The Good Daughter

by Jean Brashear

  Before he could exit, she was in his path, one hand out to block him. “Stop right there—”

  Vince blinked, amazed at how fast she’d moved.

  Anger sparked in her eyes, but with visible effort, she banked it. “Detective, perhaps both of us should take a minute to calm down and sort this out.”

  “Why? It was a mistake to think I could put any stock in what you said last night.”

  “You’re wrong. I meant it—I want to help you.”

  “You can’t do that and be in league with Newcombe.”

  “I’m not in league with Don—Detective Newcombe.” When he snickered, she leaned forward. “I’m going to forget your insult that I would stoop to trading confidential information. I told you last night that everything we discuss is strictly between us. I’ve done nothing to earn your distrust.”

  Vince flexed his fingers, his jaw tightening. “He couldn’t wait to hotfoot it down here to get to you first.”

  Her gaze remained steady. “I revealed nothing about you.”

  “But he asked, didn’t he?”

  “He only wanted to express concern.”

  “Yeah.” Vince laughed harshly. “I’ll bet. Did he try to tell you I’m a dirty cop?” She only wavered a tiny flicker, but he saw it. “I thought so. What else did he say? That you should be afraid of me?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Her chin rose. “I’m not afraid.”

  Vince closed the distance between them, crowding her space. Nerves sparked in her eyes. “Sure you’re not.”

  She swallowed visibly. “I don’t believe you would hurt me.” Her eyes spoke of determination, if not faith.

  He had to give her credit. A complex woman, this one.

  “Detective—” One slender hand settled on his arm. The warmth somehow eased the ragged edges of this morning. “I will not lie to you. What we say is confidential from anyone and everyone. I’m willing to keep trying until you trust me. You’ve got so much to deal with now—please, let me help you.”

  She had that right. He was alone in the jungle with threats all around, some visible, but more were only noises disturbing his peace of mind. He wanted to believe her, but—

  “Give me a chance, Vince. We’ll take it slowly. I don’t mind having to earn your trust.” Golden-brown eyes held his.

  Hearing his first name from her shouldn’t sway him, but he was too tired to think much more right now. He craved distance, time to sift through all that had happened. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to sit here and see what she did. She had an oddly soothing effect on him. That calm, quiet manner created a peace he sorely needed. He’d just have to be careful what he said.

  Anyway, there was no getting around this meeting. If he wanted his job back, he had to walk through the procedure. No one said he had to tell her anything important. Vince stepped away, giving her room.

  Chloe exhaled. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” he muttered.

  “You will be,” she promised.

  He questioned again what it was about her that made him want to believe her. So what if she was beautiful, he’d known plenty of good-looking women. Maybe that wider-than-normal, luscious-as-hell mouth gave him pause, but tight-ass wasn’t his style. She shouldn’t appeal to him at all.

  Now, though, her features more mobile, her composure ruffled, he was surprised at the hints of passion he saw running beneath the surface. She might have perfected quite a facade, but in that moment, he couldn’t help wondering…

  He swore silently. He’d never find out, and it didn’t matter. He only had to bluff his way through this procedure well enough to get her to cut him loose.

  “I’ll try to make your time in the Arctic Circle bearable,” she said.

  He couldn’t help a quick grin of surprise.

  “You thought we weren’t aware of the term?” She gestured to two cozy chairs in the corner, a small table with a lush green plant breaking the sterility of police-department decor. “Please, have a seat. Would you care for coffee?”

  “Let’s not pretend we’re going to be friends, Doc,” he warned. “Trust me on this—we’re not.”

  She merely gave him a calm stare. “We can sit wherever you prefer, Detective. I like those chairs because they’re comfortable, but the choice is yours.”

  He stabbed a finger toward the more spartan desk and side chairs. “Forget comfort. Let’s get this done.”

  Color rose beneath her skin, but she didn’t rise to the bait. “I’d like to leave ourselves open to the possibility that this may be more productive than you think.”

  Touché, Doc, he thought. She might like calling the shots, but he had news for her: so did he. One eyebrow lifted, Vince settled into a chair, gesturing for her to begin.

  But instead, she let the silence draw out.

  He stifled a smile. This was starting to get interesting. She couldn’t win this game, of course. He’d grilled a lot of suspects; he had one of the highest clearance rates in the department. Silence wouldn’t work on him.

  Neither broke the impasse for a long, long span.

  Then she spoke. “Did the dead boy have a family to grieve for him, or are you the only person who cared?”

  Vince jolted at the unexpected tangent. “His mother’s a junkie. She’s only sorry now because her meal ticket is dead.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Kids get left to scramble for themselves all the time, Doc. A whole lot of kids never have June Cleaver for a mom.”

  “Is that what happened to you?”

  Vince froze. “We were talking about the kid, not me.”

  She met his gaze evenly. “But the depth of your grief over him has roots farther back, doesn’t it?”

  “Doc, I told you to stay out of my head.”

  “It’s common knowledge that you go hard on anyone who harms women or children.”

  Vince clenched his jaw. “So what?”

  “So talk to me about why you feel this strongly.”

