by Style, Linda
“I’m the court-appointed attorney…not quite the same.” Her cool blue gaze flicked over him, lingering on his faded jeans and JC Penny button-down shirt.
“I’m working a cold case in which an infant was abducted five years ago. The boy would now be about the same age as the child in your charge. They tell me I need your okay to see him.”
She relaxed against the back of a camel-tan leather chair, arms at ease.
“LAPD?”
He nodded. Leaned back.
“But you’re not from California, are you?”
“New Jersey, born and bred.” He gave her his best smile. “Did the accent give me away?”
The corners of her mouth moved, but didn’t make it into a smile. “I’m sorry, Detective…Santini…is it?”
He’d barely nodded his assent before she went on.
“As you know, the child is in protective custody and under a physician’s care. Being questioned by more police is not in his best interests right now.”
He narrowed his gaze, surprised by the denial of what should be a routine procedure. “Isn’t it in his best interests to find his parents?”
Now she looked surprised. Guess she wasn’t used to someone challenging her authority.
“Of course,” she said, recovering quickly. “We want to find his parents as much as anyone…but as I said, he’s under a physician’s care.” Her firm words belied her relaxed body language.
Rico leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Was he abused?”
“Possibly. He has several physical problems, and he doesn’t remember anything about himself or his family. We don’t know if he wandered away from his parents or if he was abandoned. But since it’s been well publicized and no one has come forward, the likelihood is the latter.” Her ice-blue eyes locked with his. “We may not know anything for quite a while.”
He lifted his chin. “Are you refusing to let me talk to him?”
She frowned. “Whatever he’s been through was obviously traumatic and more people questioning him might send him over the edge. If your case is five years old, Detective, it can’t hurt to wait a little longer, can it?”
Rico’s blood rushed. He was too close to this case. But he had to know. He took a calming breath. “The case might be old…but the child’s mother has been grieving for five years over the loss. The boy in your charge could be her son.” He angled his head. “If it were your son, you’d want every stone unturned, wouldn’t you?”
Her eyes crinkled just a hair around the edges … an almost imperceptible wince. Maybe he’d touched her nurturing side. He hoped.
As if she knew what he was thinking, she pulled herself up and squared her shoulders, her posture suddenly all business formal. “I can sympathize, Detective. But that’s all I can do. Right now numerous authorities are involved. Child Protective Services, the court that appointed me, the hospital with its usual number of physicians, and the police who took him into custody. I’ve had three other detectives call me because each had an old case with a missing child and they want the same thing you do. As the child’s advocate, my responsibility is to the boy, and if we found his parents right this minute, we wouldn’t spring them on him immediately. Not until we have some answers.”
Her voice had softened and maybe she really did sympathize. Whether she actually did or not, he had to admire her conviction. Her apparent concern for the boy. He drew a breath. It was obvious he wasn’t going to get anywhere by pushing the issue. If he’d learned anything in his ten-plus years in law enforcement, it was that making nice on someone won him a helluva lot more points than bullying ever did.
“And exactly what is your responsibility?” he asked. “I’ve never worked with a child advocate before.”
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, which oddly had him wondering what it might be like to unravel that cool, you-can’t-touch-me attitude of hers.
“It’s my job to represent the child’s best interests — to ensure that any abuse suffered at home, or elsewhere, doesn’t continue as abuse and neglect at the hands of the system.”
Back to the canned legalese.
“And you are the system, Detective Santini.”
Maintaining eye contact, he stretched his legs and forced himself to appear at ease, the posture at odds with the tension building in him. “I’d like to see him, not interrogate him.”
She picked up a folder on her desk and thumbed through it. Finally she said, “All in due time. Right now it’s more important to determine his physical and mental state. Surely you can understand that.”
His muscles tensed even more at her condescending tone. “I can. And surely you can understand that, like you, I’m doing my job — and I’d hoped you’d be able to help me.”
“As much as I’d like to, Detective Santini, I can’t. Not today.”
Right. She’d like to help him about as much as she’d like to spend an afternoon at a baseball game swilling beer and chowing hot dogs. “Well, if you won’t let me talk to him, could you come to the station and take a look at the case file? Maybe you’d see something that would allow us to rule out the possibility?”
Her lips formed a thin line and he knew she was going to refuse his request. So, he said, “I can’t tell you how devastated this mother has been, searching the faces of every child she sees. Five years is a long time to be doing that. Can you at least think about taking a look at the file?”
After a moment, she gave a reluctant nod. “My schedule is full. But I’ll see what I can do.”
At that, Rico stood, stuck out a hand and, pasting on his most charming smile, said, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
She reached to shake his hand. This time he was surprised at the warmth. Apparently ice didn’t run through her veins. He turned and on his way out, he gave a two-finger salute. “I’ll be in touch.”
***
AN HOUR LATER, Cheryl, Macy’s receptionist, buzzed her. Macy hit the intercom.
“It’s that detective again. The cute one.”
