK or toluene. No fumes or flammable solvents. That kinda kicks the slats out from under your wrecking-your-delicate-lungs theory, doesn’t it? It is caustic, though, so wear your gloves. We wouldn’t want to incur any damage to your still-developing fingers.”

  Cory didn’t want to find anything about the situation amusing, but her lips curled up in spite of herself. Ms. C. was like no adult she’d ever met before. She was pretty as a model, but not at all snooty. She acted as if she actually liked them, talking to them in that easy way the good teachers did. And she’d just shrugged off a very near-miss accident. She was…cool.

  The smile dropped from her face, however, when Detective de Sanges strode up to her.

  “I’m partnering with you,” he said in his nonsmiling, just-the-facts-ma’am way. “Poppy—er, that is, Ms. Calloway assigned us to this section of brick over here.” He walked over to it and raised dark, slashing eyebrows at her when she didn’t immediately follow. “She says after we clean it, you’re to paint on the remover and I’m to apply this laminated cloth on top of it.” He hefted a small plastic-wrapped bundle for her to see.

  Panic scratched at the back of Cory’s throat, but she raised her chin in an attempt to refute it. “Forget it. I don’t want to partner with you.”

  Those eyebrows gathered over the strong thrust of his nose, but he merely said, “I didn’t make the assignment, kid—I’m just following the general’s orders.”

  The panic pushed harder. “Well, I’m not.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got that. Except it’s not your choice. Still, why don’t we talk to—”

  “I don’t want to talk to you!” Taking several steps back, she crossed her arms militantly over her breasts, hoping it would divert his sharp gaze from the sudden tremble in her lips. “You’re a cop. I don’t like cops.”

  “Okay,” he said calmly. “Basically we’re just people like everyone else, and if you don’t break the law you’ve got nothing to worry about. But let me just talk to Ms. Ca—”

  “That’s bullshit!” Her voice came out too loud and she hugged herself against the sick tremors suddenly shaking her from head to foot. But she stood by her words: it was bullshit.

  “Language, Ms. Capelli,” Ms. C. said.

  Cory wasn’t listening. She glared at the detective. “That’s a big, fat lie. My daddy didn’t break no law! My daddy did the right thing—least that’s what he thought he was doing by going to the police in my old neighborhood when he recognized the gunman in a drive-by shooting. And you know what your precious cops did in return? Nuthin’! They were happy enough to get the information and make an arrest, but they didn’t bother to keep him safe from the shooter’s gang.”

  Salty liquid trickled in the corner of her mouth and angrily she swiped her forearm against her cheek to wipe away tears she hadn’t even realized she was crying. “Almost two years my daddy’s been dead,” she snapped with extra force to negate the weakness implied by her weeping. But she couldn’t keep her voice steady and she ended up sobbing, “And my mom’s been working two jobs just to make ends meet. So don’t tell me how goddamn wonderful cops—”

  “Shh, shh, shh, shh, shh.” Warm hands closed around her upper arms and she was pulled against a softly scented female breast and wrapped in warm arms. “Shh, now,” Ms. Calloway’s voice crooned and one hand lifted to stroke the back of Cory’s hair. “It’s okay. It’s okay, baby.”

  “No, it’s not!” she wailed.

  The hand stilled for a second, then resumed its stroking. “No, you’re right. There’s nothing okay about your father being killed for trying to do the right thing. Detective,” she said in a calm voice over Cory’s head, “why don’t you take the boys to the coffee shop down the street and get them something to drink. Take your time. But bring us back a couple of mocha frappuccinos when you’re done, will you? My wallet’s in my tote over there.”

  “Keep your money,” he said gruffly. “Come on, guys.”

  Stupid tears kept trickling from Cory’s eyes and her nose was getting so stuffy she could barely breathe. Panting noisily through her mouth, she rested her cheek against the soft cushion of Ms. C.’s breast, feeling the paint-splotched cotton beneath it growing damp and hoping to heck she wasn’t getting snot all over Poppy.

