The Children's Cop

by Sherry Lewis

  Jackson leaned forward, his face tight with worry. “Did Angelina ever mention him to you?”

  Hank tilted his head thoughtfully. “I don’t remember her saying anything about him, but she might have.”

  “She never told you that she was afraid of him?”

  “No. I’d remember that. He was too old for her, so I suppose I never gave it any thought. Angel’s a pretty girl, though, so it’s not hard to see how she might have caught his eye. But I wouldn’t put too much stock in what that girl told you. If he’d been bothering her, Angel would have told me.”

  “You’re sure of that?” Jackson asked.

  “Positive.”

  Lucy hoped he was right. “Do you know his last name?”

  Hank pushed up the footrest on his chair and crossed his feet in front of him. “If I’m thinking of the right kid, his dad’s name was Fitzgerald. Ed. Kind of a rough guy. Course, Ed might have been his stepdad. I never did know the family well.”

  “And does the family still live around here?”

  Hank nodded slowly. “I think the parents do. Wayne moved away a few months ago. Talk around the neighborhood is that they kicked him out, but you know how talk is.”

  Lucy felt a stirring of excitement. “Where do his parents live?”

  “Green house down at the end of the block. I don’t know the number, but you’ll have no trouble finding it. There are always three or four cars on the front lawn.”

  “And you have no idea where Wayne is?”

  “Not a clue. Sorry.”

  Lucy made a move to stand, but Jackson wasn’t finished. “Have you remembered anything more about the argument Angel had with her mother?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve been trying.” Hank flicked dried paint from one finger. “It seems odd, doesn’t it, that Patrice hasn’t come back? I mean, wouldn’t you think she’d want to work things out?”

  Unbidden, Maria Avila’s grief-stricken face flashed through Lucy’s mind. She thought about all the things left unsaid between mother and son, and a desperate need to prevent that from happening to Angel and Patrice rose up inside her. Panic followed close on its heels. What if she couldn’t prevent another tragedy? What if she couldn’t bring Angel home? Couldn’t help her reconcile with her mother and meet the rest of her family?

  Needing to create some emotional distance for herself, she slipped her notebook into her pocket and stood to leave. “Thanks, Hank. You’ll call me if you think of anything else?”

  “I’ll be on the phone the minute I think of anything.” Bypassing Lucy, Hank crossed to Jackson and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He didn’t say a word, but he communicated something that Jackson responded to, and the despair on Jackson’s face abated for one brief moment.

  Emotion tightened in Lucy’s chest, and she turned away quickly. She couldn’t connect with Jackson on that level. She couldn’t. The only way to salvage her career—assuming she even wanted to—was to remain disconnected. Aloof. Strictly professional.

  She stared blindly at the wall in front of her until she heard voices again, then quickly turned toward the door and led the way out into the heat. But the look on Jackson’s face tore her up inside, and she knew she’d have to work a whole lot harder at keeping her emotions under control.

  BEFORE THE SUN EVEN CAME up on Thursday morning, Jackson was pacing the length of his mother’s kitchen, waiting for Lucy to call and tell him where and when to meet her. They’d worked late into the evening for two days trying to find Wayne Fitzgerald or pick up another lead on Angel’s whereabouts, but they’d struck out on every try.

  It had been easy to find the house Hank described, but no one had answered their knock—not the first time they tried, not the second, not even the third or fourth. They’d gone up and down the street questioning people, but only a couple of neighbors admitted to knowing who Wayne was, and nobody admitted to knowing where he’d gone.

  Slowly, surely, the sun had slipped behind the horizon on both days, and they’d had to call it a day. Logically, Jackson knew they couldn’t keep going nonstop, but he hated every second of the delay. He hated having to put the search aside while the city shut down and people slept, and anger curled through him all night.

  That people could sleep grated on his nerves. That they could laugh, watch television, go on about their business as if the world hadn’t ground to a halt felt like a betrayal he couldn’t explain, even to himself.

