ONCE MORE A FAMILY

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  "There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?" she said to his broad, stiff back. "You don't need to protect me. I won't fall apart."

  He turned to face her. His eyes were tired, but steady, his expression more cop than father. "If I knew more, I'd tell you, Ree. But I don't. The creeps who had him didn't give up a thing, though God knows Mendoza and I tried damn near every trick we'd learned between us."

  Too tense to sit a moment longer, she got up to carry her cereal bowl to the sink. "What have you found out about them, the Wilsons?"

  "Too damn little. Mendoza's still running all the aliases. Last I heard he'd come up with a half dozen for both the male and the female. At least that many arrests between them, but no convictions. Like I said, they're pros."

  She turned to shoot him an angry look. "You make them sound admirable."

  Grady kept his own anger tightly leashed. A man lost his perspective when his mind was clouded with rage. He made bad decisions, spit out words he later regretted. If that man was a cop, a momentary lapse in control could get someone killed. So he'd learned to turn that white hot flash of fury inward, grounding it somewhere deep inside himself until the urge to lash out eased up. But he'd come close to losing it during the hours he and Mendoza had sat across from the lowlifes who'd stolen his child.

  "They're human garbage, Ree," he said, not bothering to gentle his tone. "Well-educated, middle-class scum who feed on the misery of others."

  "Too bad they weren't shot resisting arrest," she declared fiercely as she turned on the hot tap with a hard twist of her wrist. Steam billowed upward, wisping the ends of her hair into flyaway curls at the nape of her neck.

  She'd cut her hair since he'd seen her last, and he felt a twinge of regret at the thought of never being able to bury his face in the silky mane. It had been three years since he'd breathed in the scent of roses clinging to her skin, three years since he'd kissed her, three years since he'd felt the warm little tremors of her release vibrating beneath him.

  Three years of cold showers and empty rooms and waking up each morning with a hole in his life.

  "Where did they live?" She glanced up, her brow puckering. "The Wilsons?"

  "Last known address was San Diego." Restless and a little buzzed on the caffeine, he grabbed the cereal box from the counter and opened cupboard doors until he found the right one. "Mendoza was going to check it out as soon as he got a warrant. Once we find out what school Jimmy went to and talk to his teacher, get the name of his friends, he might start opening up."

  One of the calls he'd made while Ria had been organizing breakfast had been to Mendoza's office in Calexico. According to the female agent who'd taken his call, Cruz was having a problem tracking down Jimmy's teacher. It seemed he wasn't enrolled in the school closest to the Wilsons' home. In fact, the name Steven Allen Wilson hadn't been in the public school's database of enrolled students. Cruz was in the process of checking the private primary schools.

  "How long does it take to get a warrant?" she asked as she rinsed the dishes one by one.

  "Not long." He put away the syrup and the butter, then looked around for something else to occupy his hands—and his thoughts. Anything to keep him from rubbing his palms over that tight little bottom she kept wiggling at him with every swish of her dishcloth. His body gave him another of those sneaking kicks, exactly where it hurt the most. "I left this number, by the way."

  The look she gave him was wary. "I hope you're not thinking of staying here again tonight."

  It had been the worst kind of hell bedding down on her floor, knowing she was only a short walk away. He'd nearly paced a rut in her carpet, thinking about those skimpy summer nightgowns she'd worn, the ones with the cobweb lace that skimmed the top of her thighs every time she walked. A man would be six times a fool to willingly put himself through that kind of torture again.

  "No need to think about it," he all but growled. "I'm staying." He carried the last of the dishes to the sink, then plucked the dishcloth from her hand. "Kid got syrup on the table," he said when she glared.

  "You can't stay here!"

  "I admit the floor's not my first choice, but I have a hunch you'd shoot that one down, so I figure to borrow Dad's sleeping bag."

  Something that looked like panic glimmered in the back of her dark pupils for the span of a blink. "Grady, read my lips. This is my house. You can't stay here."

  "Why not?" He finished wiping the table and walked back to the sink.

