Fugitive Mom

Grace ate her pizza and looked at Charley and her parents and recalled that Bob and Sally had not always been so pleased about her foray into foster motherhood. Of course they had wanted her to marry and have children of her own. Five years ago, before Charley had even been born, she had dated an associate professor at CU, and Sally had pressed and pressed over the phone.

“Are you two serious? Do you think it’s in the realm of possibility that you might marry? He’s such a nice man, Grace, an old-fashioned gentleman.”

Yes, Grace had thought, he had been very nice. Shy and reserved and terribly proper. And boring. At 10:00 p.m. he watched the news and at 10:20 he always went to sleep. At 6:05 a.m. he got up. At 6:15 he showered. At 6:20…

But that was water under the bridge, and at least she had learned something about herself—she’d never be able to make a life with a man who lived by the clock. Even for plain-Jane Grace, he’d been too dull.

And then Charley had come along. A gift. A miracle. She’d taken him on summer break to meet her very skeptical parents, who’d so much wanted a grandchild of their own flesh and blood. And then they’d seen Charley. Watched him crawl, giggling and drooling around the kitchen and backyard; gotten to know all his baby vocabulary, seen the sun twinkle on his curls, and they’d fallen in love. Just as she had.

And now…

“Gramma likes ice cream, don’t you, Gramma?” Charley was saying, pizza smeared on his cheek and chin.

“Actually,” Sally said, catching Grace’s disapproving eye, “I really really like chocolate chip cookies.”

“His teeth are going to rot out of his head,” Grace admonished. She’d never allowed him so many sweets.

But Charley, clever little Charley, piped up. “I promise I’ll brush all my teeth—” he pronounced it teef “—extra special tonight. I promise.”

Sally bit her lip and got teary.

Bob shook his head sadly. “Goddamn courts,” he muttered.

“Bob.” Sally collected herself and stood up. “Come on, Charley,” she said, taking his tiny hand, “we’ll go find those cookies. I can smell them from here. Can you smell them?”

“Oh, yes, Gramma, I sure can.”

When they were gone, Grace looking protectively after her baby, Bob covered her hand with his. “I’ve got a plan,” he said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice.

Grace snapped to attention. “Dad, I can’t let you get involved. I just need some advice.”

“I won’t be involved—well, not too involved—and believe me, I’ll be covering my tail all the way.”

“It’s asking too much.”

“Look, I’ve called a friend. He—”

“Who? Who’ve you called?”

“If you’ll just let me finish?”

“I thought you weren’t going to get involved. I—”

“I made a call. That’s hardly a crime.”

“Still…”

“His name is Luke Sarkov. Do you remember him? I helped him out when he got in some trouble. Long time ago.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, you were pretty young, and he didn’t come over to the house much. The point is, I got him on the force, and we’ve kept in touch over the years.”

“He’s a policeman? But then how can he…?”

“He’s not on the force anymore. But he’s a top-notch investigator. Best there is. He can help you.”

Not on the force anymore, she thought, and she wondered why this man had left the police. Was he old enough to be retired? “Dad, I don’t know.”

“Trust me on this.” Bob leaned closer. “You need to get something on Kerry Pope, right?”

“Yes. That would go a long way toward showing the court that…”

But Bob was shaking his head. “You don’t want to just show the court Kerry’s past history, which they already damn well know. You want something definitive on her, something horrific.”

“But, Dad, what if…? I mean, that’s all fine, but as you said, the court knows her history. And maybe she can hold herself together for a time now. And if that’s the case…”

“Honey, honey,” Bob said, “you’re out of your element here, okay? I just want you to put your faith in this man. He was a good, tough cop, as smart and streetwise as they come.”

Was a good cop? “Is this Luke, ah, Sarkov retired, too?”

“Listen,” Bob put in, “none of that matters. What counts is that he’s the man for this job.” He held her gaze. “Will you please trust me on this?”

“Of course I trust you, Dad. My God, I can’t even begin to tell you how much this means to me. I…”

“Sh,” Bob said. “We’re your parents, Grace. We’ll do what it takes to protect you, to ensure your happiness. You should know that.”

Like I’m doing for Charley, she thought once more.

Bob reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “This is for you. It can’t be traced, okay?”