  Unable to sleep, he’d gone back to Channelview last night and convinced Hank to let him into Patrice’s house. After three hours of searching, he’d found a couple of slim leads he wanted to share with Lucy this morning—a few old bank statements, some phone numbers and a shoe box filled with receipts and check stubs from Truck Haven. Sure enough, the checks had stopped abruptly a few months earlier, and if Patrice was collecting a paycheck from anywhere else, she wasn’t saving the stubs.

  To make matters worse, he’d found himself fielding questions he wasn’t ready to answer as he worked. He appreciated Hank’s concern and the watchful eye he kept on Angelina, but his questions about Jackson’s lack of participation in Angel’s life had grated on his already frayed nerves.

  His mood had been so sour by the time he left, he could barely stand to be around himself. Back at the condo, he’d spent hours combing through the telephone books. Not surprisingly, Wayne Fitzgerald wasn’t listed, and if he lived with any of the other Fitzgeralds Jackson had called, they were covering for him. If Lucy faced these kinds of challenges with every case, it was a wonder she was still sane.

  Jackson’s nerves were stretched so tightly, he couldn’t promise that he wouldn’t snap. Yes, they finally had a break, but the sense of unreality that seemed to surround him all the time was growing stronger by the hour.

  He hated being in this position—relegated to waiting on the sidelines while Lucy attended meetings. Waiting for permission to take the next step when he should have been helping Angelina. But that had been the story for years, hadn’t it? He’d never been part of Angel’s life. All his big talk about holding the family together, being there for Wiley, all his delusions about being some kind of rock were just a load of horse manure.

  What had he actually done? He’d given up his dreams. He’d shoveled more horseshit than he’d ever thought he would. He’d taken a lot of orders, but he couldn’t list a single accomplishment that he could call his own. He had no wife. No children. He hadn’t even thought about the possibility in way too long—until Lucy asked him why he wasn’t married.

  He poured the last of the coffee and cradled the mug in his hands as he stared out over the backyard. He told himself there was plenty of time to build a life. He was only thirty-two, after all, and that was hardly ancient. And nothing was more important than the vow he’d made the day of his father’s funeral. His father and Holden had made careers out of indulging themselves and hurting the family. Jackson was making one of being who and what his family needed.

  At long last, the phone rang and he snagged the cordless receiver from the counter. Rush’s familiar “Hey” caught him off guard.

  Instinctively, he glanced at his watch. “It’s a little early for you to be at work, isn’t it? Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine. Wiley’s in a mood, but that shouldn’t come as any surprise. What’s the word on Angel?”

  “There’s not much word at all.” Jackson carried his coffee to the table and tilted back in a chair. “We’ve only found a couple of small leads, but I guess something is better than nothing.”

  “You’ll track her down,” Rush assured him. “I’ve never known you to fail when the chips are down.”

  “The chips have never been this far down before.”

  “Don’t lose heart, Jackson. It will cloud your judgment.” The sound of something scraping across the floor came through the connection, and Jackson pictured Rush straddling his desk chair, arms resting on its back. “I wouldn’t have bothered you at all, but there’s a rumor g
oing around that Terrence Knight may not run Sir Galahad next season. I thought you’d want to know.”

  Jackson seized on the distraction eagerly. Sir Galahad was a Thoroughbred who’d won twenty-five of his fifty-two races and set a couple of track speed records in the process. Breeders all around the country were salivating to get their hands on the horse, and an agreement to let him stand at stud for Crescent Valley would be a major coup.

  Three years ago, Crescent Valley would have been a shoo-in to get him. Now, thanks to Holden, he wondered if they even stood a chance. “How true do you think the rumor is?”

  “Hard to tell. So far that’s all it is. I could put in a call, but I don’t want to jump the gun.”

  Jackson nodded thoughtfully. “What about Art Smith? Do you think he’d know what Knight has in mind?”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it. Far as I know, Knight’s not in the habit of confiding in his trainer.”