  "Because it's not necessary," she muttered, snatching the cloth from his hand. "Jimmy and I will manage just fine."

  He shot her a grin that felt a little cocky. He could handle her anger, even her resentment if he had to, but the worry in her eyes had been tearing him apart. "Afraid you'll be overcome with lust and jump me in the night?"

  "Hardly," she muttered, jerking her gaze back to the plate she'd been rinsing.

  "Afraid I'll jump you?"

  Her chest rose and fell in a fast breath. "In case you've forgotten, I have a gun. A cute little nickel-plated automatic you bought me for our first Christmas. And I know how to use it."

  "I have a gun, too, and it's bigger than yours. 'Course it's not nickel-plated, but—"

  "Don't say it," she warned, but her lips twitched, and her cheeks were pink. He'd probably roast in hell for it, given the fact that their troubles with Jimmy were anything but over, but suddenly he felt hopeful.

  Maybe there was such a thing as a second chance, after all.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  Grady scrawled his initials at the bottom of the weekly report and tossed it atop the other bits of departmental busy work. Nothing put him in a foul mood faster than paperwork. He would rather face a hyped-up maniac with nothing but his bare hands than read anything more complicated than a menu.

  He rotated his head, trying to work out the kinks. On his way to the office, he'd stopped by his place, fed the cat and changed clothes. Trouble had been really upset which is why the little beggar was now sleeping in his carrying box in the corner of the office. He'd thought about calling Ria from his place to ask permission to bring another houseguest, then changed his mind.

  Which was his ego's way of saying he wimped out.

  In the large area beyond his glassed-in office, the day-shift detectives were working the phones or dealing with interviews. Catching his eye, one of his guys lifted a thumb and grinned. Grady acknowledged the best wishes with a smile and a nod. He wasn't sure how the word had spread, only that it had, and with the usual lightning speed that never failed to amaze him.

  When things shook down closer to a normal routine, he planned to throw a party for the entire squad. In one way or another each man and woman who worked under him had offered support.

  In the beginning, when he'd been mostly raw nerves and raging temper, they'd hung in without even a whisper of mutiny. God knew they'd had every right to go over his head to the brass and get him kicked out of his command for cause. Instead, they'd quietly covered for him when he made mistakes, divvied up his routine paperwork, settled their own scheduling problems.

  Feeling like a martyr about to be staked out for the buzzards, he picked up his pen and reached for the next report in the folder. At the same time the phone rang. Grateful for the reprieve, he snatched it up on the second ring.

  Dr. Alberta Roth had a sultry voice that evoked images of damp sheets and steamy sex. The reality, however, was far more prosaic. In fact, when they'd met face to face in Calexico, the pudgy, gray-haired matron with shrewd blue eyes had reminded him of his grandmother Hardin. On a personal level he'd taken to her immediately. After an hour of watching her gentle Jimmy out of a series of tantrums, he'd wanted to beg her to come home with them.

  "Sorry I wasn't in when you called earlier, Captain. I was playing racquetball with my husband." A laugh bubbled through the wire. "Just between us, I whipped his little candy butt."

  Grady choked out a laugh. "My ex-wife used t
o whip me regularly on the tennis court. Had me begging for mercy by the third set." Mostly because he'd been watching her bottom. Half the time he'd staggered off the court so aroused he couldn't wait to get her into the shower.

  When the doctor spoke again, the gloating wife had become a brisk professional. "So much for my athletic prowess. Why don't you tell me why you called?"

  Grady cleared his throat. During the last meeting he'd had with her and the social worker handling Jimmy's case, Dr. Roth had given him three names of child psychologists, all within a day's drive of Indiana. After he'd leaned on her a little, she'd admitted that her first choice would be a former student intern who now practiced in Chicago.

  "First thing this morning I phoned Dr. McCurry's office to set up an appointment for a consultation, but according to his receptionist, he's booked solid for the next month."

  "Aha. You want me to give Patrick a call and get you in sooner, I take it?"

