Clearly unoffended, she shot him a lopsided smile as she stroked the car’s oxidized front fender. “Why does everyone always assume Maybelline here is on the verge of a breakdown? She may not be pretty, but she runs a lot better than she looks.”
“I hope to hell, since it’s a rust bucket.” Then he stared at her. “You named your car?”
“Well, sure. We’ve been together a long time—I could hardly just call her it.” She gave him a droll look. “I take it you didn’t name yours.”
“Not in this lifetime,” he muttered. But he could easily visualize her doing so. He’d discovered a…lightness to Poppy Calloway over the past several days, a sort of built-in joy that all but glowed from her.
Damned, however, if he intended to cop to that. “C’mon,” he said gruffly. “I’m parked around the corner.”
He ushered her to his SUV, settled her in the passenger seat, then strode around the hood. Climbing in, he slid his key into the ignition, but turned his head to look at her instead of starting it up. “All right, just what the hell do you need my help doing?”
“It’s nothing illegal, I assure you,” she said dryly and made a little shooing gesture with her fingertips. “Do you think you could head for the Central District while we talk?”
“No.”
She sighed. “Barb Jackson, the grandmother of one of my students in the Central District program, called me. Darnell’s gone missing, and she’s scared sick.”
He stared at her. “Contrary to what this assignment with the kids might suggest, Blondie, I’m not your personal cop. Not to mention I’m a Robbery detective, not Missing Persons.”
“Which is actually a bonus at the moment, since they basically told Mrs. Jackson not to worry her pretty little head, that that was kids for you and Darnell has to be missing twenty-four hours before they’ll start looking for him.”
“There’s a reason they wait that long. Nine times out of ten that is kids for you.”
“He’s a good kid, Jason, and what if he’s that tenth out of ten? I know you have a demanding job that our cleanup project is taking you away from, and I honest to God don’t expect you to drop everything else you’re doing. But you’ve got resources Mrs. Jackson and I do not. Won’t you at least talk to her?”
He should say no. He intended to say no. Instead, grumbling, he fired up the engine. And headed for the CD.
Twenty minutes later he pulled up in front of a neat, mid-nineteenth-century bungalow. For a brief moment after he turned off the ignition, he simply sat there staring up the walk. Then on a resigned breath, he turned to Poppy. “I don’t suppose you want to change your mind about this?”
“She needs our help, Jason.”
He swore under his breath and—ignoring the fact that hearing her call him by his given name did something funny to his gut—climbed from the car and strode around the hood to open Poppy’s door. She beat him to it, however, and moodily eyeing the swing of her hips, he all but tromped on her heels as she strode up the short walk. Finding himself breathing down her neck as she stopped to push the doorbell, he took a healthy step backward. Jesus. The woman was making him seriously crazy.
The door opened and the author of his insanity said, “Mrs. Jackson? I’m Poppy Calloway and this is Detective de Sanges.”
“Thank you so much for coming.” A plump, tidily attired African-American woman who looked to be in her late fifties stepped back, opening the door wider. “Please, come in.” She shot him a glance, then looked back at Poppy. “I didn’t know a police officer would be accompanying you.”
“I’m not with Missing Persons, Mrs. Jackson, but Ms. Calloway asked if I’d help look into your grandson’s disappearance. I don’t have any authority in another department’s case, but—”
“It’s nobody’s case, Detective. When I called Darnell’s school and found out he hadn’t been there I went to Missing Persons. But they said he hadn’t been gone long enough to create a file.”
“In most instances the waiting period turns out to be valid. But I’ll do what I can.”
Mrs. Jackson led them into a living room that was inexpensively furnished, but clean and freshly painted in a cheerful spring green. “Please, have a seat.”
He and Poppy sat on the couch, and he automatically reached for what should have been the inside pocket of his suit jacket—only to pull up short at the reminder he’d dressed casually today. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jackson, I don’t have my notebook with me. Would you have a piece of paper and something to write with?”
