The Man Behind the Cop

by Janice Kay Johnson - His Best Friend's Baby

  “Thank you again. I guess.”

  He gave a gruff laugh. “Not the prettiest compliment you’ve ever heard, is it?”

  “Well, no, but…”

  “But?”

  Neither of them had moved. He hadn’t picked up his tray.

  “The thought was nice.” Not what she’d meant to say, but it would do. How could she ask, Did you mean it? Do you really think I’m beautiful?

  He nodded, picked up his tray and started for the exit. The subject was apparently closed. She waited while he took care of the tray, then walked beside him down the deserted hall.

  “Where’s your car?” he asked.

  She told him, not bothering to insist she didn’t need an escort. For one thing, tonight, she was very glad to have one. For another…Admit it. She didn’t want to say good-night. She didn’t know when she’d see him again.

  They were in the parking garage when he said, “If I invited you to dinner, would you say yes?”

  Karin hadn’t felt a clutch of excitement like this in years. She shouldn’t now. She made a point of not dating men who were as steeped in the violent underside of human nature as she was. But she had the oddest flash of revelation. How had she expected to fall in love with someone she couldn’t talk to?

  She must have been quiet too long, because he continued, “If my invitation makes you uncomfortable, say so. We’ll consider the subject closed.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I mean, no. I mean…”

  He stopped and faced her. Around them, the garage was brightly lit, yet somehow shadowy. They were very much alone.

  “Yes? Or no?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I’d say yes.”

  There was that look in his eyes again, the one that seemed to liquefy her. “Good,” he murmured. “When we have time…”

  Her head bobbed. Soon, please.

  He touched her cheek, brushing it with his knuckles, so softly a shiver passed down her spine.

  “What is it about you?” he said, so quietly she knew the question wasn’t meant for her.

  But then he let his hand drop. “You should get home before you collapse. Where’s the car?”

  “Um…there at the end.”

  Hand gripping her arm, he led her to her Camry, then waited while she fumbled in her purse, found her keys and unlocked the driver’s-side door. “You’ll be okay?”

  “I don’t live five minutes from here. You’d better go home and get some sleep, too.” A smile came from nowhere, surprising her. “Although you’re the sexiest exhausted man I’ve ever seen.”

  He laughed, as she’d meant him to.

  “Yeah, I think I can sleep now. Thanks.”

  Thanks for what? she wondered, getting into her car. Listening to him? Persuading him to eat? Or flirting with him?

  “Do you want a lift to your car?”

  “Nah, I’m not far away.”

  “Then good night.”

  “Good night.”

  By the time she backed out, he was striding off. She was only a little sorry he hadn’t kissed her. There would be a better time.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BRUCE JACKKNIFED UP in bed, lit numbers on his clock a reproach. Oh, crap! He’d forgotten to call Trevor.

  At after one in the morning, it was too late now. Feeling guilty, he lay back down. Damn it, what if MaryBeth hadn’t come home in the day and a half since he’d dropped off Trev? What if the cupboards were bare? Who was it Trevor had said checked on him “sometimes”? Mrs. Potter? No, Porter. Mrs. Porter. Would he feel okay about going to her if he didn’t have any food?

  He could’ve called me, Bruce reminded himself. He had Bruce’s cell phone number.

  Question is, would he if he wasn’t desperate? Trevor tried very hard to pretend he and his mom were doing fine. He wouldn’t want to admit they weren’t.

  Bruce eventually quieted his restless conscience enough to sleep. But Wednesday morning when he called Trevor, he got no answer. Frowning, he thought about driving over there, except by the time he reached White Center, Trev should be on the school bus.

  Later.

  Still no change in Lenora’s condition when he phoned the hospital. Bruce set out to find more of the men who might have been friends of Roberto’s, with no luck. Midday he had word that a pair of uniformed cops, visiting a run-down motel on a tip that a drug dealer was there, had spotted a car that might be Escobar’s. Wrong plates, but the ones on the car had been stolen or borrowed from a red 1972 Chevy pickup. This vehicle was a LeSabre, blue, rusting, dented. They hadn’t gotten too close because they’d seen the curtain twitch. Should they move on it?