“Okay.” She looked it over and nodded. “Okay. Good idea.”

“And we’re going to switch cars this afternoon.”

“But…”

“Will you just listen?”

“Sorry.”

“I’ve arranged for you to meet Luke in Chinatown at six.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Your mother and I will take your car and I’ll stash it in my garage for the time being. And I think it’s best if Charley stays with us, at least till after you’ve talked to Luke. Okay?”

“I…Yes, sure, Charley will love it. He could really use some downtime, too.”

“We’ll take good care of him, honey.”

Grace smiled and squeezed her father’s hand. “Of course you will.”

And then she heard Sally and Charley behind them, and Bob told her the name of the restaurant in Chinatown, reminded her that the meeting was at six and asked if she was okay with this.

“Fine. Great,” she breathed as Charley leaped into her lap, a cookie mushed in his fist.

IT HAD BEEN A LONG TIME since Grace had driven around San Francisco. She’d once taken Charley to Fisherman’s Wharf for lunch, but she hadn’t driven the hilly road to downtown then; she’d just scooted onto the Oakland Bay Bridge and negotiated the streets along the Embarcadero, which ran parallel to San Francisco Bay. No hills there.

But Chinatown was located on the hills right in the heart of town, hills that often terrified drivers new to the city. She had trouble finding a parking space, as this was the summer tourist season, and she was afraid she’d be late for this meeting. But when she finally squeezed her parents’ station wagon into a slot on Grant Avenue and glanced at her watch it was only 5:30.

Great. Now she had to sit here and wait, surrounded by hordes of tourists peeking into alleys and sweat-shops. Her nerves were pricking at the back of her neck.

Luke Sarkov. She tried to recall him. A cop. Was a cop. Maybe he owned a private investigating firm now. Maybe he was…Oh, what did it matter? Her father had said Luke was the man for this job. But what, exactly, did that mean?

She studied the passersby, who in turn stared into a tiny grocery store across from her. Ducks hung in the open sliding window and fish gleamed on the bed of ice below. Locals haggled prices with the butcher in mile-a-minute Mandarin. The aroma of fish oils and roast duck and garlic and ginger wafted around her. Familiar. She used to love Chinatown when she’d grown up near the city, the exotic scents and sounds, the early-morning fog furling around the hills. Now, though, everything seemed alien, strange to her senses.

She glanced at her watch. Still fifteen minutes to go.

Lum Lee’s was right down the block. Was Luke already inside waiting for her? Should she just go in?

Forty-one years old, her father had said when they’d left the mall earlier. Five-eleven, well built, dark-blond hair, blue eyes. The description had sounded like a police report. But her mother had added, “He’s very good-looking, Gracie.”

Good-looking, forty-one, used to be a cop. Her father told her she’d met him a couple of times when she was a teenager, but she had no recollection of him. Not a clue.

Five-fifty-five. Okay, enough. She’d walk into Lum Lee’s and wait for him. She was a big girl. It was crazy how shy she could be, but she’d always hated going into a bar or restaurant alone. Eating alone was unthinkable. This was different, though. This was for Charley, and Luke Sarkov would show up, and everything would work out.

She opened her door and stepped onto the curb, smoothed her khaki slacks, which were rumpled from sitting so long. She had on a short-sleeved white blouse—wrinkled, also—and she shivered and she felt the breeze off the bay. She’d forgotten how cool San Francisco could be even in the summer.

Lum Lee’s was in a narrow building, with the glass storefront displaying the usual glazed spare ribs and seafood. There was a menu in the window, but Grace didn’t read it. She wasn’t there for dinner.

Pushing open the door, she walked in, the scent of garlic frying in sesame oil hitting her like a soft blow. Chinese waiters ran around, yelling in their tongue, and most of the customers were Chinese, too. There was a dumbwaiter in one wall, which busboys opened and snatched dishes from and shouted into the shaft to the basement kitchen.

Bedlam.

On the right stood a bar with a few empty stools and a sleepy-looking bartender sporting a Fu Manchu mustache. Grace halted to get her bearings. Would Luke be at a table or…? She saw narrow stairs leading to a second floor. Maybe he was up there.

She wouldn’t be embarrassed. She would stand there and collect her wits and take her time looking around.