  Wouldn’t that just be the sprinkles on her cupcake.

  Yet, she felt…better somehow. Still sad, but not so gut-wrenchingly lonesome.

  “How long have you been keeping this in?” Ms. Calloway inquired gently, her hands still soothing the back of Cory’s head and her neck.

  “I dunno. Year and a half?”

  “Ever since your father died? Haven’t you talked to your mother about it?”

  “Nuh-uh. Mom misses Daddy so much, and she’s got loads on her plate, y’know? I don’t wanna burden her.”

  “Honey, she’s your mom. She’d want to know. What do you do when it hits you out of the blue, cry alone?”

  She shrugged. “Mostly.” And she hadn’t realized how good it could feel to be held while she grieved. But the thought made her feel disloyal to her mother, so she disengaged herself and stepped back, knuckling her nose. Which only spread the snot across her cheek.

  Jeezus.

  Ms. C. produced a little pack of Kleenex and passed it to her. Cory mopped up her face and blew her nose.

  “Here.” Stepping close, Ms. C. pulled a tissue out of the pack in Cory’s hand and dabbed under her eyes with it. Tipping her chin in, she inspected her for a silent moment. “You actually look prettier without all that makeup,” she said with a soft smile as she balled up the mascara and eyeliner-smeared tissue.

  Cory sniffed. “That’s what my mom says.”

  “Talk to her. If your mother’s anything like mine, she’d die if she knew how much you were holding in for her sake.”

  It was a seductive thought, but she merely said, “I’ll think about it.”

  “She’s the adult in your family, Cory. I doubt she’d like the idea of you protecting her at the cost of your own peace of mind.” Then she waved her hand. “But I’m not going to nag. So let’s discuss Detective de Sanges instead.”

  Her heart immediately began to pound. “He’s mean!”

  “No,” Ms. C. disagreed without heat. “He’s stingy with his smiles and pretty darn single-minded, but I don’t believe he’s mean. He’s dedicated to the job to an almost ridiculous point. I imagine if he’d been on the team assigned to your father’s case, he would have turned himself inside out to assure there’d be a very different outcome.”

  Oh, if only! But her daddy was gone and nothing was gonna bring him back. “Maybe,” she said grudgingly, unwilling to give any cop the benefit of the doubt. Still, maybe he wasn’t all bad. Because now that she wasn’t so panicked, she kind of remembered him trying to tell her he’d get Ms. C. when she’d flipped out on him about being partnered up.

  At least that wasn’t bound to happen now. So, as embarrassing as crying like a baby in front of everyone was, it had one upside.

  “I’m sorry,” Ms. Calloway said. “That was hardly helpful in the face of a situation that can’t be changed. But as you get to know Detective de Sanges a little better I’m con
fident you’ll discover he’s not so bad.”

  Uh-oh, that didn’t sound good. “Huh? As I get to know—”

  “Him better,” Ms. C. finished. “Because you do realize, don’t you, that he’s still your partner? At least until this chore is complete.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Well, damn. Just when I’m getting comfy in my preconceptions, Jason has to go and throw a spanner in the works. I hate it when the facts get in the way of my prejudices!

  WHEN BRUNO ARTURO spotted a teen toting spray-paint cans, he reversed his course, backtracking with long strides in the youth’s direction. Sure, Schultz had said to leave the tagger situation be, but this was Kismet, man. Why else would a graffiti freak that he’d seen hanging around the streets before show up just as he was thinking how whack it was that he couldn’t find his tagger? “Hey, kid!”

  The boy glanced over his shoulder but kept shuffling along in his oversize hoodie, baggy pants that showed a good eight inches of boxer shorts where they hung off his skinny ass and huge, untied sneakers.

  “You! I’m talking to you.” Jesus, what the hell were these kids thinking when they pulled on rags like that in the morning? Smoothing his palm along the lapel of his own sharp gray suit, Arturo watched the kid’s head turn back around and snapped, “Don’t you walk away from me, punk!”