  “You don’t mind people treating children like animals, maybe even mutilating and torturing them? You didn’t see the kid—I did. The bastard used a razor to make tiny slices all over his body and let him bleed to death.” He drew a savage satisfaction in seeing her eyes widen, her body recoiling.

  For about ten seconds, then he felt as if he’d impaled a butterfly on a pin. All color had left her face. “You said nothing shocks you. Don’t you know that adults do hellish things to children every day?”

  She rose gracefully and walked to the console in the corner, where she poured a glass of water.

  He saw her fingers tremble. And sighed. “Okay, Doc. Here it is. I’m sure my file shows that I never knew my father and my prostitute mother abandoned me at age four. It probably shows that I spent my childhood bouncing around from one foster home to another. Well, at one of those lovely homes, full of such goodness of nature that they took in stray kids, was a father who got off on making his son be his whore—”

  Her glass struck the console.

  “Still want to hear my story?”

  She picked up another glass. “Would you care for some water, Detective?” Her voice was nearly inaudible.

  When he didn’t answer, she turned around, her face once again a perfect mask. “Detective? Water?”

  He could almost have imagined her previous distress. Dr. Cool and Elegant had every hair back in place. “No. Thanks.”

  She crossed back to her chair and sat down, taking dainty sips. “Please continue.” Her voice was too controlled.

  “Forget it,” he said. “It’s not important.”

  Temper flashed in her eyes. “I’d like for you to finish your story.”

  “That’s the last thing you want.”

  “You’re wrong.” Her gaze fixed on his. “I do want to hear what you have to say.”

  “How long have you had this job?”

  “A year and a half.” At his snort, she drew herself up very str
aight. “Detective, simply because I’ve had a privileged upbringing doesn’t mean I have no interest in making the world a better place. You don’t have the market cornered on justice.”

  Whoa. Steel in that backbone. “I never thought I did.”

  “Very well.” She accepted the apology he hadn’t offered. “Please tell me how you feel about what happened to that boy.”

  He’d rather crawl through an ant bed with honey smeared on him. “No one thought it was important then, why should you?”

  “You reported it? How old were you?”

  She wasn’t going to give up. He bit back an oath. “Not right then. I was eight. The boy’s father threatened me, told me no one would believe me.”

  “What happened?”

  “Two days later, I found myself in another foster home. The father was right. No one listened.”

  “What happened to that boy?”

  “How would I know?”

  “You didn’t check? Later, when you were grown?”

  He felt the same frustration that had choked him first as a kid, then as a cop who’d been ten years too late to save Peter. Staring out her window, he swallowed hard. “Peter killed himself when he was fifteen.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He thought she probably meant it. “It doesn’t help.” He turned to face her. “Being sorry, I mean. I’ve been sorry for twenty-four years and Peter’s still dead.”

  “So you’ve been trying to make up for it ever since.”

  He ground his teeth. “I’m no knight in shining armor.”

  “Some people would say you are.”

  “Not Newcombe.”

  “Tell me what happened between you.”

  No point in discussing it. She could read the file. Newcombe was a thorn in his side and would be until he got the better of Vince, which wasn’t going to happen.

  And he had to find Tino. “It doesn’t matter. Are we through yet?”

  She blinked. “Why?”

  “I’ve got work to do.”

  “You’re on restricted duty.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “People to see, places to be.”

  “But what’s the rush?”

  He glanced at her. He wasn’t going to tell her about Tino. Newcombe would have a field day knowing he would be meeting with an ex-con buddy. But he needed her goodwill to get back on the job. With a sigh, he forced himself to settle into the chair.

  “You were going to tell me about you and Don,” she prompted.

  Vince shot her an amused grin. “You’re damn persistent, aren’t you?”

  Her generous lips curved. “Be warned, Detective. You might as well give up all your secrets now and save yourself some trouble.”

  Vince found himself caught in that teasing smile, despite how much he wanted out of here—now. “Not much to tell. He had an agenda. I made him look bad. He won’t ever forget it.”

  “He investigated you?”

  Vince nodded. “He was convinced I was taking kickbacks from a couple of pimps to leave their girls alone.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  “Because he was new to the job and didn’t check his facts well enough. He was ambitious and too eager. Hell, he watched Serpico too many times, for all I know. Bottom line is, he screwed up and lost his first big chance for glory. He knows it and I know it. Most of the department does, too. He may have done everything right since then, but he’ll never be able to put that failure completely behind him as long as I’m around to remind him.”

  “He’s done a thorough, careful job when I’ve worked with him.”

  Vince shrugged. “You can believe whatever you want.”

  She seemed troubled. “I can’t imagine—”

  “Your prerogative.” Frustrated and oddly disappointed, he stood up, towering over her. “Doc, I really gotta go.”

  “We’re not through, Detective. You can walk away now, but you’ll just have to come back. Please make an appointment with Wanda for tomorrow.”

  He didn’t have time for this. He planted his palms flat on her blotter, leaning much too close. “Can’t wait to see me, Doc? How about instead I buy you a beer? That way we can really get to know each other.”