At that moment it struck her how her entire life had shifted on its axis. Nothing seemed real anymore—especially her meeting a strange man in Chinatown. It was all a nightmare, and her skin crawled with anxiety. This meeting was so furtive, as if she were a criminal.

She would be a criminal in another day. According to the law, she would be. Oh, God.

“Dinner, Miss?” a waiter asked, jarring her to awareness.

“Uh, no, I’m meeting someone here.”

“Ah, yes, Miss. You look for Mr. Luke?” He was short and round and smiling.

“Luke Sarkov?”

“Yes. He here. Upstairs. He like it better. Quiet up there. You go there.”

She made her way up the narrow steps, came out into a dining room. A few Chinese families were eating early dinners, wielding their chopsticks, chattering quietly. Her eyes swept over them.

Why was her heart pounding so hard?

He was sitting in the farthest corner of the room. She spotted him right away, even though he was in the shadows. He was the only Caucasian besides her in the entire room. So much for her worrying about his description.

She took a deep breath and made her feet move. When she got closer, she could see he was looking at her—staring at her, really—his eyes as blue as the empty sky, close under sandy brows. Oh, yes, now she remembered those eyes from twenty-odd years ago. All of a sudden, she had an instant of stark terror as he watched her approach, and she didn’t know why. He was her father’s friend, for God’s sake.

He didn’t stand when she reached the table. He just looked up at her, his shirt unbuttoned at his throat, tie askew, old tweed sport coat stretched across broad shoulders. A definite whisker shadow on his cheeks and chin.

“Well, well, Grace Bennett,” he said.

“And you’re Luke Sarkov.”

He gestured with a hand. “Sit.”

She sat, her mouth abruptly dry.

“You have any trouble finding this place?”

“No. But parking was hard.”

“Yeah, it always is.” He seemed relaxed while at the same time utterly alert. There was a Tsing Tao beer bottle on the table in front of him, and he lifted it and took a swig before asking, “You want something to drink or eat?”

“Tea, please.” She found it hard to get words past the dry tightness in her throat.

He raised his hand and a waiter appeared as if by magic. “Chai,” Luke said.

The teapot and a cup were set down in front of her. The waiter poured, and the steamy fragrance of jasmine wafted up to her nostrils.

“You must come here often,” she began.

“I do. Lum Lee is a friend of mine. I helped his kid brother kick the habit a few years back.”

“Drugs?” she asked weakly.

“That’s right. Heroin, in this case.”

“When you were a policeman, I imagine?”

“Yeah. When I was a Vice Squad detective.” A shadow crossed his long face, and grooves suddenly etched themselves from his nose to his mouth. “Big Bob tell you that?”

“Just that you used to be a policeman.”

“Enough about me. We’re here because of your problem.”

“Yes.” She took a sip of tea. She knew what she must look like—the dowdy college professor, too ladylike, too timid, playing a role for which she was totally unsuited.

“So, tell me what happened. Bob gave me a short version.”

Lord, he made her uncomfortable. He was harsh, direct to the point of deliberate rudeness.

“Well, I…”

“Look, you can trust me. I owe your dad.”

“What exactly do you owe him?”

He stared at her for a moment, his blue eyes boring through her, then they softened. “My life,” he said shortly.

“Oh.”

“Listen, this isn’t the time for old war stories. Tell me about your problem. Your son—your foster son, that is.”

“Charley.” She took a deep, quavering breath. “I was a volunteer therapist at a women’s shelter in Boulder four years ago, and I was counseling a girl named Kerry Pope.”

“You’re a shrink?”

“I’m actually a licensed psychologist, but I rarely practice. I’m a professor at CU, the University of Colorado. I teach psychology.”

Those eyes, drilling through her. “Bob didn’t tell me that.”

“In any case,” she said primly, “Kerry was pregnant. Her boyfriend beat her up regularly. She’d been using drugs on and off. She was not in any shape to be a mother. And she knew that. She knew it.” Grace took a breath. “So she gave me temporary custody of her son just after he was born. I became his legal foster mother. Then Kerry disappeared. Never wrote or called or asked about him. Then, when I was going through the adoption process, I found out she’d been imprisoned for armed robbery, and…”

“Damn junkies.”

“Then…then, she refused to sign the adoption papers and went to court to get custody of Charley.”

“Mmm,” he said.

