The Man Behind the Cop

by Janice Kay Johnson - His Best Friend's Baby

  “She had Enrico and Anna,” Karin said simply. “She would never have let him take them if she could prevent it.”

  Lenora turned beseeching dark eyes on Karin. “Why was I so foolish? You said I shouldn’t go near my family. I remember that. Why did I?”

  Again, Karin squeezed her hand. “You wanted what was best for the kids. You told me they missed their aunt Julia and uncle Mateo. Staying close with family mattered. You thought they should know that some things hadn’t changed.”

  “We should have gone away,” she said dully. “As far away as we could. We should have gone before he could stop us.”

  “To leave and not be able to see your family—that’s hard,” Karin murmured. “You couldn’t anticipate what he’d do.”

  “I always thought he’d kill me.” Those eyes were haunted now. “I wanted to save Anna and Enrico. And now he has them.”

  She was too distraught to recall friends Roberto might have had, or of any special places he might have talked about. She gave Bruce nothing new to work with. Seeing that he was only upsetting her, he told her to call him if anything occurred to her, and Karin walked with him into the hall.

  They paused, out of earshot of the room behind them and the nurses’ station ahead. “I’ll try again later. When she calms down,” Karin said.

  “All right. Good. Call me if you come up with anything.”

  She nodded. “Did you ever find that friend he had at the lumberyard? Carlos?”

  “Neither hide nor hair. My guess is, the last name at least was false, and he has new ID now. Stumbling over him may require pure luck.”

  “I wonder if Lenora will ever remember.”

  Aware of her distress, he touched her cheek. “It might be better if she doesn’t.”

  “Yes. I suppose.” She gave him a ghost of a smile.

  “Will you be by later?”

  “Do you want to have dinner?”

  “Mmm…Why don’t I make something. I’m not sure I’m in the mood to go out.”

  “Would you rather I didn’t come?”

  He was startled when tears brimmed in her eyes just before she rose on tiptoe and kissed him quickly. “I would hate it if you didn’t come,” she said, her voice both fierce and a little desolate.

  Two people emerged from a nearby room, and a nurse approached from the station. Bruce wanted to hold Karin, but after a glance at the other couple, who had begun a low-voiced conclave, he said only, “Then I’ll be there.”

  That seemed to be enough; she nodded, and slipped back into Lenora’s room.

  He’d have hated it if she’d said tomorrow was fine. Walking away, he tried to figure out how he’d descended to this state, unable to get through a day without seeing her. No matter how good the sex was—and it was incredible—he knew damn well he’d be on her doorstep begging for her to let him in even if she’d taken a vow of celibacy. She drew him, body, mind and soul.

  The common words people used to describe this powerful need crossed his mind, but he shoved them away. He couldn’t deal with the implications. What he felt was an obsession, no more or less than the compulsion that gripped him when he was investigating a murder. At some point, he would be satisfied and ready to move on.

  Until then…God help him, he couldn’t get enough of her.

  THIS SHOULD BE the slow season for murder in Seattle, but this past month Homicide was doing a brisk business for some reason. He and Molly had moved to the top of the list again, and within hours of him talking to Lenora in the hospital were called to a shooting that wasn’t a mystery.

  Two neighbors had been feuding for years, apparently; the last straw was when the victim let his dog, on the end of the leash, crap right in the middle of the neighbor’s lawn, in plain sight of his front windows. Then he petted the dog and started toward home. Walter Sims grabbed his handgun and roared out the front door, where after an exchange of “words”—described by yet another neighbor as a screaming match—he shot his neighbor of twenty-three years, Arthur Shearin.

  After examining the body of the balding man, who had died wearing a worn white undershirt, ancient polyester slacks and bedroom slippers that exposed bony ankles, Molly and Bruce straightened and looked toward Sims, sitting in the back of a squad car. He had the downy white hair of a dandelion. She shook her head. “Wouldn’t you think they were old enough to know better?”