  He had them watch the hotel-room door and wait for him. He drove fast, his adrenaline pumping. It was about time they got lucky. Man, he hoped those kids were okay.

  “I don’t think he has a gun,” he told the young cop who was waiting when he got there. “But let’s not count on it.”

  The cop nodded. He and his partner had extracted the key to the room from the manager, and the partner had stayed in the office to be sure the manager didn’t call to warn his tenant.

  The two of them walked down the row of rooms, smelling marijuana seeping from one room, hearing a dog scrabbling and whining in another. Most of the cars parked out front were beaters. A couple of the rooms had junk heaped on the sidewalk, people moving in or out or maybe partway and losing interest.

  The uniform arranged himself on the opposite side of the door from Bruce, his weapon in his hand. Bruce hammered on the door.

  “Police! Open up.”

  Inside something scrabbled, much like the dog, but this time Bruce sensed the sound was made by a human.

  He wasn’t giving Escobar long enough to kill the kids. He pounded again, yelling, “Open the door now or we’re coming in.”

  Silence. He had the key in the lock when the door abruptly swung inward under his hand.

  A skinny, pasty, pimply kid peered out, looking scared. “Whaddya want? We haven’t done anything!”

  Shit.

  “Open the door wide,” Bruce ordered.

  It swung open to reveal four other teenagers, ranging at his best guess from thirteen up to maybe seventeen. Runaways. Goddamn it, runaways! Not Escobar.

  “Is that your vehicle?” he asked, nodding over his shoulder at the Buick.

  “It’s mine,” one of the girls said defiantly. “What’s it to you? I’m not even driving it!”

  “Plates are stolen.”

  “They’re from my car,” a boy said. “It won’t start, and I can’t afford to get it fixed.”

  “And I couldn’t afford the tabs,” the girl said. “So big deal. What’s his and mine is ours.”

  Goddamn, Bruce thought again. He shook his head. “We’re going to have to check you all out. Someone will be wanting to know where you are.”

  “I won’t stay in no shelter!” a scrawny, wild-eyed girl said. “We paid for this place. We got a right.”

  Depressed, he left them to the custody of the two uniformed officers. Yeah, the kids probably weren’t hurting anyone or anything except themselves. The girls would be turning tricks. Hell, maybe the boys, too. And all of them would be buying drugs when they could afford ’em. This at an age when they should be in middle school or high school, maybe working the counter at Burger King weekends for enough bucks to pay to take a girl out or buy the clothes Mom and Dad wouldn’t spring for. Seeing kids like these upset him more than almost anything on the job, including dead bodies.

  While he was out on this stretch of the Pacific Highway, he checked out a dozen similar motels, driving around back of each to be sure the rusting blue Buick wasn’t tucked out of sight.

  At three o’clock his cell phone rang. He pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald’s and grabbed the phone from his belt.

  “Walker.”

  “Bruce?” The voice was thin and boyish. “It’s Trevor.”

  “Trev. I tried to call you this morning.”

  “I didn�
��t hear the phone. I left early so I could, like, walk down to a different bus stop.”

  “Jackson?”

  “He punched me yesterday!” The boy sniffed. “But everyone else at the stop said if I told, they’d say I just walked into a street sign.”

  Bruce ground his teeth. “You can’t be the only kid he’s bullying.”

  “I guess not.” He sounded…uninterested, and Bruce tensed. If Trev hadn’t phoned because of the bully at the bus stop…

  “It’s Mom!” the boy exclaimed. “She hasn’t been home since Sunday.”

  “Sunday?” he echoed. “Damn it, Trevor, why didn’t you say something? Have you had anything to eat?”

  “At first there was stuff. And I get a hot lunch at school. So I was okay. Mom’s gone sometimes for a day or two, but never this long. I’m scared!” His voice cracked and then rose. “Why hasn’t she come home or called or anything?”

  “I don’t know. You sit tight. I’m on my way.”

  Obviously crying, the boy snuffled and said,

  “Right now?”

  “Right now. It’ll take me about fifteen minutes.”

