“What did the bus driver say?” Blake insisted.
“Just a minute.” Marissa reached for the phone and buzzed Kitty. “Is Boston Blackie around?”
“He just passed through from the coffee room on the way to his office,” Kitty answered.
“Ask him to step in here in for a second.” Marissa hung up and turned to Blake. “Fred Black is our firm’s private investigator. He interviewed the bus driver, so I’ll let him tell you what he found out.”
After a discreet knock at the door, Fred entered Marissa’s office. The fiftyish man with gray-streaked brown hair and matching mustache was dressed in his usual attire of a tropical print shirt, well-pressed khaki Dockers, and sandals without socks, an outfit he called his Jimmy Buffet look. He greeted her with a nod and a twinkle in his deep brown eyes. “You wanted to see me?”
“This is Blake Adams, the man who found the abandoned baby. Blake, Fred Black.”
The detective offered his hand. “My friends—and some of my enemies—call me Boston Blackie.”
Blake shook his hand. “Boston Blackie it is, then.”
Marissa waved Blackie to the chair next to Blake’s. “Tell Blake what you learned from the bus driver.”
Blackie nodded. “The guy called responding to the flyer. Said he’d picked up a girl carrying an infant in a wicker laundry basket in Clermont last Thursday.”
“The day before Annie was left on my porch,” Blake said.
Blackie nodded. “The driver said the girl got off the bus here in Dolphin Bay and didn’t board again.”
“What age was she?” Blake asked.
“The driver said it was hard to tell, somewhere in her mid to late teens.”
“Did he get a description?”
Marissa let Blake ask the questions. She already knew the answers, and she wanted him to hear for himself.
“Small-boned little redheaded kid with big blue eyes and freckles,” Blackie said. “Didn’t look old enough to be a mother, but, hell, most of ’em look too young to me these days.”
“The driver,” Marissa added, “was kind enough to sit down with an artist. He helped her create a sketch from his description.” Marissa opened her drawer, pulled out a copy and handed it across the desk to Blake.
Blake studied it with interest. “She does look awfully young. And she also has a strong resemblance to Annie.”
“Could be an older sister,” Blackie suggested.
Blake nodded, apparently still entranced by the sketch.
“I’ll head over to Clermont after lunch,” Blackie said. “Spend a few days, if it takes that, and show the sketches around till someone recognizes her. Or gives us a new lead.”
Blake looked to Marissa. “Did you alert the authorities?”
“We notified them first thing,” she said, “and gave them a copy of the sketch.”
“So they’re on it, too,” Blake said. “That’s good.”
Blackie laughed. “Don’t hold your breath. That department is so overworked and understaffed, the girl in this sketch could turn thirty by the time they find her.”
“That’s why I called in Blackie.” Marissa glanced at her watch. “But you and I should get a move on. It’s almost time for our hearing.”
“Judge Standiford?” Blackie asked.
Marissa nodded. “He’s our man.”
Blackie shot Blake a sympathetic glance. “Good luck, fellow. You’re going to need it.”
Whistling “Cheeseburger in Paradise,” the detective left the room.
“What did he mean about needing luck?” Blake said.
Marissa didn’t have the heart to tell him Standiford was probably the most uptight, straitlaced, hard-nosed judge on the bench. “Blackie was just being friendly. Don’t worry. It’s a simple hearing. No surprises.”
As she gathered her briefcase and followed Blake out the door, she hoped she was right.
MINUTES LATER, Blake and Marissa were ushered into Judge Standiford’s chambers in the courthouse, down the block and across the street from the Mason law offices. The white-haired judge, attired in shirt-sleeves and suit pants with brilliant red suspenders, motioned them to seats in front of his desk.
A tall, raw-boned woman with short-cropped black hair and serious blue eyes was already seated. Marissa introduced her to Blake as Debbie Arnold. Tucked in a corner nearest the judge’s desk, a middle-aged court stenographer sat, hands poised above her keyboard.