  “I don’t want to approach him too soon,” Jackson agreed. “I want the ranch to be stable before we do.” It felt strangely good to think about something besides Angel’s disappearance. He was lost when it came to finding his niece, but horse breeding…well, that was another story entirely. “If we go to Knight now,” he said, “there’s almost no chance we’ll get Galahad.”

  “You can’t be sure of that. The past couple of years have taken their toll, and we lost some footing when all that money disappeared, but we can thank God Wiley’s the kind of man he is. His reputation gave us a chance to pay back what Holden took, and we’re almost there. I think we probably have as good a chance as anyone. Maybe even better than some.”

  And worse than others. Jackson rubbed his face with one hand and let out a heavy sigh. “Knight was one of the hardest hit when Holden wiped out the trust account. And he was the first to take his business to someone else afterward. Even if I went to him on my knees, I doubt he’d be willing to take another chance on us.”

  “Well, we’ve gotta do something, man,” Rush prodded. “We’ll never pull ahead with empty stables.”

  “You don’t need to remind me.” Jackson moved his hand to the back of his neck and went to work on the knots there. Sometimes it seemed as if he’d spent his entire life cleaning up after Holden, and it had grown way beyond old. And what if Angel had run away? What if the cycle was starting all over again? He wasn’t at all sure he had the energy or the patience to get through it.

  Too irritated to sit still, he bounded to his feet and dug eggs and bacon from the refrigerator. “Okay, so we have work to do. If I want to convince Knight to stable Sir Galahad with us, we need to fix up the south barn. I know Knight, and he won’t even consider bringing the horse to us unless that stable is in a whole lot better shape than it is now.”

  “You want me to put a couple of guys on it?”

  Jackson cracked eggs into a frying pan and tossed the shells into the sink. “Do we have any to spare after the layoffs?”

  “I can take Lopez and Hilton off the new fence in the back paddock if you don’t mind letting that end lag a little. Or you could talk to your mother. If she’s doing as well as you say, maybe she’d be willing to invest a little in the ranch.”

  Jackson laughed abruptly. “You want me to ask my mother if she’ll invest in her ex-father-in-law’s failing business?”

  “No, I want you to ask your mother if she’ll invest in her son’s future.”

  “Not on your life.” Jackson pulled a fork from the drawer and put his irritation into the art of scrambling. “She put up with enough from my old man, and Wiley would never forgive me if I asked her. He has his pride.” And so did Jackson. He sprinkled salt and pepper over the eggs and turned up the heat on the burner. It was tough making decisions about the business from a distance, but that was exactly why he’d abandoned his career path in the first place. His old career path, he amended quickly. The ranch was his career.

  “We can’t let it lag too much,” he said. “I promised Wiley we’d have that fence in before Christmas.”

  “Yeah, but for a chance at Sir Galahad, he’ll understand if we have to extend the deadline a little.”

  “I’d have agreed with you six months ago.” Jackson gave the eggs another whisk and tossed in paprika the way his mother had taught him. “But lately…I don’t know, Rush. You’ve been around him the past couple of days, what do you think? Is he different, or is it just my imagination?”

  “I haven’t been around him a lot,” Rush admitted. “He’s holed up in the house and doesn’t want to let me in. I don’t think he trusts me, but he’s okay with Annette and she says he’s doing fine.”

  “That’s my point,” Jackson said wearily. “A few years ago, he wouldn’t have pulled a stunt like that. He was one of the most reasonable men I’d ever met. Now, once he gets his mind set on something, he just won’t budge.”

  “He’s getting older, Jackson. Maybe he’s entitled.”

  “It’s not a question of entitlement,” Jackson said. “I’m worried about him.”

  “I know you are, but he’ll be fine.”

  Maybe for a little while, but not forever. No matter how hard they fought, some things were inevitable. And then where would Jackson be?

  “Look,” Rush said, interrupting his maudlin thoughts and dragging him back to the moment. “You just concentrate on finding Angel. Leave things here to me. I’ll get the guys working on the barn. If I hear anything else about Sir Galahad, I’ll let you know.”