  Sims was in his late sixties, Shearin seventy-one according to their DMV records. Both were widowed. Maybe if their wives had lived, they’d have injected some sense in their husbands. Although Bruce had his doubts. It sounded as if the two men had reveled in their bitter relationship.

  “Any next of kin?” he asked.

  The uniform standing nearby said, “Woman two doors down says he has a daughter. She visited about once a week.”

  Sims had already been read his rights and sat unbowed in the back seat, his eyes ablaze with something like fanaticism when Bruce and Molly spoke with him.

  “I had a restraining order against him,” he snapped.

  “I had a right to defend myself when he trespassed.”

  “Sidewalks are city property,” Molly observed. “Did he actually step into your yard?”

  They knew from a witness that Shearin hadn’t. What he’d done was stand on the sidewalk but allow the dog to go to the far length of the retractable leash to do his business on the velvety swath of lawn.

  “I was supposed to turn a blind eye to his never-ending provocations? There’s a law against harassment.”

  Bruce knew better than to think this cantankerous old man would ever feel remorse or even a twinge of self-doubt. Both of them, stubborn and filled with hate, had played their parts in a drama as inevitably tragic as Othello or Hamlet.

  Once again, Bruce and Molly spent their day on booking, arraignment and reports. The worst part was visiting the daughter, once they found her name in a search of the home, to tell her that her only remaining parent had been shot dead by his next-door neighbor.

  Finally, on Friday, Bruce was able to follow up on an idea that had come to him. Leaving Molly making phone calls on a cold case they’d never quite given up on, he went back to the lumberyard where Escobar had worked. Upon his arrival, the supervisor hurried from the back, appearing less than thrilled to be visited by the policeman again.

  “A picture of Carlos Garcia?” His expression suggested that Bruce was crazy. “We wouldn’t have any reason to have something like that.”

  “I’m hoping you can ask your employees. Someone might have brought a new digital camera into work and snapped pictures for the hell of it.”

  “Why would they have kept one of some guy who didn’t even work here that long?”

  “Because he was standing next to someone else?”

  He grunted, then raised his voice. “Marge? Can you come here for a minute?”

  Marge was the middle-aged cashier who, during Bruce’s last visit, had recalled the friendship between the two men.

  Entering the office, she said, “Detective Walker. Have you found those children yet?”

  The Seattle Times had moved on to other stories now, but workers here must have pored over the front-page news about a crime that had awakened public sympathy because of the missing children.

  “No, and that’s why I’m back. I’d like to find any friends Roberto might have had.”

  “Didn’t we tell you everything we knew about Carlos?” she asked, looking to the supervisor.

  He shrugged. “He wants to know if we might have a picture of the guy.”

  “I think we do,” she said, to both their surprise. “Not a very good one, because it was of all of us, but not that long ago I was noticing he was in it.”

  It turned out to have been taken as part of the business’s fiftieth-anniversary celebration. All the employees had been lined up in front of a pile of lumber, a panel truck with the lumberyard name, logo and phone number parked beside them. An eight-by-ten, it had been framed and hung, forgotten and ga
thering dust, in the office.

  Sure enough, when Bruce peered at it, he saw that next to Roberto was another Hispanic man, mustachioed, as well, of a similar age. He was a hand span taller, with a beaklike nose that might make him easily recognizable.

  “May I borrow the picture?” Bruce requested. “I’ll get it back to you.”

  “Sure, sure,” the supervisor said. He’d stood beside Bruce, peering at it, as well, in some bemusement.

  “Can’t believe I never noticed this, even after you were here asking about Roberto and Carlos.”

  Bruce went straight to a nearby photo shop, where he explained that he wanted a close-up of the two men only, and was told to come back in an hour. The nearest fast food was Kentucky Fried Chicken, where he ate and brooded.

