Do not walk. Run.
But even before he fell asleep, he knew he wouldn’t.
Couldn’t.
SINCE TREVOR HAD BEEN so uncommunicative, on Friday Bruce called the social worker for an update. He sat in the squad room, his feet on the desk, chair leaning back precariously. Molly was late, having announced her intention to stop at Caffe Ladro for decent coffee on the way in. Bruce had given her his order.
“I just spoke with Trevor’s father,” Ms. Connelly told him. “Mr. DeShon is back in the Seattle area and eager to have his son. So that’s good news.”
Anger knifed him, and his chair squealed as he sat upright, his feet hitting the floor. Good news? What the hell was she doing in this job if she was really that naive? Or was she just glad to get one kid out of her hair?
Unclenching his jaw, Bruce said, “You are aware that Trevor’s mother had to get a restraining order to keep Mr. DeShon from terrorizing her and Trevor?”
After a small hesitation, the social worker said, “I was informed there’d been allegations of abuse.”
“Allegations?” Bruce didn’t even try to keep the incredulity out of his voice. “How about multiple hospital visits.”
“But I understand that Mr. DeShon never abused his son.”
“Because MaryBeth sent Trevor to hide in his bedroom when his dad came home drunk and in a rage. She offered herself as a target to keep her kid safe.”
“Mr. DeShon freely admits that he had an alcohol problem, but he has completed a treatment program and attends AA meetings twice a week. According to him—and he says his mentor in AA will confirm—he has been sober for two years now. He also completed an anger-management class. I believe that he was devastated to lose his family, particularly his son. Everyone deserves a second chance.”
“Leopards don’t change their spots,” Bruce said flatly. “Once an abuser, always an abuser.”
“According to police reports and his own story, he was always drunk when he hit his wife. If he stays sober…”
He snorted. “What are the chances of that?”
Her voice chilled. “Trevor deserves to have one of his parents. Clearly, that won’t be his mother. And frankly, given his age I don’t envision a better alternative for him. Do you?”
After a silent litany of swearing, he forced himself to admit she was right. What was the alternative? There weren’t enough caring foster parents. Odds were high Trev would end up with the other kind, the ones who took kids in for the money paid by the state or who abused the kids in turn. Wade DeShon had worked at maintaining contact with his son. If the alleged two years’ sobriety wasn’t a scam, he deserved some real credit for it.
“Unfortunately, no.”
“It’s really important that you encourage Trevor to give his father a chance.”
That stung. Was he supposed to lie to the boy? But again—he knew what she was getting at, and she was right.
“Okay,” Bruce conceded. “But I’ll be watching like a hawk. If DeShon screws up once, he’s not getting another chance.”
“People do make mistakes.”
“He’s made his. He’s used up any possible excuses.”
She wasn’t thrilled with him by the end of the call, but he didn’t care. His gut was churning. Wade DeShon was getting his kid back, and MaryBeth wouldn’t be there to stand between them.
Trevor didn’t know yet, and Ms. Connelly had warned Bruce off. She wanted to talk to him first herself. He had to respect her insistence.
Instead of hitting the road, Bruce spent most of the day on the phone and the Internet. He was becoming more convinced that Roberto Escobar had left the area. Bruce had laid out a map and calculated distances and routes. If Escobar was smart—and his successful disappearance with the kids suggested he was—he’d make sure he went somewhere he could blend in. In other words, someplace with a substantial Hispanic population. Yakima and Walla Walla qualified, but he’d know that Lenora’s sister and husband followed the harvests in eastern Washington. He’d probably have met their friends and the husband’s extended family. Roberto would want to avoid them.
Bruce’s finger moved down the map, touching on one town after another in Oregon, then on into California. Escobar could vanish in Southern California, but getting there was the problem. Would the car make it? Traveling with two young children and no woman, he might be conspicuous. Where would they sleep and shop and eat on the way?
Bruce made phone calls to every jurisdiction he could think of, extracting promises to check the records of cheap motels, talk to gas station attendants, watch for that blue Buick. When he got hoarse, he turned to e-mail, sending photos and Escobar’s license-plate number.