  Visibly steeling herself, she held his gaze. “I don’t date clients, Detective.”

  Smiling, he pushed away from her desk. “Well now, that’s good news, isn’t it?” He walked toward the door, pausing before he opened it. “You just go ahead and write your report, then I won’t have to be your client.”

  “Detective.” Her tone commanded him to look at her.

  When he did, he saw exasperation—and resolve. “I take pride in my work, just as you do, and we’re not done. We can make this hard, or we can make this easy. It’s your call.” She followed him to the door.

  He thought about the statement he still had to organize, about searching for Tino, about how he had to get Newcombe off his back. Leaning inches from her face, he pitched his voice low. “Stop pushing me, Doc. I don’t have time for this.”

  “You don’t have any choice, Detective.”

  He had to give it to her. Though he had a distinct size advantage over that delicate frame, she didn’t back down an inch, some of that passion he’d seen earlier sparking in eyes gone wide and dark.

  “It doesn’t have to be this difficult,” she said.

  “Tell that to Newcombe.” He stalked out the door.

  VINCE STORMED past Wanda, swearing under his breath.

  “Hey, cher, where you goin’ in such a temper?”

  Hearing her voice, he felt the anger drain right out of him. Wanda Dupree had been a records clerk back when he was a rookie, and had saved his hide when he’d messed up on an affidavit that could have invalidated a search. He respected the tiny Cajun who never seemed to find a good man. Wanda was on the downside of fifty, yet something sensual smoldered in the air around her. She never lacked for companionship, but she tended to pick the worst of the litter with unerring accuracy.

  He turned back with a grin, aware as he did it that there’d be a smart-aleck one on her face. “Me, Wanda? You know I’m even-tempered and mild.”

  Wanda snorted, then broke into a racking cough.

  “Sugar, you got to ditch those coffin nails.”

  Sassy as ever, she retorted, “Cher, there’s three things that make life worth living, and not a one of ’em good for you.”

  “You just haven’t found the right man.”

  “That’s ’cause you never asked me.”

  Vince shook his head. “I know when I’m out of my league. I’m just a poor country boy, not ready to run with the big dogs always sniffin’ around after you.”

  She laughed, coughing slightly again. “Get out of here, you con man.” Her gaze sobered. “She’s a good person, Vince.” Her head tipped toward Chloe’s door. “Helps a lot of people.”

  His grin vanished. “I don’t need a shrink. I’m fine.”

  “Of course you are, cher,” Wanda soothed. “But everybody needs a friend sometimes.”

  Vince knew that she truly cared. “I can get a dog if I need someone to talk to. They don’t talk back.”

  Wanda giggled. “Go on, you. I’m writing you down for tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.”

  “Write all you want, sugar. I won’t be here.” He saluted as he walked away.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHLOE CROSSED the grass blanketing the front yard of her little gray house, with its glossy black shutters. Something inside her, as always, eased at the mere sight of it. The smell of freshly mown grass wafted down the block.

  Her parents still didn’t understand why she lived in this eclectic Rosedale neighborhood filled with small, unremarkable houses. Trees lined the streets, sheltering an odd assortment of neighbors—families with small children, senior citizens who’d bought their homes new in the forties, single professionals like Chloe, gay couples. Its main virtue was proximity to the University of Texas and downtown; as a result, prices had risen but were st
ill modest compared with old-money Tarrytown, where her parents lived. They might have understood if she’d bought a Northwest Hills condo, but a small two-bedroom whose oak floors she’d refinished herself? They still shook their heads over it.

  But it was hers, purchased with her own money, decorated with no thought to a spread in Southern Living. She loved every inch of it.

  Picking faded scarlet blossoms from the round white pots on her porch, Chloe inserted her key in the lock of her Chinese-red front door. She drank in the rich scent of her roses, the sharp spice of the geraniums. Rustling trees outside soothed her, the sound fading with the closing of the door. After shedding her high heels, Chloe padded across the faded green-and-rose Aubusson rug she’d picked up for a song at a secondhand store.

  On the way to the refrigerator, Chloe cast a glance at the old rosewood clock on her mantel. She didn’t have a lot of time; Roger was picking her up for dinner and La Bohème at six-thirty. She loved this particular opera, but her session with Detective Coronado had been only the beginning of a long and frustrating day. For a second, she studied the telephone and considered the flak she’d take if she canceled.

  Roger didn’t deal well with surprises.

  Even if he did, it would be rude and thoughtless of her. Unacceptable behavior in a St. Claire.

  Chloe sighed, then drank a quick glass of orange juice and headed for the shower.

  Relaxing her stiff neck under the heated spray, she let her mind drift, mulling over the past several hours. One image stood out: the glint of anger in Vince Coronado’s eyes. A fire burned deep in his belly to right old wrongs. Chloe suspected that he’d never forgotten what it was to be a child adrift in a system too often callous and ineffective. She marveled at his caring; he could so easily have turned his back on all that and run away as fast as the wind.

  But he hadn’t. Instead, he was eating himself alive over not saving a boy he barely knew. The boy had a mother, but it was Vince who was his champion.