  While he drove, he radioed in to find out if MaryBeth DeShon had been picked up and was in jail or detox, or if any unidentified bodies meeting her description had been found this week. “No” was the answer all around. Later, he’d make multiple calls to be sure she hadn’t ended up in some other jurisdiction. Not for the first time, he wished the patchwork of cities and counties shared information better.

  In the meantime…Damn it, what was he going to do with Trevor? Bruce wished like hell a responsible neighbor lived nearby, or the boy had a good friend with whom he could stay.

  He’d no sooner knocked and called, “Trevor, it’s me, Bruce,” than his Little Brother flung open the door. He’d tried to scrub signs of tears from his face, but it was still blotchy, his eyes puffy.

  Bruce stepped in and drew the boy, unresisting, to him for a hug. No reason he should feel such anguish; the kid was okay.

  Against his chest, Trevor repeated, “Mom and me—we’re usually okay.” He stiffened and stepped away, as if needing to regain his pride.

  “I checked with hospitals to make sure she wasn’t in an accident.” He didn’t say or overdosed. “She didn’t look so good to me the last couple of times I saw her.”

  Trev’s gaze slid from his. “I think maybe she’s, I don’t know, doing something different. ’Cuz it used to be she just drank and partied. You know. But now she gets real shaky right before she goes out. And…and I think she got fired from her job again last week.”

  MaryBeth had her shortcomings, but she’d done her damnedest to give her son a better childhood than she’d had. Would she have just walked? Everyone had a breaking point. Maybe she’d reached hers.

  “I’m going to have to call Child Protective Services,” Bruce said. “So you have someplace safe to stay, just while we hunt for her.”

  Trevor backed away, his eyes widening. “You mean, like a foster home? Can’t I stay with you? I thought…when you said you were coming…”

  Bruce shook his head. “You know what kind of hours I work. I’m home only to sleep.”

  “I can take care of myself!” the boy pleaded. “Mom practically always works nights. I’m real responsible! That’s what she says.”

  Bruce wavered, but only momentarily. He couldn’t let himself get pulled two ways, feeling he should be home when he needed to be on the job. Homicide wasn’t an eight-to-five gig.

  “I believe you’re responsible, but you’re also twelve years old. You shouldn’t be home alone a lot, and especially not at night. Your mom has done the best she could. I’m not criticizing her. But right now, you need stability, not another empty apartment.”

  Trevor backed away from him, his expression of disbelief morphing into anger. “You don’t want me, do you? Just say so! Don’t lie to me!”

  Bruce’s bad case of heartburn wouldn’t be cured by a gulp of antacid. “If I had a different kind of job, or a wife who’s there when I’m not, I’d like nothing better than to take you home with me. But I’m a homicide cop, and right now I’m looking for two kids who may be in danger. I can’t let up, Trevor.”

  “I wish I hadn’t called you,” the boy said with loathing. “I shoulda just waited for Mom.” With one hand he dashed furiously at his tears.

  Bruce tried talking to him some more. The boy wouldn’t listen. Doing his best to harden his heart, Bruce called CPS and requested a caseworker.

  He offered to help Trevor pack while they waited, but the boy said, “I don’t want you touching my stuff!” and slammed the bedroom door in Bruce’s face.

  He stood outside for a minute, rubbing his chest above the burning sensation, second-guessing himself. Did he know anyone who would be good for Trevor? But Molly had the same problem he did, plus she was helping her sister out with the newborn. Other fellow cops were single like him; or they had families, and how could he saddle them with an extra? He imagined how gentle Karin would be with him, but she needed to be with Lenora when she wasn’t working.

  Shaking his head finally, Bruce turned away from the closed door and wandered the apartment. With an effort, he forced himself to think like a cop. Had Trevor tried to determine whether his mother had packed enough to suggest she’d meant to be gone for more than a day or two?