  A hunch was a funny thing. Why was his gut telling him that Carlos Garcia was the key? There were still a couple of other maybe friends of Escobar’s whom he hadn’t located, but he didn’t feel the same urgency about them. He suspected it had something to do with Marge’s observations being so astute. By God, if she’d imagined a bond between the two men, Bruce would put money on the fact that one existed. He’d told her today that if she ever wanted a change of career, she ought to apply to the Seattle PD. She’d laughed merrily, but he hadn’t been altogether kidding. If more officers were anywhere near as observant as she was, there’d be less crime in the Emerald City.

  But Bruce’s gut instinct wasn’t enough to justify calling on the newspapers to print the picture with an appeal to the public. Carlos Garcia, under any name, was no more than a person of potential interest. Realistically, if they did find him, he’d probably frown in perplexity and say, “Roberto Escobar? Sí, I worked with him, but I saw him only at the lumberyard.”

  Bruce was also reluctant to make Escobar feel cornered. He decided finally to distribute the photo to Hispanic grocery stores, community centers and medical clinics. Sympathy, he thought, would be with Lenora, not her husband. The biggest problem was that illegal immigrants were reluctant to come forward, especially given the recent federal crackdown and multiple deportations. Fear might keep silent people who’d like to help. But it was worth a try; a single call, saying, “I know that man,” would make all the difference. And they’d be more likely to talk to him than to any federal agent.

  He knocked off for the day without going back to the station because he was taking Trevor out for their usual pizza and maybe, with the lengthening daylight, to shoot some hoops. He hadn’t gotten together with him since last week, when they’d gone to the Mariners game. Apparently, Dad was okay with the outing, because Trevor had dropped the phone and, after going off to consult him, had said, “Cool,” in answer to the invitation.

  After Bruce picked him up, they decided to shoot hoops at the local middle school before going out to eat. During the drive, and as they took turns dribbling the basketball along the paved exterior walkways to the hoops in back of the school, Bruce noticed that the boy was unusually quiet.

  Bruce had asked once how things were going, and gotten the usual shrug and, “Okay.”

  He decided not to push it for now. They played one-on-one and then horse, with Bruce handicapping himself. The kid was developing a hell of an outside shot and not a bad layup, considering his height.

  “I think you’ve suddenly grown,” Bruce said. “At least an inch.”

  “You think?” Trevor asked eagerly.

  “Your jeans are short.”

  They both gazed down at the exposed white sweat socks.

  “Cool! Except I look like a geek.”

  He didn’t sound as if he cared, not yet having expressed any interest in girls.

  “I doubt your dad will mind buying you a couple of new pairs of jeans,” Bruce said mildly.

  Trevor’s face closed and he shrugged, then began dribbling the ball in place, his head bent and his concentration absolute. He didn’t want to talk about his dad.

  Or else he did, and felt disloyal.

  “You hungry?” Bruce asked.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Why don’t we head on back to the car, then.”

  The boy nodded and dribbled the way they’d come.

  Bruce made a feint and stole the ball. “Hey!” Trevor cried, and raced after him, managing to knock it away. By the time they reached the car, they were both breathless and laughing.

  They played some arcade games while they waited for their pizza. Not until they were eating did Bruce say, in a neutral tone, “I’m guessing your dad did something that upset you.”

  After a quick, startled glance, Trevor hunched his shoulders. “Maybe.”

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  He took a piece of pizza and severed a strand of cheese. He took a bite, apparently not intending to answer at all. Finally, he mumbled, “It wasn’t that bad.”

  Anger tightened in Bruce’s chest. “It?”

  Trevor poked at a congealing strand of cheese on his plate and said barely audibly, “He kinda got mad.”

  “At you?”

  “I guess so.” He spoke down to the plate. “Or maybe at Mom. I’m not sure.”

  “Mom?” What the hell? Bruce thought. Had MaryBeth called or appeared and no one had told him?