  “Whaddup, dude?” The boy turned back, but his upper body angled back and his arms crossed over his chest, copping an attitude. “Whatchu want?”

  “You, answering some questions about one of your species.”

  The teen’s eyes narrowed. “What species you talkin’ about, ass-can? One that be black?”

  “No, idiot. I’m trying to locate a tagger. A white tagger,” he added pointedly.

  “Don’t know me none a’ them.”

  “Bullshit. I see you kids hanging out together all the time. Only color you graffiti types seem to see says Krylon on the can. So tell me where I can find this one.” He described the boy who’d been on the roof in as much detail as he could recall.

  But the kid merely shrugged and Bruno had a feeling he hadn’t even been listening. “Like I said, dude, don’t know him. I can’t help you.”

  “Well, if you can’t, I guess you can’t,” he said affably—then grabbed the youth by the throat and waltzed him backward into a nearby alley.

  “Now,” he said calmly as the kid’s fingers scrabbled at his hand and his dark eyes bugged out. “Whataya say we try this one more time?”

  POPPY FOUND HERSELF sneaking peeks at Jason as the group worked at painting over the black spray-paint on yet another storefront the following Tuesday afternoon. He’d been…mellower since Cory’s meltdown, not nearly as standoffish and serious.

  Not that he’d suddenly turned into a smiling fool or the kids’ best friend. But Poppy had noted his gentleness with Cory when he’d rejoined the girl that day, and the quiet way in which he’d allowed her to maintain her distance. So although he’d still made cracks to Poppy about her minithugs, he’d obviously done something right while he’d had the boys over at the coffee shop. She didn’t know what he’d said to them, but both kids had managed to act pretty natural around Cory when they’d come back. After the girl’s revelation concerning her father—and boys being boys—Poppy doubted they could have pulled that off if he hadn’t said something to them.

  So that was…good. Or at least it should be good. But, man, oh, man. Her stomach twisted as she shot Jase another glance. Because she wasn’t all that certain a mellower de Sanges was a good thing.

  It was bad enough she had the hots for the guy when he was being his usual I-do-not-smile-therefore-I-am gloomy Gus. This damn itchy got-you-under-my-skin attraction she felt for him made no sense, but at least his thorny personality helped her keep her distance.

  Oh, yeah? How’s that working for you? Blowing out a disgusted breath, she pulled a foot-long piece of an old Venetian blind out of her tote and crossed to where Henry was avoiding painting up to the corner to show him how to use the pliable length of aluminum to avoid slopping color onto the adjoining wall while he finished his section.

  But her mind returned to her rat-in-a-maze musings the instant she no longer had something to distract her. Because Jason’s less-than-jovial persona had been such a consideration, hadn’t it, when he’d given her that peck on the lips and she’d wanted to swallow him whole?

  Oh, yeah. Big turnoff. As if it was you who pulled away.

  Damn. She so didn’t get this. Because the way she felt around him? Probably the most libidinous of her life. She’d always had a pretty healthy sex drive, but never had she taken just one look at a guy and thought, Want that.

  She swallowed a snort. Giving yourself way too much credit here if you actually believe there’s been any thinking involved. She was all nerve endings and awareness around him. Take last fall when she’d believed he was blowing off the break-in scare they’d experienced at the mansion. She’d been furious with him, yet it hadn’t stopped her from wanting to rub herself all over him like a cat in heat.

  She had no idea where all these urges, past and present, were coming from. She’d always imagined the kind of guy who’d have this visceral an impact on her would be…well, worlds different from Jason de Sanges, that’s for sure. She’d envisioned someone artistic and socially conscious—a guy who was maybe a little bit like her dad, in that he’d love to laugh and think that her desire to change the world one kid at a time was actually a good thing, not some giant pain in his ass.