Grace told him about the hearing, everything Natalie had said about working on an appeal, about her own decision to disappear. When she finished, Luke leaned back in his chair and took another swallow of the beer; she could see his Adam’s apple move in his throat. She sat there, one hand in her lap, the other curving around her teacup, and waited for his reaction.

“Okay,” he finally said. “Like Bob told you, we need to get the goods on…What’s her name?”

“Kerry. Kerry Pope. P-O-P-E.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you…I mean, do you think you can help me?”

He leveled his gaze on her and his mouth curved in a merciless grin. “You want this Kerry Pope destroyed, nailed to the wall, right?”

Grace recoiled. “Well, I want proof that she’s an unfit mother, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Can you help?”

He looked down at his beer bottle, then raised his eyes. “Yeah, I can probably do it.”

“I can pay you. I’m not rich, but…”

He waved a hand. “Forget that. I owe Big Bob, I told you.”

“No, really, I insist.”

He reached a hand out and touched her wrist that lay on the table. Her skin burned. “No money, okay?”

“But your time is valuable. I couldn’t…”

“Let’s talk about it later, when this is over. Right now there are more important things to focus on.”

She bent her head and felt heat rise to her cheeks. She withdrew her hand from the teacup and laid it in her lap with the other.

“I’ll need the court papers, whatever you’ve got. And information on this Kerry Pope.”

“Of course. I brought everything I have on her.”

“And you realize you have to stay out of sight?” She nodded.

“Do you have a plan—what you’re going to do, where you’re going to live, anything like that?”

“No, not really. Not yet. I was going to ask my father what he thought.” God, she sounded lost and weak and stupid.

“My investigation might take a while.”

“I’m…I’m prepared for that. As long as Charley doesn’t go to that woman.” She tried to meet his eyes steadily. “This is all new to me. I’ve never broken the law before. It’s all so…sordid.”

“Hey, that’s too bad. You made the choice you live with it,” he said bitterly.

Her back straightened, and a wave of anger washed the heat from her cheeks. “I may not be a tough Vice cop, but I am Charley’s mother. I have to protect him. Can you understand that, Mr. Sarkov? Do you have any children?”

“No kids.”

“Well, then, how can you judge my decision?”

“I’m not judging your decision. Hell’s bells, I’m the last person on earth to judge anyone’s choices.”

“You’ll do this, then? Prove Kerry Pope unfit?”

“I can try.”

“All right. When will you start? Do you have the time?”

“I asked for my vacation days as soon as I heard from your father. I told you—”

“Yes, you owe him.”

Luke studied her face until her skin shrank. “Big Bob said I met you when you were a kid.”

“Yes, he mentioned that.”

“You don’t look the same.”

“I really don’t remember you, either.”

“I wasn’t very nice back then. He probably didn’t want me around you.”

You’re not very nice now, she wanted to say. Instead, she asked, “What exactly did he do for you?”

He looked away. “It’s a long story.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

He drank the last of his beer, not replying.

“So, you’ll start working on this right away? You’ll have to go to Denver, I guess,” she said anxiously.

“As soon as you get the files to me, I’ll do some preliminary stuff from here. Run a computer check, see if I can find anything new on the Pope woman. Call a few people, ask around. I have contacts.”

“But you’re not a policeman now.”

“No. I’m an insurance fraud investigator these days.” His eyes flamed with dark outrage for a split second, then the fire was gone, and his flat blue gaze returned.

She shuddered inadvertently. “But you can do this job?”

“Yeah, I can do it. If there’s anything to be found on your kid’s mother, I’ll find it.”

Grace looked away. “It sounds so awful when you say it like that. As if I were trying to frame an innocent person.”

“She’s not innocent, though, is she?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Listen, I know a lot about justice and truth and all that moral crap, and I can tell you there are gray areas. Lots of gray areas. Don’t sweat it. I’ll nail Kerry Pope for you.”

He sounded so positive. She tried to make herself believe in his assurance, but she didn’t know him. He was a stranger, really, and she couldn’t comprehend why Bob thought so much of him. But she had to trust her father. She had to.

“Do you want to eat?” Luke was asking. “I can order, if you’d like.”

Dinner with this man? “Ah, no, really. I have to get back to Charley. Thanks anyway.”