  Jackson muttered agreement and disconnected, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was racing toward disaster, and that Angel’s disappearance was just the tip of the iceberg.

  CECILY FONTAINE’S OFFICE was located in a three-story brick building six miles from police headquarters, tucked carefully away in a remote place, with the idea that anyone who had to use her services could come and go without being spotted by her colleagues. Much as Lucy resented having to be there, she did appreciate that.

  She was already running late by the time she pulled into the parking lot and began winding her way through rows of parked cars, looking for an empty spot. Storm clouds hung low overhead, and a light rain had been falling for the past hour. Now puddles dotted the pavement and the rhythm of the windshield wipers as they slapped water from the windshield was the only thing that broke the silence.

  She’d stalled too long in the shower and spent too much time reading the back of the cereal box, and now she was sorry. With just five minutes before she was due in the psychiatrist’s office, she was trying to remain optimistic. If she could find a parking spot, and if the elevator gods would just smile on her, she could still make it, and nobody would be able to read any resentment—subconscious or otherwise—into her late arrival.

  After minutes that felt like hours, she wedged her car into a tight spot, inched open the door and managed to extricate herself without earning more than a couple of bruises. Slipping her keys into her pocket, she jogged through rows of cars, darted in front of a slow-moving truck and reached the building with just three minutes to go.

  Still determined to make it, she reached for the door handle just as it flew open to let someone else out. She was in such a hurry, she didn’t recognize the other person at first, and she had only a dim realization that she was a woman. Completely focused on getting to the elevators, she started to slip past the other person and into the building, but a familiar voice stopped her short.

  “Lucy?”

  She turned and found herself looking into the wary brown eyes of Abby Carlton, one of the six-pack. Lucy hadn’t seen her since the night their friendships had completely fallen apart, and running into her this morning—especially here—left Lucy off balance.

  Shivering slightly, Abby stepped out of the rain and into the protection of the recessed doorway. Questions burned in her eyes, just as they must in her own, but, thankfully, Abby seemed as reluctant to admit aloud her reasons for being there as Lucy was.

  A born nurturer, Abby had quickly become the “mothe
r” of the group even though she was one of the youngest members. She’d been furious with Lucy for doubting Risa’s innocence, but she smiled this morning as if nothing had ever happened. Lucy just couldn’t tell whether she was genuinely glad to see her or putting up a good front, and she didn’t have time to find out.

  “I thought that was you,” Abby said. “It’s been a while.”

  Not wanting to offend, Lucy resisted the urge to glance at her watch. “Yes, it has. How’ve you been?”

  “Fine. You?”

  Of all the six-pack, Abby was the one most likely to relate to her feelings over Tomas Avila’s death, but even if she’d felt right about unburdening herself, she didn’t have time to do it now. “You know,” she said with a shrug. “Same old, same old.” Maybe the past few days were starting to get to her, but even with the seconds ticking past and her future on the line, she couldn’t make herself just walk away.

  Abby glanced behind her at the door. “We had an incident last night. Rough case. I’m…” She glanced at the door again and shrugged. “I’m just getting off.”

  Lucy wouldn’t have questioned that explanation for anything in the world. After graduating the academy, Abby had followed her heart and not her head. She’d left Houston to marry, but they’d split before the wedding had happened and she’d eventually come back to her roots. Last Lucy heard, she was working Crisis Intervention. Either her failed relationship or her new job had brought something new to the table, and her eyes were filled with a hard-earned wisdom that hadn’t been evident before. Lucy found herself wondering what kind of friendship they might have had if not for the mistakes they’d made. Now they were reduced to mundane small talk. The kind of exchanges generally reserved for people you didn’t know well, or didn’t care about.

  A dozen genuine questions rose to her lips. Do you ever see the others? Have you talked to Risa lately? Do you think she’ll ever truly forgive me for doubting her? Can we fix this awful rift between us? And what happened to drive you here? But she couldn’t make herself ask a single one of them.