  She found her gaze drawn to that portion of his anatomy, then staying to study it in loving detail. In his usual tailored slacks his butt was round and muscular and studly enough. But in the worn jeans he had on today? Lord have mercy. Those showcased precisely what a world-class—

  For God’s sake, Poppy! It was all she could do not to smack her palm off her forehead. Because, for the love of Pete, what was she, a high-school girl mooning over the football captain? She hadn’t done that when she was a teen!

  She had a bad, bad feeling, though, that things weren’t going to get better. Because it was tough enough keeping her eyes to herself and her thoughts off his ass when he was Robocop. How was she supposed to deal if he turned all Mr. New Age Sensitive Guy on her?

  By taking a big step back, that’s how. She blew out a quiet breath. Squared her shoulders.

  Okay, she could do that. She could—and would—act professionally from now on and keep all personal inclinations under lock and key. No letting her hormones be in charge. No more checking out his butt. And except for those situations when it couldn’t be helped as they worked with the kids, she was keeping lots and lots of space between them. Physically and emotionally.

  She moved between her teenage taggers, checking their work and giving them words of encouragement. Her cell phone rang as she was praising the neat, efficient job Danny was doing and she rounded the end of the building to answer it. Turning her back to the traffic whizzing by in the street, she stuck a finger in her free ear to block out the road noises. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Calloway? This is Barb Jackson—Darnell’s grandmother?”

  She beamed at the thought of her star student in the Central District project. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Jackson. How are you?”

  Her smile faded as Mrs. Jackson’s voice grew frantic and frightened the more the older woman talked. Twice Poppy had to exhort her to slow down as well as asking her more than once to repeat something in order to fully understand the situation that had the woman so distraught.

  Finally, she said, “Mrs. Jackson, I’m with another group of kids at the moment, but we should be finished in about an hour. Could I come by your house? Yes? Good, hang on a moment while I grab something to write on.” She raced back to her tote and pulled out her tablet and pen. “Okay, I’m ready. Let me have your address and telephone number.”

  Terminating the call a moment later, she tapped the tablet against her palm as she shot Jase a considering look. She really, really didn’t want to take th
is to him. But he had resources she could only dream of.

  Tossing the notebook and pen back in her tote, she strode over to where he was taping the corner where Henry worked.

  He gave her a don’t-mess-with-me look as she approached. “That piece of blind is fine for small areas,” he said. “But I’m taping this. I want to get done here before we’re all old and gray.”

  “Fine,” she agreed. “I’m all over whatever works. But that’s not why I’m here. I need—” The words stuck in her throat, because asking directly contradicted her vow to keep her distance. Still, it had to be said. Resources, she reminded herself. This isn’t about you, it’s about Darnell, and de Sanges has the resources. She swallowed hard.

  “I need your help.”

  AFTER THE KIDS had taken off for the day, Jase stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and walked beside Poppy to her car, wondering what the hell was going on. They hadn’t had time to really talk and he wasn’t sure why he had automatically agreed to help just because she’d asked.

  It sure wasn’t his usual way. He liked to have his i’s dotted and his t’s crossed before he committed to anything. But had he even once asked, Need my help to do what? Hell, no. The late afternoon spring sun had been casting a nimbus around Poppy’s hair, weaving lacy shadows through the thick lashes fringing those deep brown eyes with their clear, clear whites, and he’d said, yeah, all right. Sure.

  Almost immediately, his uncharacteristic acquiescence had brought him up short. Yet before he could retract it and demand details, Henry had climbed all over his case about finishing the tape job. Then it seemed as if one kid or another had a question or opinion they wanted Poppy to hear. Between all that, there’d been no time for conversation.

  That wasn’t the case now, however, and he opened his mouth to demand details of what he’d blindly signed on for. But Poppy stopped in front of her car and, taking one look at it, all other considerations momentarily fled.

  Jesus, the thing must be fifteen years old and looked as if it was held together by baling wire and gum. Had he laid eyes on the ramshackle wreck at any time since that day he’d been dragged from the Lewis case to take Poppy and her friends’ burglary report, it would’ve eliminated a world of misunderstanding regarding her financial situation. “We’ll take my car.”