“Now, let me get this straight,” the judge began, dispensing with pleasantries. “Your client, Ms. Mason, wants me to grant him temporary custody of Ms. Arnold’s client, a three-month-old foundling?”
“That’s correct, Your Honor,” Marissa said.
“Why?”
“Because—” Marissa began, but the judge held up a hand to stop her.
“I’d rather hear from your client himself, if you don’t mind.”
Blake looked to Marissa. On their way over, she’d advised him to let her do the talking. The judge had thrown a curve right off the bat. With a slight nod of her head, Marissa assented.
Wondering where to begin, Blake cleared his throat. “I’d like to ensure that the baby has a good home and appropriate care until she can be adopted permanently.”
“You implying she won’t have good care in a state-provided foster home?” the judge asked with a glint of fire in his eye.
“No, sir, I’m not saying that at all.” Blake chose his words carefully. “Since the child was left on my doorstep, I feel responsible for her. She may receive the finest care in a foster home. Or she may not. Under my roof, I’d be able to monitor the situation fully, if I’m providing that care myself.”
“And you’re experienced at caring for infants?” the judge asked.
Blake’s heart sank. His qualifications were nonexistent. How could he expect the judge to let him keep Annie? “No, Your Honor, but I have the means to pay for the best care and to educate myself as needed.”
“If I may, Your Honor,” Marissa said, “I’d like to submit affidavits from residents of the community attesting to Mr. Adams’s character.” She slid the papers across the desk. “He owns his own home and business, has been a resident of Dolphin Bay for over thirty-three years, has no criminal record and is a well-respected member of the community.”
“You married, Mr. Adams?” the judge asked.
“No, sir.”
“Then you live alone.”
Blake hesitated. “Not exactly.”
The judge twisted his mouth in an ironic grimace. “For the record, would you state exactly what your living arrangements are?”
“I rent a guest suite in my house to a temporary tenant.”
“Male or female?”
“Female, Your Honor.”
The judge knitted bushy white eyebrows and glared at Blake over half-rimmed glasses. Blake braced himself for the next question, but the feisty judge turned to Debbie instead.
“Where is your client now?” he asked her.
“The baby was placed in a Department of Children and Families’ foster home by the county’s Child Protection Investigators.”
“And she’s receiving good care?”
“I’ve visited her twice since her placement,” Debbie said. “The conditions in the home are safe and clean. The child appears to be content.”
In the corner, the court recorder’s fingers flew over the keys. Blake, meanwhile, was feeling less and less hopeful of ever having Annie in his charge.
“You have any problem with placing your client in Mr. Adams’s care, Counselor?” the judge asked Debbie.
“I have no reason to oppose such a move, Your Honor.”
“Mmm,” Standiford muttered and flipped open a file folder on his desk. “Mr. Blake, in spite of Ms. Arnold’s endorsement, it appears you have some opposition to your request.”
Surprise cascaded through Blake. “Have Annie’s relatives come forward?”
“No,” the judge said, “but a friend of the court h
as filed a few objections to granting you custody.”
“A friend of the court?” Marissa looked as puzzled as Blake felt. “Why weren’t we told?”
“I’m telling you now,” the judge said with apparent ill temper.
“Who?” Marissa asked.
“Mr. Adams’s neighbor, Vienna Pitts.” The judge skimmed the papers from the folder and looked up with a scowl. “She’s questioning Mr. Adams’s fitness as a potential foster parent.”
Marissa rose to Blake’s defense immediately. “My client’s reputation is impeccable. And Mrs. Pitts is well-known for her negative attitude toward everyone in town.”
The judge cocked a bushy eyebrow. “Does that include you, Counselor?”
Blake guessed what was coming and resisted the urge to groan.
Marissa’s composure never wavered. “This hearing is about my client, not me.”
“According to Mrs. Pitts,” the judge said with an insinuating grin, “Mr. Adams is much more than your client.”
At the judge’s claim, Debbie Arnold perked up, leaned forward and gazed at Marissa with obvious curiosity. The court reporter paused, waiting for Marissa’s answer. Blake, not knowing how to respond, kept his mouth shut.