  Not sure if he’d be able to tell, Bruce quietly stepped into her bedroom. It was messy and smelled like unwashed armpits. Mattress on the floor, unmade bed-clothes, sheets stained. Another sheet was nailed up to cover the window. Cheap, pressboard dresser and a few hangers in the closet held what few clothes she owned or had left behind. In one corner, the kind of net hamper designed for dorm rooms was half full of dirty laundry, a bra hanging out. A couple of pairs of scuffed shoes, worn at the heels, were left where she’d kicked them off. He eased open the drawers one by one and found drug paraphernalia in the top one. Surprise, surprise.

  No suitcase, but chances were she didn’t own one. When she and her son moved, their possessions would go in grocery sacks and cardboard boxes from the state liquor store.

  Her cosmetics littered the counter in the bathroom, which was dirty enough to make Bruce disinclined to touch anything. In the cup beside the sink were two toothbrushes, both needing replacement. He nudged open the medicine cabinet and saw a half-used foil packet of birth control pills. Huh. No, it didn’t appear MaryBeth had intended to be gone long.

  He was back out in the living room by the time the doorbell rang. The woman he let in had to be fresh out of college, but maybe that was all to the good. Her zeal wouldn’t have been ground down to cynicism yet. She introduced herself as Caroline Connelly and asked how long it had been since Trevor’s mother had been home.

  Trev emerged from the bedroom while they talked, carrying his bulging book bag and a couple of plastic grocery sacks holding clothes. His face was set and pale, and he refused to look at Bruce.

  The social worker introduced herself and gave an upbeat, everything-will-be-great speech that made him hunch his shoulders and stare at the floor. Finally, she said, “Do you have everything you need?”

  He shrugged.

  “Toothbrush?” Bruce reminded him.

  Without a word, Trevor went into the bathroom, then returned a moment later.

  “Why don’t you set down your stuff and write a note to your mom,” she suggested. “We’ll tape it up where she can’t miss it when she gets home.”

  Again, Trev complied without deigning to speak to Bruce. He pulled a lined sheet of paper from his pack and wrote on it in big letters: Mom, when you didn’t come home, they took me away to a foster home. You got to call to find out where I am.

  He wrote down the phone number Caroline Connelly gave him, then signed the note Sorry, Trev.

  At Bruce’s suggestion, Trevor called his neighbor, Mrs. Porter, and told her where he was going. Hearing only the one end, Bruce gathered she wasn’t surprised.

  “You’ll
actually be going to a receiving home,” the social worker told him. “You might like that better, because you’ll be with a bunch of other boys.”

  He stiffened. “Are they my age?”

  “Twelve to fifteen.”

  He gave Bruce one desperate, despairing side glance. A sense of helplessness clawed at Bruce, who knew what torture school had become for Trevor this past year or two because the other boys were maturing physically faster than him. And while in some respect all the kids in the receiving home would be, like Trevor, victims of family dysfunction, many would already have been considerably toughened by their lives. Trevor was childlike and naive in contrast to many of the kids who were in and out of receiving and group homes.

  Bruce said nothing until they’d locked the apartment and walked down to the cars, then spoke in an undertone to the social worker. “I think he’d do better in a foster home with some one-on-one—”

  She was shaking her head before he’d gotten halfway through with what he’d wanted to say. “I don’t have one available, not for a boy his age.”

  “But look at him.”

  She did, and he saw the dismay on her face she’d been trying to hide. But she only shook her head again.

  Trevor put his stuff in the back seat, then got into the front on the passenger side. Bruce laid a hand on the door before he could slam it.

  “We’ll find your mom.”

  He shrugged and ducked his head.

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Trevor didn’t say anything. Nor did his head turn when Caroline backed out and drove away.

  Standing there, Bruce felt like scum.

  KARIN WANDERED her living room, straightening magazines on the coffee table, fluffing the pillows on the sofa, refolding a throw before laying it carefully over the back of a chair. She wasn’t, she realized, suffering from anxious-hostess syndrome so much as she was trying to keep herself occupied.

  What on earth had she been thinking to suggest he come to her house? It was after nine o’clock. She’d left Lenora’s sister sitting at her bedside, and had been so grateful simply to be home. She’d kicked off her shoes, made a cup of coffee and reached for the TV remote control. She’d wanted to watch something mindless, something that might make her laugh. But before she’d hit the power button, her cell phone, still in her purse, had rung.