She fetched him a tablet and a pen.
“Thanks.” Flipping back the tablet cover, he looked at the older woman and clicked the pen to extend its point. “When’s the last time you saw your grandson?”
“Last night before I went to bed.” She turned to Poppy. “He was still talking about your last class, and I thought at first, when he didn’t come home from school, he’d maybe met up with that South American girl he likes or had gone to a friend’s house. But when he still hadn’t called or shown up come suppertime, I started calling his friends.” For a moment her face crumpled, then she regained control. “Nobody knew anything.”
“Or weren’t willing to say,” he said.
The older woman shifted in protest. “He’s a good boy! And so are ninety-nine percent of his friends.”
“I’m not implying otherwise, ma’am. But even the best of teens are still teens. They do things they don’t think through very well. They all seem to believe that if there were an Eleventh Commandment it would be Thou Shalt Cover For Thy Friends No Matter What. And sometimes they lie simply because they know you won’t like the truth and they just don’t want the responsibility of living up to your expectations. I don’t know Darnell so I’m not saying he’s done any of those things. But it is something to keep in mind. Does he have a car?”
“No, sir.”
He rose to his feet. “Why don’t you show me his room. Then perhaps you can get me a picture to show around and a list of his friends’ addresses and phone numbers while I take a look at it.”
“All right.” She led them to a room off the kitchen.
When the older woman left them at the door and turned back into the kitchen, Poppy turned back to watch Jason paw through the teen’s possessions.
And found herself needing to reassess.
She’d been quick to pass judgment on de Sanges last year when he’d told her things she hadn’t wanted to hear, but she realized now that he simply laid out matters as he saw them, based on his professional expertise. Contrary to what she’d first assumed, he didn’t do so to discourage or to hurt, but rather to impart information as truthfully as he could. And God knew his assessment of teens correlated pretty damn spot-on with her own experience working with them.
She believed what she’d told Cory—that things might have been different if there had been a cop like Jason on the Capelli case. He was just too pigheaded, too detail-oriented, to let a man’s reward for courageously stepping forward to identify a killer be to forfeit his life.
“Kid’s got talent,” Jason said, interrupting her thoughts.
She looked up to find him studying some of Darnell’s work tacked to the walls. “He does. A boatload of it.”
“I don’t see a computer.”
“He probably uses the public ones at the library. Mrs. Jackson provides a good life for him here, but it doesn’t come with much discretionary income. And things like cell phones and computers? Well, they’re rarely on the have-nots’ side of the equation.”
He essayed a philosophical shrug that suggested he saw the divide between class privileges on a daily basis. “Sort through the wastebasket and see if there’s anything in it that might point us to his whereabouts.”
Mrs. Jackson rejoined them and Jason studied the wallet-size school photo she gave him. He had the older woman go through Darnell’s clothing to see if anything was missing, then asked her to identify the drawings of the people in the teen’s sketch pad.
“And that’s me, of course,” she said at one point, then sat silently for a moment as tears welled in her eyes. Sniffing, she sat straighter, but ran gentle fingertips down her likeness on the paper. Slowly she flipped the page and studied it for a moment. “I’m thinking this is that girl Darnell likes in Ms. Calloway’s class.”
Poppy leaned down to look. “Emilia, yes. They do seem to like each other quite a lot.”
De Sanges glanced at Mrs. Jackson. “What did she have to say when you called?”
When she said she hadn’t because she didn’t know the number, Poppy volunteered to contact the girl.
Mrs. Jackson’s face suddenly tightened.
Looking from her expression to the drawing in the book, de Sanges leaned in to study the sketch more closely. “Who’s this?”
“Nobody,” the older woman said flatly.
“He’s someone, Mrs. Jackson, or your grandson wouldn’t have sketched him.”
“His name is Freddy Gordon and he and Darnell used to be friends. But then Freddy joined a gang. They don’t see each other anymore.”