“That’s not true,” Marissa insisted with such conviction that Blake felt a rush of disappointment.
“Are you saying Mrs. Pitts has perjured herself?” the judge demanded.
“No, Your Honor,” Marissa said with a calmness Blake admired, since he was seething inwardly at the nosy old busybody who lived across the street. “But I need to know the full nature of Mrs. Pitts’s allegations in order to respond appropriately.”
The judge picked up a sheet from the folder and began to read. “She’s accused you, Ms. Mason, of lewd and lascivious behavior, for starters.”
Blake leaped to his feet. “That’s a damned lie!”
Standiford ignored him and pinned Marissa with an icy stare. “Control your client, Ms. Mason, or I’ll have him removed from the room.”
Marissa laid a restraining hand on Blake’s arm, and against all his instincts, he took a deep breath, squelched the tirade he was prepared to unleash against Vienna in Marissa’s defense, and sat down.
“What is the specific allegation, Your Honor?” Marissa asked with glacial calm.
The judge read from the sheet. “On the night of Thursday last, Marissa Mason appeared on the front porch of Blake Adams’ house in a state of undress, following an interlude with Mr. Adams inside the house resulting in cries of a sexual nature that could be heard throughout the neighborhood.” His gaze bounced from Marissa to Blake and back again. “Sounds like you two had yourselves quite a time.”
Blake started to rise again, but Marissa’s hand on his shoulder kept him in his seat. She fixed him with a firm stare and shook her head. Blake took her warning and remained seated and silent.
“Mrs. Pitts has drawn conclusions that are not supported by facts,” Marissa said.
“Were you at your client’s house on the night she describes?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I was there in my capacity as Mr. Adams’s attorney and to lend a hand with the infant that had been left at his door. The alleged screams of passion Mrs. Pitts referred to were, in fact, the cries of a baby suffering from gas.”
Standiford looked disappointed. “And you can prove this?”
“Mr. Adams can swear to it. And you have my word as an officer of the court.”
“Did Mrs. Pitts also miscontrue your state of dress, or undress, as the case may be?”
“I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt of Mr. Adams,” Marissa explained. “Since I was staying the night to help with the baby, he’d loaned it to me to sleep in. It covered me from my neck to my knees, hardly a ‘state of undress,’ although admittedly not my usual attire.”
Blake relaxed. Marissa was fielding Mrs. Pitts’s objections expertly, effectively drawing the venom from the woman’s claims.
“There’s more,” the judge said.
Blake tensed, realizing he’d underestimated his gossipy neighbor.
“Mrs. Pitts,” the judge continued, “says she’s had to call the police to Mr. Adams’s home on numerous occasions because of rowdy behavior.”
“May I confer with my client?” Marissa asked quickly.
Standiford nodded, and Marissa leaned toward Blake with a whisper. “What’s this all about?”
In a voice low enough to be unintelligible to anyone besides Marissa, Blake filled her in.
Marissa turned back to the judge. “Mrs. Pitts is correct that she has called the police on several occasions. All complaints, however, were on the afternoon or evenings when Mr. Adams had friends over to watch NFL playoffs or superbowl games. Although the police responded, citations were never issued, since neither Mr. Adams nor his friends had broken any laws.”
Standiford looked unconvinced.
“Surely, Your Honor,” Marissa said with a smile that would have warmed a better man’s heart, “everyone in Dolphin Bay was cheering when the Bucs won the Superbowl for the first time.”
“Not me,” the judge snapped. “I’m a Packers fan.”
Blake sighed. Thanks to Vienna’s charges and the judge’s crusty nature, prospects for Blake’s gaining custody of Annie were looking bleaker by the moment. The judge’s next statement sank all Blake’s hope.
“There’s one more allegation from Mrs. Pitts. She states that you, Ms. Mason, are cohabitating with Mr. Adams without the benefit of clergy. Is that true?”