  “I was talking about her, and how much I miss her and stuff. You know?” Trevor risked a glance up. “And he grabbed her picture from me and threw it against the wall.” Tears filled his eyes. “The glass broke, and the picture got ripped. And it was my favorite!”

  That son of a bitch.

  Bruce had remembered the framed photo. It was one of several MaryBeth had hung in the hall at their apartment. Most were Trevor’s school pictures, and there were a couple of mother and son together. Bruce remembered one that included Wade, although it showed his back as he tossed a delighted Trevor, maybe five, up in the air. But the one of MaryBeth had been taken by a friend, she’d told Bruce, and in it she was laughing and startlingly pretty, free of the strain of financial worries and drug abuse that had later aged her face. For Trevor, the photo was irreplaceable, and by God he had so little to treasure.

  Tamping down his fury, determined not to frighten Trevor, Bruce asked, “Has your dad been drinking?”

  Trevor sniffed, swiped at his eyes with the hem of his T-shirt and shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

  “Did he talk to you about why he broke the picture?”

  “He came in after I went to bed and said he was sorry and he’d try to fix it. But I don’t think he can.”

  “He didn’t hit you?”

  “Uh-uh. He just really scared me. It just made me remember how mad he used to get. That’s why Mom didn’t want me ever to see him again.”

  Bruce nodded, but made himself add, “Everyone gets mad sometimes, though. Don’t you?”

  “I would’ve liked to punch Jackson.”

  Bruce half laughed. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

  “Did you ever punch anybody?”

  “I got in fights a few times back when I was a kid.”

  “I bet you won, ’cuz you’re strong.”

  “I wasn’t then. I got beaten up pretty good when I was a freshman in high school.” One of the worst days of his life, and he’d shut out the memory for years. “My father was angry at me because I lost the fight.”

  Seeing Trevor’s interest, he wished he hadn’t said that.

  “But…you couldn’t help it!” the boy protested.

  “My father thought being a real man meant using your fists.” Pansy and coward were the mildest things his father had called him.

  Clear as day, Bruce recalled sitting at the kitchen table quailing from his father, who bent over him with a flushed, furious face, yelling, “Haven’t I taught you anything? You make me sick, boy.”

  Having his own father stare at him with disgust, as if he’d proved his worthlessness, had hurt more than his throbbing eye or bloody nose. And yet, even then, inside he’d rebelled. He hadn’t had the courage to say, You didn’t teach me to
fight. You taught me to get beat up and not cry about it, but he’d wanted to. Oh, he’d wanted to.

  “That’s why you don’t like my dad,” Trevor surprised him by saying. “Right?”

  Hole in one. But, remembering his promise to the caseworker, Bruce said, “I don’t know your dad well enough yet to like him or to dislike him. We both need to give him a chance.”

  “He scared me,” Trevor said again.

  “I can tell.” Bruce looked him in the eye. “Will you promise to tell me if he does again?”

  Trevor hesitated, then nodded.

  It wasn’t quite a promise, but Bruce sensed it was as close as he’d get. Trevor hadn’t been sure tonight whether he should tell Bruce about the incident with his mother’s framed photo, and the why wasn’t hard to figure out. Trevor might not want to admit it, but he knew in his heart that his mother was gone from his life. In his eyes, Bruce had rejected him. In contrast, his dad not only wanted him—he was being good to him. Of course he felt disloyal complaining about him.

  Bruce drove Trevor home and walked him to the front door, managing a civil nod at Wade.

  But back in his car, he let his anger swell and even fed it with his memory of some of the things MaryBeth had told him. Trevor hadn’t been back with Wade for more than a couple of weeks, and the son of a bitch was already up to his old tricks.

  Bruce’s fingers curled around the steering wheel, making the plastic creak.

  Let that bastard lift his hand to Trevor once—just once—and by God he’d be sorry he was ever born.

  That’s why you don’t like my dad, right?

  Yeah, kid, Bruce thought. That’s exactly why I don’t like your dad.

  CHAPTER TEN