The cute one. Yes. He had it going on, all right. But she wouldn’t describe him as cute. He commanded attention. And like most cops she’d worked with, he wanted to call the shots. He hadn’t been in her office for two seconds before she knew he was a man who had to be in control.
Hell, he’d barely left and was already calling back for a decision. “Put him through, Cheryl.”
She let the phone ring twice, then picked up. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“How about meeting me at the coffee shop downstairs?”
His voice, a deep resonant baritone, was smooth, his East Coast accent more noticeable when he said certain words, like coffee. She knew the drill. He wanted something from her and she’d bet he usually got what he wanted. Many women would find a man like Rico Santini irresistible. Tall and dark, with a big white smile and those soft brown “I’m available” eyes, he was hard to resist. Unfortunately for him, she’d had her fill of tall, dark and irresistible.
“I want to show you something,” he added. “Can you spare a few minutes this afternoon?”
She had a deposition to do, a brief to write and she had to file a restraining order on Ginny Mathews’ estranged husband. And she had to be in court at one o’clock. She didn’t have time to have coffee with anyone, especially someone with an agenda. God, she needed a paralegal. Desperately.
But his words rang in her head. This mother’s been grieving for five years over the loss of her child.
She closed her eyes. Remembering things she didn’t want to remember. “I’ll have a few minutes around 3:00 p.m. if that works for you.”
“I’ll be there.”
Macy let the handset slip into the cradle, a dull ache of loss heavy in her chest as painful memories played in her head. The darkened room, the contractions that never went anywhere, the scent of alcohol and somewhere in the drug-induced fogginess of her brain, hushed, disjointed voices, words like Cesarean and breech. All she’d wanted was to have
her baby and take him home. Instead she’d been given drugs to ease the pain and then it was all over.
And her baby was gone.
Twelve years ago and the memory was still as vivid as if it were yesterday.
The jangle of the phone brought her to attention. She punched the speaker button. “Yes?”
“Miss Creighton is here to see you.”
“Good. Send her in.” Macy pulled out Cody’s case file and waited for the social worker to enter.
Karen Creighton was on a mission. Get the abandoned boy out of the hospital and into foster care ASAP. The hearing to make Cody a temporary ward of the state was on Monday, and the financial considerations when a child was a ward of the state were always a prime concern for the social workers.
Karen Creighton came in, nodded at Macy and then headed for the chair in front of Macy’s desk. From her first introduction, the woman eschewed the formality of a handshake.
“Karen, what can I do for you?”
Gaunt, with pale skin and lifeless brown hair, the social worker looked as if she could use a good nutritionist herself. “I’m working on foster care placement for Cody. It isn’t easy. The lists are full and his special needs make it more difficult.”
“He’s not ready for that anyway, so there’s no rush.”
“From what I understand, he’s physically able to be discharged, and I have to make a decision.”
“A financial decision. Only Cody’s physician hasn’t said he’s ready for discharge. In fact, the doctor told me that while proper nutrition may have him back to normal in no time, his mental state isn’t that easy to evaluate.”
“He’s been interviewed by several psychiatrists and psychologists—”
“And none have been able to determine if his inability to answer questions about his past has an organic cause or if it’s psychologically induced. And there’s also the possibility that the memory loss is deliberate on Cody’s part. More tests have to be done.”
“Whether he remembers or not, we have to find placement for him.”
“Yes, but nothing can happen until after the hearing Monday morning. And I’ll need to interview the prospective caregivers before any decision is made.”
The woman’s lips formed a straight thin line. “I have two interviews set for Monday afternoon.”
Macy’s muscles tensed. Karen had been told Macy’s afternoons were usually booked. If she was a suspicious person, she might think the afternoon scheduling had been done deliberately.
“The first is at one o’clock and the second at three.”
“Fine. Give me the addresses and I’ll be there.”
The social worker looked surprised, then shoved a piece of paper at Macy. “I’ll see you at the hearing, then?”
“Absolutely.” Watching the woman leave, Macy’s irritation spiked. She shouldn’t be annoyed. Karen had a job to do. But then, so did she, and she was going to do it to the best of her ability, regardless of what other people wanted.
As she picked up Cody’s file, the card Detective Santini had left on her desk fluttered to the floor. She stared at the small piece of paper, wondering why he was so invested in the old case. And what did he want to show her that was so important he had to meet with her today?
CHAPTER TWO
RICO DROPPED the Ray file on his desk in the LAPD’s Special Investigations Section, of the Robbery Homicide Division. He’d been in the SIS unit for three years now, ever since Adam, his old partner, left for Chicago to get married. He’d balked at first, then realized the unit, designed to be the Department’s tactical surveillance entity, was available to any Department seeking surveillance on active criminals and crimes. Pretty cool shit, the other guys in the unit had said. It was only later he realized they’d been sugar-coating for the new guy.
He went around the desk and fell into his chair. Smoking had been banned in the House for years, but still, the stale scent of tobacco hung in the air, embedded in the fabric on the chairs and other old furniture in the room. Between the stale smoke and a lot of sweaty guys, the place smelled like a locker room, and he hated being cooped up on such a great spring day.