“I am not cohabitating with Mr. Adams,” Marissa answered, and Blake wondered how she could maintain such composure in light of such pernicious allegations. “I am renting the guest suite in his house until I can find a condo or apartment of my own. In fact, today is the first day I have even seen Mr. Adams since I moved into his house.”
“That’s true, Your Honor,” Blake said.
Standiford glared at him. “You’re living with a woman who isn’t your wife, and you expect me to place an infant in that kind of environment?”
“It’s a very healthy environment,” Marissa countered. “Clean, loving—”
“I don’t believe in people living together without being married,” Standiford announced with a self-righteous frown. Piercing Blake with a contemptuous stare, the judge asked, “Are you really serious about bringing a baby into your home for foster care?”
“Yes, sir, er, Your Honor,” Blake said. “And I’ll do whatever it takes to be a good parent.”
The judge’s gaze didn’t waver as he pointed a bony finger at Marissa. “The first thing you can do is make an honest woman of Ms. Mason.”
Blake blinked in confusion, not understanding the judge’s words.
Standiford, apparently registering Blake’s lack of comprehension, stood and stabbed his finger at Blake. “Marry her!”
Without another word, the judge pushed back his chair and stormed from his chambers.
Chapter Seven
Blake, head in hands, sat on a wrought-iron bench outside the courthouse. In the moss-draped branches of the live oak above his head, a mockingbird sang contentedly, and the winter sun spread delicious warmth on the concrete pavers at his feet, but Marissa’s client obviously didn’t share the happy sentiments.
He raised his head, disappointment etching the strong lines of his handsome face. “Well, that certainly went well.”
“We got off to a rocky start, that’s all,” Marissa said. “We’ll gather more character witnesses—”
The line of Blake’s jaw hardened. “You heard what the judge said. As long as we’re not married, he isn’t about to grant me custody of Annie.”
The answer to that dilemma seemed simple enough. “Then I’ll move out.”
“No!” Blake stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I refuse to let a judge with nineteenth-century attitudes and his head stuck in the gutter dictate how I run my life. There has to be another way.”
“I’m sure there is,” Marissa said so
othingly.
Hope lit his features. “Like what?”
Her mind went blank. “There has to be something. I just haven’t thought of it yet.”
At the sound of footsteps, she glanced up to see Debbie approaching.
“Tough break in there, guys,” the attorney said with obvious sympathy. She looked at Blake. “Sounds like you have the neighbor from hell.”
“Tell me about it,” Blake said with a groan.
“Cheer up,” Debbie said. “I’ll request DCF to do a background check on the two of you. Your clean slates should shoot down the judge’s objections.”
Blake shook his head. “I doubt that. That old coot will never agree to my having a woman in my house to care for Annie, whether it’s Marissa or a nanny, if I’m not married to her.”
Debbie didn’t argue, and Marissa took her silence as a bad sign.
“Tell you what,” Debbie said with an encouraging smile. “I know you’re concerned about Annie. Why don’t I take you to see her? Maybe that’ll put your fears at ease.”
Blake’s expression brightened, and Marissa felt a powerful tug of interest. In spite of her efforts not to, she had developed a strong attachment to the abandoned little girl.
“Can we go now?” Blake asked.
Debbie shook her head. “I have an appointment before lunch, but we could leave at one o’clock. You want to meet at my office and follow me over?”
Blake glanced at Marissa. “You coming, too?”
“Sure, why not.” Marissa not only wanted to see the baby. She also wanted to make certain Blake didn’t do anything rash, like taking Annie out of the foster home if he wasn’t pleased with her care.
“Are you required to advise the foster parents that we’re coming?” Blake asked.
Debbie cocked her head. “You want to arrive unannounced?”
Blake nodded. “That way I’ll observe the true conditions, not some show for our benefit.”
“If that’s not a problem for you, Deb,” Marissa added quickly.
“No problem. See you at one, then,” Debbie said and walked briskly toward the parking lot.
Blake seemed to shake off his earlier discouragement. He turned to Marissa with a smile warmer than the Florida sun. “Let me take you to lunch.”
Verdict: Daddy Page 8