Then he repeated many of the same phone calls he’d made the other day in the hope of locating MaryBeth DeShon. No go. He couldn’t believe she’d left the area. No, she wouldn’t consciously abandon her son. It could be that her body just hadn’t been found yet, or she hadn’t been identified. Bruce was still betting on option three, the drug-induced stupor.
Goddamn it, MaryBeth, he thought, Trevor needs you. Where are you?
He called Karin midafternoon and had a brief, unsatisfactory conversation with her. No news on my end, he told her. No news on hers. She had only five minutes between clients, and he sensed her distraction. The call was…awkward.
It all added up to a worthless day.
Walking out to their cars at the end, Molly asked, “Is this one getting to you?”
He almost said, Yeah, she’s getting to me, when he realized his partner was asking about the case, not Karin. She had no idea he was dating anyone special right now, far less someone intimately involved in the current investigation.
“Ah…I guess so,” he admitted. “You know I never like these domestic ones.”
She slanted a knowing glance at him. “You seem worse than usual.”
“I took it personally.”
Her shrug eloquently conveyed her skepticism. Maybe, but I don’t believe that’s the whole story.
He hadn’t told her about his talk with the social worker. Now he did, successfully distracting her. She’d hung out with him and Trev a couple of times. Like him, she had trouble believing a slug like DeShon was capable of living up to good intentions, however sincere.
Karin had been evasive when he’d asked if she was busy tonight. He wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea of more fast food and an empty house, and stopping by the hospital ostensibly to check up on Lenora would smack of stalking. He phoned the receiving home and got permission, instead, to take Trevor out for pizza and a movie.
A group of boys watched TV in the living room, and the woman who let him in seemed okay. She yelled for Trevor, and when he didn’t appear went upstairs to get him. Bruce had the distinct impression she’d had to drag the kid downstairs by his scruff.
“Have a good time,” she said, enough sympathy in her voice that he figured Trevor had gotten lucky with this placement.
On the way out to the car, he asked, “You talk to Ms. Connelly?”
The boy gave him a look seething with misery and fear. “She said I have to live with my dad! Mom didn’t even like him calling.”
Bruce unlocked his car. “That’s true. But he’s made a lot of effort so he’d get a chance to see you again.”
“You sound like her,” Trevor said with loathing, and flung himself into the car.
Well. They were off to a good start.
Buckling himself in, Bruce asked, “When’s he coming to get you?”
“Tomorrow!” Anguish filled his big brown eyes.
“Can’t I please stay with you, instead? I’m okay alone! You know I am!”
Hating himself, Bruce shook his head. “I told you why it wouldn’t work. Besides, I don’t think they’d let me take you now. Parents have first rights. Unless your dad screws up, Ms. Connelly won’t consider other options.”
“You mean, if he hits me.”
Yeah. That was what he meant.
“Or,” Bruce added, “doesn’t live up to his job as a parent in other ways.”
The boy’s forehead wrinkled. “Like?”
“He doesn’t come home when he promises you he will. Gets drunk a lot. Doesn’t make sure you eat right or do your homework.”
Trevor hunched and didn’t say anything. They were both painfully aware that Bruce could be talking about MaryBeth as much as Wade.
“Pizza?” Bruce asked, starting the car.
Trevor’s shoulders jerked.
Pizza it was.
Bruce tried talking to him some more while they ate, suggesting that living with his dad might not be all bad.
“I’m told he has a good job now,” he said. “He might have a nice place.”
Trevor gave him a look that said more clearly than words that he didn’t care. Bruce suspected that indifference wouldn’t survive if Dad turned out to own a big-screen TV and a Nintendo. An iPod for Christmas would go a long way toward softening any thirteen-year-old’s heart. And Trev would be thirteen by then, officially a teenager.
“Hey, at least you’ll be going to a new school. No Jackson at your bus stop.”