“How’s it going?” his partner, Jordan St. James, asked.
“It’s not. I have to find something to convince the attorney that my taking a look at the boy isn’t going to damage the kid’s psyche any more than it already is.”
“You mean you didn’t charm the socks off her?” Jordan set his midmorning cup of coffee on the desk and smiled. “You losing your touch, Romeo?”
“You can’t charm a rock.” Rico liked women, and not much kept him from pursuing one he wanted to get to know. But he never got involved with someone on a case. “She’s not my type. Besides, you know the rules.”
“She’s not involved in your case.”
True. Not directly. But he wasn’t looking for anything else. Not even a date.
“I thought you liked smart women.”
True. Brainy women were a turn on. He also liked women who were fun and accessible, and who didn’t want something permanent within the first couple of dates. Someone who could go with the flow. Macy Capshaw might be mega intelligent, but she didn’t seem to have a fun bone in her body … and she was about as accessible as Mount Everest.
“She’s a control freak.”
Jordan laughed. “Nothing like you,” he said, perching on the corner of Rico’s desk. “I think she’s okay. Besides, I thought you liked a challenge?”
“Some challenges are more interesting than others, my friend. You know her?” Rico and Jordan had covered a lot of cases in the three years they’d worked together, and Jordan’s knowledge of L.A.’s movers and shakers never ceased to amaze Rico. Growing up with the crème de la crème of L.A. society had its advantages.
Jordan nodded. “My father was on the board at Pennington and so was her father while she went to school there. We’ve attended some of the same charity functions.”
Only families with fortunes out the wazoo sent their kids to Pennington. “I guess that means she doesn’t have to worry about where her next rent money is coming from.”
“I’d say so. Her father is Wesley Capshaw and her grandfather is Ira Delacourt III. I heard she inherited a lot of money from the old guy. A trust.”
Wesley Capshaw, the famous Hollywood palimony attorney. It explained a lot. “Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better,” Rico said. He’d worked too many cases where people with money felt entitled to different treatment, felt they didn’t have to live by the same rules as everyone else.
Excluding Jordan, who came from a wealthy background, but never acted as if he was anything other than Joe Average. But then Jordan had been adopted and had known from the time he was a kid that he wasn’t really a blue blood.
“You know her well enough to convince her to help me?”
Jordan shook his head, gulped down more coffee. “Not really.” He went to his own desk and pulled out one of the files. “We don’t hang in the same circles. The last time I saw her was when I testified in a case she defended for her father’s firm, and I have to say she made my testimony a hell of a lot more stimulating. She knows her way around a courtroom.”
“Well, she has her own offices now in the Citicorp Building.”
Jordan’s phone rang. “Later,” he said, then picked up the call.
Rico was thumbing through the Ray case when Luke Coltrane entered the room and drifted toward Rico’s desk. Damn. He’d wondered when Luke would come around asking questions Rico didn’t want to answer.
Luke, the oldest, and the most cynical detective in the unit, had been with the LAPD for fifteen years and mostly worked Homicide’s high-profile cases. He had the highest percentage of solved cases of any officer in the district, and his reputation was legend.
But three weeks ago Chief MacGuire decided to run for mayor in the next election and had told their captain to reduce the number of cold cases in by half. It was common knowledge that MacGuire wanted the numb
ers to look good before he made his public announcement that he was going to run. The cold cases had been culled and the most likely to be solved had been assigned. The Ray case wasn’t one of them.
Luke stopped at Rico’s desk and picked up the glass paperweight one of his nieces or nephews had given him.
“Got a minute?” Luke studied the glass ball, shook the snow around and set it back down.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I heard you’re working one of the missing kid cases again.” Luke’s dark eyes were shuttered so you couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Someone else couldn’t tell.
“It’s not on the list.” Rico’s mouth was dry. He never knew what to say to his friend when the subject of missing kids came up.
Luke eyed him narrowly, then smiled as if it were no big deal. “Well, you know you have my help if you need it.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Luke always offered to pitch in when a child was involved, but the captain knew Luke’s objectivity was tainted because of his own son and never put him on a missing kid case. Carlyle wouldn’t have allowed Rico on his niece’s case five years ago, either—if he’d known she was his niece. The one time he went against procedure, he’d fucked up, and the guilt dogged him, hung like a heavy chain around his neck.
When Coltrane left, Rico went back to his research, scouring the old file. He wished to hell he knew what pushed the attorney’s buttons. He had to talk to Jordan again. There had to be something he could do.
His phone rang. “Santini.”
“It’s Suz. I have the information you wanted on Macy Capshaw.”
He liked Suzy’s easy manner― had even dated her before she came to work in H&R — and couldn’t remember now why he’d stopped dating her. Thanks to her numerous jobs as a legal assistant, she knew practically every attorney in the city and could find out anything about anyone … and wasn’t shy to talk about it. As sweet as she was, she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Oh, yeah. Now he remembered.
“Your lady does family law. Mostly cases that involve kids and battered women. I’d say she has some screws loose, leaving her father’s firm to represent low-income families. No freaking money in that.”