  Grady's chair protested as he leaned back. "Yes, ma'am. That's exactly what I'm hoping."

  "Is Jimmy acting out?"

  "I'm not sure that's the right term, but things have been pretty rocky so far. Jim and I, well, I wasn't around much so it made sense he wouldn't remember me, but he and his mama were like a team, you know? Right from the beginning, he was his mom's son. They were, uh, bonded, I'd guess you'd call it. Did everything together. I know he was only three, but—" He broke off before he was tempted to dump his own tangled emotions on her.

  "He didn't remember her?" the doctor prodded gently when the silence lengthened.

  "No, ma'am. It's been rough on her. I hate to call my own son a spoiled brat, but—" He cleared his throat, but the taste of guilt remained. "If it was some lowlife threatening her, I'd know what to do, but this is way out of my area. I figure we need some professional help."

  "I see." There was a pause during which Grady watched Detective First Grade DeeAnn Gregory stride with her usual impatience through the bullpen maze toward her own neat-as-a-pin desk in the far corner. Grady and Dee's husband, Terrell, had gone through the academy together. When Terrell had been killed in the line of duty, DeeAnn had immediately applied to the department herself. After a rough start, she'd turned into a darned fine investigator.

  "As I recall, Captain," Dr. Roth continued briskly, "you said that your divorce from the child's mother was an amicable one. However, it's been my experience that even the most comfortable relationships undergo strain in times of high stress. Perhaps James is picking up on some undercurrents between the two of you and reacting to those."

  "If you're asking me if Ria and I are snarling at each other, the answer is no."

  "No offense, Captain, but children are far more perceptive than those of us who consider ourselves grown-ups. Studies have shown that they can pick up even the smallest signs of friction."

  Grady saw DeeAnn approaching his office and shook his head. She held up a folder, mouthed "later" and he nodded.

  "Ria and I are doing okay so far," he said, rubbing a hand over his neck. "We have to hammer out some kind of custody arrangement, but that can wait."

  "Where is the boy now?"

  "With his mom, at her place."

  "In familiar surroundings?"

  "No, not at all. The house where he grew up was sold after we split. Ria has a small place in the city now. Is that a problem?"

  "Not necessarily, although research into similar cases has shown fairly conclusively that the more reminders of the patient's past life the better."

  "Ria did save his toys and books, things like that. But when she tried to get him interested in going through the boxes, he pitched another fit. Rat-out told her to stop bugging him."

  He heard the sudden crackle of static. A storm somewhere in the heartland, he figured. Coming their way. The clouds were already forming, brooding black suckers that blocked out the sun.

  "Has he talked much about the couple who posed as his parents?" she asked quietly.

  "Some, on the trip home, mostly. I got the feeling they pretty much let him do anything he wanted."

  "Unfortunately I had that same feeling." She sighed. "Well, first things first. I can't promise to convince Patrick to juggle his schedule, but I'll try. In the meantime, I suggest you establish a routine with the boy and stick to it. Restrict the number of people he has to deal with to those who'd once been special to him in some way. You and your ex-wife, of course, and any close family members."

  "I have a big family, Doctor. Four brothers and a sister. Things can get a little hectic."

  "Then perhaps you should keep things simple for the moment." She sighed. "Is there someplace where the three of you often went together? A park perhaps, or a restaurant?"

  He glanced at the framed snapshot of Ria and Jim building a sand castle on a sunlit day at the lake. Sunbeams were trapped in her hair, and she was laughing as she looked into the camera.

  "My folks have a cottage on a lake about a half hour's drive away. We used to spend part of every summer there. In fact Ria was packing our things for a two-week stay when Jimmy was abducted."

  "And the boy knew that?"

  "Sure. We'd even gotten him his own fishing rod."

  "I think that's it, Captain, your best chance at sparking his memory."

  "Taking Jim fishing?"

  "Among other things, yes. The three of you need to go to the lake and do all the things you did before. Try to replicate your previous stays as closely as possible."