Trevor’s expression lightened. Bruce didn’t mention that there were bullies everywhere.
They saw an idiotic action-adventure film that would have bored Bruce into somnolence if he hadn’t seen how engaged Trevor was. His mom hadn’t often had the money for movies. Bruce had taken Trevor a few times, but had preferred spending their time together playing sports, going places like the science center or talking.
On the drive back to the receiving home, Trevor chattered at first about the movie, only falling silent as they got close. When Bruce pulled up to the curb, the boy turned to him and spoke fast. “Please. Please ask if I can come live with you. You’re a cop and everything! I bet they’d say yes.” He swallowed. He finished with one soft, hopeless “Please.”
God. Bruce’s hands flexed on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”
With a strangled sob, Trevor fumbled for the seat-belt fastening and then the door handle. He flew up the driveway without waiting for Bruce, flung open the door and disappeared inside. Bruce followed more slowly, exchanged a few words with the foster mom, then left.
He got back in to his car and sat there for a long time, feeling like a low form of life. He wanted to believe that it meant something to Trev that he’d come tonight, spent time with him, listened to his unhappiness, but he couldn’t believe it. All he’d done was once again let down a boy who’d known a lifetime of letdowns.
Jaw flexed, he thought, By God, if Wade DeShon so much as raised a hand toward Trev…
You’ll what? Ride to the rescue? Just like you did this time? his inner voice mocked. Face it. You can’t be trusted any more than his father can.
Knowing he’d done the right thing was cold comfort.
ON FRIDAY Karin realized that Lenora’s coma was becoming noticeably lighter; her hands or legs jerked more, her eyelids fluttered frequently and occasionally she moaned or murmured. A couple of days ago, Karin was still talking as much to herself as to the unresponsive woman in the bed. She would unwind from her day by telling stories from her childhood or recounting snippets she’d read in the newspaper. Now…now she hung on every twitch, felt her anxiety ratchet at every mumble. Were Lenora’s eyes about to open? Would she be in there? Or only some damaged semblance of herself?
The possibilities covered a wide spectrum. She might never regain consciousness at all. She might begin to have seizures and worsen. She might open her eyes but be severely brain damaged. The likelihood was that she’d have suffered at least some brain damage.
Or she might open her eyes, look around with panic and disorientation and then remember.
Lenora was both praying for and dreading the last possibility.
She gave up at last and went home to her empty house. She never used to think of her house that way. She’d always been glad to be home, comforted by the surroundings she’d created, anticipating the hour she meant to spend in her garden the next morning. Now the emptiness was the first thing that hit her when she walked in the front door. How had that happened?
She knew, but didn’t want to think about it.
Her voice-mail box was as empty as the house. She felt a little lurch of disappointment. Hadn’t Bruce said he’d call at the end of the day “just because he’d want to”? Had he called and not bothered to leave a message? Or had he been busy and not even thought about her this evening?
Which would she prefer to be the truth?
Karin kept listening for the phone even as she brushed her teeth and got ready for bed, but it never rang. She was dismayed to realize how much she wanted to hear his voice.
He finally did call at lunchtime the next day, other voices audible in the background. She was working her one Saturday a month. “Dinner tonight?”
“Sure.” She hesitated, then said, “Why don’t I cook.”
Moment of silence. “Are you sure you want to after a long day?”
“I made a vegetarian chili last weekend and froze it. I’ll warm it up, make a salad, some corn bread…”
“Sold.”
They agreed on a time, exchanged a few “no news” remarks and said goodbye. Karin set down the phone, aware of her uneven heartbeat and the flush that seemed to be spreading from her chest out. She knew the cause: it was the way his voice had deepened and become more resonant when she suggested they eat at her place. He thought the invitation meant more than a simple meal. And maybe, Karin admitted to herself, it did. She’d offered on impulse, but knew perfectly well that impulses had roots that plunged deep. She wouldn’t have invited him into her home again if she hadn’t wanted him here, with all that encompassed.