“I’ll need his address anyhow. We don’t want to leave any stone unturned.”
“I can tell you exactly what you’re going to find under that particular rock,” Mrs. Jackson muttered. But she stood and swept up the contact list she’d made, taking it back to the kitchen.
With the briefest expression-free eye contact, he passed Poppy the sketchbook. To her surprise, however, she realized she was beginning to read nuances in Detective Sobersides’s poker face. And looking down at the drawing, she saw why he might have a hard time taking Mrs. Jackson’s assessment at face value. It showed a youth with sad, old-soul eyes but a sweet if barely there smile.
“This kid might be trouble or a bad influence, but Darnell drew him with love,” she said softly, admiring the boy’s ability to bring personalities to life.
“Yeah.” He rose to his feet. “That was my impression, too.” Meeting the missing boy’s grandmother in the doorway as she returned from the kitchen, he accepted the revised sheet she handed him and said, “Mrs. Jackson, we’re going to take Darnell’s picture and this information and search for him. I’ll let you know the minute I hear anything.”
The older woman reached for his hand and held it between both her own as she thanked him. Then she did the same to Poppy. Five minutes later they were back in the car.
He looked over at her, something in his dark eyes telegraphing a sense that he was now as fully engaged in this quest as she.
“Let’s go have a talk with Freddy Gordon,” he said and started the car.
CHAPTER TEN
Oh, man, that smile. Not to mention what he did. It’s official. I’m toast.
FIRST THING Jase did, after turning off his car in front of a rundown house several blocks and a world of upkeep removed from Mrs. Jackson’s, was unlock the glove compartment and retrieve his gun from its rig. Then he grabbed his badge and his seen-better-days notebook with its cheap pen stuck through the spirals. Climbing from the SUV, he shoved the book into one hip pocket and his badge into the other. He tucked his gun in the back of his jeans and pulled his T-shirt from his waistband to conceal it. There. Now he didn’t feel so naked.
Poppy was actually still sitting in the passenger seat when he rounded the hood, instead of already halfway up the cracked walk ahead of him. He opened her door, but she didn’t move, just gave him a look.
“Not thrilled with the gun, de Sanges.”
“Sorry to hear it, Calloway. I’m not thrilled with the feel of this place. The gun stays.”
She gazed at him a moment longer, then nodded. “I know what you mean about the feel. Why do I have the sense this kid isn’t going to get the same kind of concern Mrs. Jackson displayed for Darnell?”
“Because you’ve worked with enough kids to get a feel for the ones in bad family situations? Or, hell, maybe just because it’s still a sunny evening, but all the blinds are closed, or the fact that this place is a dump.” He looked at the dirt-and-weed-choked yard littered with broken, discarded bikes and trikes as he ushered her up the uneven walkway to the front door. “Even the doesn’t-require-much-money, easily fixed stuff hasn’t been done.”
They stopped on the sagging two-step stoop. A television inside blared Oprah and when Poppy once again failed to make a move—which was very unlike her—he reached around to rap his knuckles on the door.
It opened and he had to adjust his sights a good deal lower to the little girl standing on the other side. Wearing a grimy, food-stained T-shirt and corduroy pants, she planted her finger firmly in her mouth and stared up at him with solemn eyes.
And Poppy finally came to life. “Well, hello there,” she murmured with a soft smile and dropped to her haunches in front of the child.
The little girl reached out to touch the blond mass of curls brushing Poppy’s collarbone. Her own hair looked as if it hadn’t seen a comb or brush that day. A shy smile curled her lips around the damp finger.
“Whatayou want?” demanded a harsh voice and the kid snatched her hand back, the smile dropping from her face. She gave her finger a comforting suck.
Pulling his attention from Poppy, who was trailing gentle fingertips over the crown of the little girl’s head as she rose to her feet in a swirl of filmy skirts, he directed it at the irritated countenance of the reed-thin woman who’d gotten up and come to the door.