“I guess that’s it, then. Bob said he gave you a cell phone.”

“Yes.”

“Let me have the number. I don’t want to be calling Bob’s house.”

She pulled the phone out of her shoulder bag and read the number off to him. He didn’t write it down.

“Um, will you remember…?” she ventured.

“Yeah, sure. I’m good with recall.”

“Can I have your number?”

“Bob’s got my phone numbers.”

“Okay. Should I call you in the morning, you know, to see what you might need?”

“I’ll call you.” He regarded her for a moment. “Where are you staying?”

“Not at home,” she said. “My dad told me I shouldn’t be seen there.”

“Right. Where will you go, then?”

“Oh, I haven’t thought. Another safe house, maybe. I’m not sure.”

“Don’t use a credit card anywhere.”

“Yes.” She looked down at her cup of tea, cold now. “I’m aware of that.”

“Okay, then.” He stood, gazing down at her, and she rose too quickly, her shoulder bag sliding onto the floor. She leaned over to retrieve it, but Luke had already come around the table and picked it up.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Here,” he said at the same time, handing the bag to her, and their fingers touched for a heartbeat.

He followed her down the steep stairs to the noisy room below. He said something to the waiter who had sent her upstairs, and he smiled as he spoke. The change in his face was shocking; he looked young and carefree and so handsome for a split second that she felt her breath catch.

He turned back to her, his face once again frozen in its implacable lines, and pulled open the door for her. She hadn’t noticed when she’d entered, but on the door was a tiny, colorful Chinese birdcage with a wooden carved bird inside, and when the door was opened, the motion set the bird to warbling cheerfully. So incongruous, she had time to think, and then the door shut behind her and the sound was cut off.

“Where’s your car?” he asked.

She pointed. “Right down the block.”

He told her he’d walk her there, and then he pulled out a pair of sunglasses and put them on. The evening sun clicked off the mirrored surfaces. She looked away.

“I’ll stay in touch,” he was saying as they descended the steep hill, and she felt his hand rest lightly on the small of her back. Her skin shivered.

He took her keys from her when they reached her dad’s station wagon, then unlocked the door and held it for her. She couldn’t fail to notice from the movement of his head how his gaze behind those mirrored glasses traveled up and down the block. He seemed unaware of his action, as if it were instinctive in him. Yes. A cop. She slid in behind the wheel and when he handed her the keys their fingers brushed again. She could smell him—beery breath cut with a smoky overlay, as if he’d been sitting around a campfire. “Later,” he said.

“Okay. Um, thank you for doing this.”

He waved a hand, dismissing her, watched as she turned on the ignition and merged into the heavy traffic. She could feel his eyes on the back of her head, pale-blue icy eyes, until she reached the corner and made a left turn.

Then, taking her totally by surprise, a sob welled up from her chest, shaking her so badly she had to pull over into a gas station and stop. For the first time, she let the tears come, the moan building in her, until her face was wet and her throat hurt and her heart was empty.

CHAPTER FIVE

SPECIAL AGENT RENEE PAYNTER’S career was on the fast track. As the only female African American agent in the Denver FBI office, she got more than her share of attention, and she knew how to use it to advance her career. She didn’t feel the least bit guilty about using that advantage, either, because she knew she was extremely good at her job.

She was strikingly beautiful, tall and reed thin, her profile pure Nefertiti, her hair pulled back severely into a bun, which enhanced her exquisite bone structure. She wore Armani suits and Italian pumps and no jewelry but her wedding band.

She was a very ambitious lady, and when Special Agent in Charge Mead Towey handed her the potentially high-profile Grace Bennett kidnapping case, she practically crowed out loud with delight.

She’d read the headlines that morning at breakfast. Her husband, Jay, had been chewing his usual Grape Nuts cereal and reading the sports section of the local paper when she’d called his attention to the article.

CU PSYCH PROFESSOR KIDNAPS FOSTER CHILD the headline screamed. Some stringer in Boulder had picked the story up from the court records and run with the lead. The child’s biological mother had been quoted as saying: “She was supposed to give me back my little boy yesterday, but no one can find her. My heart is breaking.”

The Pope woman’s lawyer had stated: “I am turning this case over to the federal authorities today. Grace Bennett’s actions are reprehensible.”