Karin loved her job, but this was the rare day when she’d had to force herself to listen carefully and give her best. A part of her had pulled away and was giddy with anticipation, like a teenager daydreaming in class.
At home, she had time to change into jeans and a T-shirt and get the corn bread in the oven before she heard the doorbell.
Bruce looked as good as he always did to her. Not just sexy and a little dangerous, but also solid. Some of that was physical—he was big and strongly built, and she’d known from the first time she saw him that he would defend not just her but anyone he deemed vulnerable, with his life if necessary. But she knew just as surely that he could be depended on. He wasn’t a man who’d ever let anyone down if he could help it.
In the end, that quality meant more than broad shoulders or a smile that jolted her heart.
Like the one he was giving her now. He was drinking in the sight of her face as if he’d been hungering for it. Once again, she could tell he was tired, but his smile changed the deep-carved lines, lessening the weariness and depression she sensed.
“Hey,” she said, and rose on tiptoe to meet his quick, hard kiss as if her response was a given. And wasn’t it? They’d become lovers, after all, however queasy she still was about that first time.
She hung up his coat and he followed her to the kitchen, where she refused his offer to help, then changed her mind to the extent of letting him uncork the wine and pour them both glasses. He watched her start the chili heating, then begin chopping vegetables for the salad.
They talked about Lenora, and he told her about some of the leads he’d pursued. After newspaper coverage, both the Seattle PD and the FBI had been inundated with tips, none of which had panned out. He’d located another of Roberto’s supposed friends, only to be received with surprise.
“Says he hasn’t seen Escobar in a year or more,” Bruce said.
“And you believed him?”
“Yeah, I do. I had the feeling he hardly remembered the guy.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I was able to confirm that another guy on my list was deported a couple of months ago.”
“Do you think…” She bit her lip, hating to articulate her worst fear.
“That they’re dead?”
Karin nodded.
“No. If he’d intended to do it, he’d have killed the kids and himself that night. He’d have made it splashy.” Bruce grimaced. “Sorry. Bad choice of words. But you get what I mean. He’d have wanted everyone to know. The more I learn about our Roberto, the more convinced I am that he believes he’s completely justified in everything he’s done. He’s undoubtedly angry that his life has been inconvenienced. With no remorse, he has no motive for suicide.”
What he didn’t say, but they both knew, was that Roberto might well have motive to kill the children.
Be good for your daddy, Karin thought, her heart clenched in fear for Anna and Enrico. Very, very good.
Carrying the salad to the table, she asked, “Have you talked to Trevor?”
The boy’s name was enough to change Bruce’s expression. Apparently his Little Brother was the source of the unhappiness she’d sensed.
He set the wine bottle on the table. “Yeah. God.” Anger vibrated in his voice. “The DSHS worker contacted his father. They’re convinced, since he completed an anger-management class and alcohol treatment, that he’s ready to be a great dad. Never mind that Trevor’s scared to death of him.”
Karin hesitated, choosing her words with care. This conversation was important; dinner could wait. “You don’t believe it’s possible he’s changed?”
“Do you?” he asked incredulously.
“I don’t know him.”
“You’d never met Escobar, either.”
“But I knew him through his wife’s eyes. Her view was more sympathetic than you’d expect. For a long time, she was an apologist. Everything was her fault. He had a right.” She waggled her hands. “You know.”
“Trevor’s mother didn’t think Wade had a right. She put up with his abuse as long as she did out of fear of being on her own with a kid. She’d have done anything to protect Trev from his father.”
“My point, I guess, is that some people can change. There’s a wide gulf between someone like Roberto, who is incapable of what we consider normal human emotions or empathy, and someone who lashes out in anger because of depression or despair. Alcohol abuse plays a big part in that. So yes, I do believe some people can change. Why would I be in the profession I am if I didn’t?” She held up a hand when she saw his expression. “No, I’m not saying Trevor’s father is one of those people. I don’t know him. But if his dad is genuinely trying, is it possible that Trevor’s better off with him than he would be in a foster home?”
The Man Behind the Cop Page 10