Ignoring the ash that fell from her cigarette onto the floor, she stared back at him.
“You Mrs. Gordon?”
Suspicious eyes narrowed behind the screen of smoke she blew between them. “Who wants to know?” Then she gave him a closer inspection. “Shit. A cop.” Turning her attention to Poppy, she glared. “And you got that do-gooder look about ya, so you must be—what? CPS?”
“No, ma’am, I’m not with Child Protection Services. Darnell Jackson is in an art class I teach. He’s missing and we’re trying to find him. We heard he’s friends with Freddy.”
“Well, he sure ain’t here,” the woman scoffed, tossing her cigarette out the door. “Darnell don’t come around much anymore. That was his tight-assed granny’s doin’, but for once I hadda agree with the old bitch. Boy’s got no reason to be hangin’ with my son. Darnell’s got somethin’—you can see jest by lookin’at him that he’s gonna be someone someday.” Then the warmth bled out of her voice. “Freddy ain’t never gonna amount to shit.”
Jase saw the shock on Poppy’s face that a woman could say such a thing about her own son. With the authority he’d been soft-pedaling until now, he barked, “Is Freddy around? I’d like to talk to him.”
“I don’t know where the little bastard is. Ain’t seen him since Sunday night.”
“You didn’t get him off to school?” Poppy asked.
“He’s almost eighteen, lady. He kin get hisself off to school.”
Poppy’s eyes started flashing fire and Jase took a lateral step to place himself between the two women. “Does Freddy have a cell phone?”
“Yeah.”
When she didn’t elaborate, he said in a you-don’t-want-to-mess-with-me voice, “What’s his number?”
Muttering under her breath, she shuffled on worn bedroom scuffs back across the living room, then returned a moment later, a fresh cigarette in one hand and a dollar-store address book in the other. She turned its pages with painful slowness until she finally hit upon the one she sought. Without looking up, she recited it aloud.
He wrote it in his notebook, then passed her his card, accompanied by a hard look. “Call me the minute you hear from him.”
“Huh,” she grunted and held the front door open in a clear invitation to leave.
He followed Poppy from the house and could tell by her stiff-gaited stride that she wasn’t happy.
And if that hadn’t been hint enough, she was less than shy about stating her opinion. “Can you believe that woman?” she snapped as she slid into the car.
He shut the door in her face, but s
he was turned toward the driver side when he climbed in seconds later.
“I wish I had been CPS—that woman was just begging to have her children taken away. Dammit, Jason, that sweet little girl didn’t look as if she’d had an ounce of care given her in I don’t know how long.”
He didn’t like the way he kept getting all hung up on the sound of his name coming from her lips. Consequently, his voice was stiff when he said, “I agree Mrs. Gordon won’t qualify for mother of the year anytime soon. But I’ve rarely seen the foster system add quality to a kid’s life.”
“At least the child wouldn’t die from secondhand smoke,” she muttered. But she sighed and visibly reined in her anger. “All right, I know that,” she admitted softly. “I do. It’s just…”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “It bites.” He tried calling the number he’d gotten for Freddy, but it went straight to voice mail. After leaving a brief message with his various numbers, he disconnected, then turned back to Poppy.
“Listen, work’s piling up on my desk. If you can dig up Darnell’s girlfriend’s address we’ll go by and see if she’s home. But win or lose on that front, Blondie, I need to head back to the station the minute we’re done.”
“You’re kidding me. It’s already after six.”
He shrugged. “Work’s piling up on my desk.”
Reaching across the console, she touched warm fingertips to his forearm. “Thank you, Jason. For everything. You’ve been great about this and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
Jase had a quick mental vision of her demonstrating her appreciation. With nudity. Flex-cuffs. And a headboard.
He snapped erect. Jesus. He was more, dammit, than the sum total of his fucked-up genes. His voice developing some snap, he said, “You can thank me by hustling for that address.”
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