  "That might be a problem," he admitted, his voice tight. "Ria and I haven't told Jim we're divorced. Things were pretty hectic last night, and then today he wasn't in the mood to listen to anything either of us said."

  "Maybe that's for the best. In fact…" She paused and he could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. When she spoke again, her voice was suddenly energized. "Don't tell the boy about the divorce. Not yet. Don't let anyone else tell him. Wait until he's more secure before you ask him to deal with yet one more demand on his resilience."

  Grady cleared his throat. "I slept on Ria's floor last night, Doctor. Jim didn't see me, but he might. He's bound to figure out something's not right if his folks aren't—" He broke off, embarrassed as hell. The woman on the other end probably knew more about sex than he ever would, given the stories he figured she'd listened to over the years, but still…

  "I take it this amicable divorce doesn't include a continuation of sexual relations between the two of you."

  He scowled. "You take it right."

  "Fake it."

  He blinked. "Pardon?"

  She chuckled. "You heard me, Captain. Pretend. Buy twin beds if you have to, but make sure you and your ex-wife sleep in the same room."

  He nearly groaned. It had been bad enough just sleeping under the same roof with Ree. He wasn't sure he'd come out of this sane if he had to listen to the soft sounds of her breathing night after night without being able to touch her.

  "You really think this will work?"

  "The literature cites several instances of remarkable results in other cases of amnesia." There was a pause, then she continued in a softer tone, "Your son needs you, Captain Hardin. And he needs his mother. More now, I suspect, than he ever did before. But I feel I must warn you, it's very possible he might always think of you as the one who stole him away from his parents. He might actually hate you."

  "He already does. Told me so a couple of times already. He blames me for putting his … parents in jail."

  "Hate and love often share the same space in a person's heart."

  He thought about the cases of domestic violence he'd rolled on when he'd been in uniform. He'd never quite gotten his mind around the idea that a man could beat his wife bloody one moment, then swear up and down he only did it because he loved her so much.

  "Are you saying I should stay out of my son's life?"

  "No, that's the last thing I think you should do. Just the opposite, in fact. James was definitely intrigued by you, but then, young males tend to be fasc
inated by other powerful males, especially ones like yourself who have an edge of danger to their persona."

  Grady frowned. Was that good or bad? he wondered. "And his mom? Ria, I mean? Do you think he could come to hate her, too?"

  She sighed deeply. "I don't know, Captain. I simply don't know."

  * * *

  Grady pulled into the driveway and parked behind his dad's vintage Studebaker. Fat raindrops pelted his head and shoulders as he raced from the driveway to the shelter of the back porch. The door was unlocked, the way it had always been. He smiled a little when he walked past the irregular spot in the kitchen wall where he'd put his fist through the lath plaster. At the time it had been his brother's face he'd been aiming to pound, but Kale had always been a step faster, even then.

  It had taken him half a block before he'd caught up to the smirking bastard and sent him sprawling into Mrs. Genarro's prized peony bush. Kale had ended up with a broken nose, and he'd ended up with a month's restriction and a sore butt.

  His mom had clucked over both her boys, dispensing ice for her firstborn's nose and iodine for her second son's split knuckles—along with copious hugs. His dad had given them both hell—Kale for taunting his brother about flunking first grade again, and Grady for being suckered into losing his temper.

  His dad had shown him how to patch up the damage, then had taken him out for ice cream, just the two of them. Mason had talked, about baseball and fishing and the difference between winners and losers. By the time Grady had packed away two banana splits, he'd decided to take another stab at the exercises the special ed teacher had given him.

  It had taken him four years to catch up with the rest of the kids his age. In spite of the hours of study he'd put in every night—twice as many as his brothers—he'd never made better-than-average grades, but he'd won the battle for his self-respect.

  The kitchen was empty. In all the years since he'd been walking through the back door, he'd never failed to feel a sense of comfort and warmth in this room. According to his mom, her kitchen was the heart of the house. The place where hungry bodies were fed and aching souls were soothed.