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“Do you visit your father at the prison?” The Monroe correctional institute was nearly an hour’s drive away.
“Sometimes.” Lupe sent her a shamed glance. “The money for gas… You know how it is. And my children have to come, too. I take Tito when I can, but it upsets him, so maybe it is good that we don’t go often.”
Jane nodded. Having a parent in prison was difficult for a child of any age, but for a middle schooler it must be especially traumatic. He wouldn’t be the only kid in the school with an incarcerated parent, but he probably felt like he was.
“Is Tito any trouble to you?” she asked, and got a guarded response.
No, no, he was such a good boy, Lupe assured her, but then admitted that she didn’t see much of him. She worked most evenings; tonight was a rare night when she was home with her children, and she didn’t know where Tito was. With a friend, she felt sure. Would he be home for dinner? She didn’t know, but doubted it.
They talked for half an hour, until Lupe was ready to put dinner on the table and Jane realized she was in the way. She declined a polite invitation to join them and told Lupe she’d be in touch.
She was almost out the door when Lupe said, “Oh! I forgot to tell you about the nice policeman who has been spending time with Tito. Do you think you’d like to talk to him?”
Oh, yeah. She was definitely interested in hearing from him. Unless he was the father of a boy Tito’s age, Jane had to wonder how he’d gotten acquainted with Tito at all.
“His name is Don…Can Mack…Lack…Land.” Lupe tried to sound it out carefully, but grimaced. “That isn’t right. I have it written down. Un momentito, por favor.”
She returned with a scrap of paper on which a bold hand had written “Duncan MacLachlan” along with a phone number. With a small shock, Jane recognized the name. Captain MacLachlan was regularly in the news. He was the unlikeliest of all mentors for a twelve-year-old boy.
Jane copied the phone number and thanked Lupe, then, thoughtful, made her way to her car. Aside from the intriguing and possibly worrisome involvement of Captain MacLachlan, she wasn’t surprised by the visit, but she was dismayed. Clearly Tito couldn’t stay long-term with his sister. He might have been better placed in a foster home while his father was behind bars, but there were never enough good foster homes, and he’d been lucky to have a family member willing to take him. Lupe’s husband had probably still been around, too. Jane could understand why the placement had been approved, probably with a sigh of relief and a firmly closed file.
She drove a couple of blocks, then pulled over to make notes while her impressions were fresh. She jotted questions and directions to herself, too. What about the other siblings—perhaps one of them was now in a better position to offer a home to Tito? Find out what friends he was spending so much time with. Imperative to talk to teachers. Did he go to the Boys & Girls Club? After-school programs? Probably not at his age. Any other community organizations? She had no record that he’d been in trouble with the law, but she’d find out. Reading between the lines of what Lupe had said, Tito was ripe for exactly that. MacLachlan? she wrote in the margin. Was Tito in a juvenile court-ordered program of which the family court remained unaware?
The father’s release date was only two weeks away, and Jane wanted to have a good sense of other possibilities for the boy before then. And, of course, she would make the trip to Monroe to speak with Hector Ortez. She had to do all of this around running her own business, however.
Lucky, she thought wryly, she had no social life to speak of.
Driving home, she tried to recall what she knew about Duncan MacLachlan. She’d never read or heard anything to make her think he was “nice.” Although that wasn’t fair.
In the department, he was only one step below the police chief. He was exceptionally young to be in that position, still in his thirties, Jane had read. He looked older, she’d thought when she saw his picture in the paper or brief segments from press conferences on the local news. That might only be because he was invariably stern. If he ever smiled, the press had yet to capture the moment.
She was a little disconcerted by how easily she recalled his face. She did remember staring at a front page photo of him in the local daily. She’d left that section of the newspaper lying out on her table for several days for reasons she hadn’t examined but had to admit, in retrospect, had involved a spark of sexual interest. Not that she would have pursued it even if she’d met the guy in person—he was so not the kind of man she would consider dating even though courthouse gossip said he was unmarried. But that face…
The photo wasn’t from one of his staged appearances; she suspected it had been taken with a telephoto lens, as he strode away from a crime scene. He was listening to something another man beside him was saying. His head was cocked slightly and he’d been frowning, more as if he was concentrating than annoyed. His face was…harsh. It might be the seemingly permanent furrows between his dark eyebrows and on his forehead that aged him. She’d had the probably silly idea that he could have been a seventeenth-century Calvinist minister—unbending, judgmental, yet unswervingly conscious of right and wrong.
Those Calvinist ministers probably hadn’t had shoulders like his, though, or the leashed physical power that his well-cut suits didn’t disguise.
So, okay, she’d never heard anything to make her doubt his integrity, but that still begged the question: why in heck was he interested in Tito Ortez?
On the notepad, she circled his name. Twice.
She would most definitely be finding out what he had to do with a rather ordinary boy whose father was about to be released from prison.
“SEE IF YOU CAN MATCH that shot,” Duncan taunted, bouncing the basketball to the boy. He used the ragged hem of his T-shirt to wipe sweat from his face as he watched Tito move into position inside the free throw line and concentrate fiercely on lining up his shot. It was probably too far out for him; he was small even for his age and his arms were scrawny, but he didn’t like to fail, either. Duncan had come to feel a reluctant admiration for his determination.
He bent his knees, the way Duncan had taught him, and used his lift to help propel the ball when he released it from his fingertips. It floated in a perfect arc and dropped through the hoop, barely ruffling the net.
“Yes, yes, yes!” Tito did a dance, and Duncan laughed.
“Very nice.” He held up his hand for a high five, and the boy slapped it. “I’m being too easy on you.”
“I’ve been practicing,” Tito admitted. “It stays light so late. Now that I have my own ball.” Duncan had given him one. “There’s hardly ever anyone here in the evening. I have the court to myself.”
They played soccer, too, and Tito was better at that, but for reasons mysterious to Duncan the boy was determined to become an NBA-quality basketball player. His father, he had admitted, was only five foot nine, and his mother was little—he’d held up a hand to estimate, and Duncan guessed Mama wasn’t much over five foot tall—but he was going to be bigger than his father. He was sure of it. And he could be a point guard—they didn’t have to be as tall, did they?
No, but Duncan suspected that six feet tall or so was probably a minimum even for the high school team. Still, Tito was only twelve, and who knew? He might have a miraculous growth spurt. No matter what, he might excel in PE, and being good at anything could make a difference to him right now.
Besides…they were enjoying their occasional evening hour or Sunday afternoon on the concrete basketball court behind the middle school, or on the soccer field. Duncan often suggested pizza afterward, or sometimes a milk shake. Tito was slowly opening up to him, although Duncan was still unclear why he lived with his sister and where his parents were. He occasionally wondered uneasily whether the family might be here illegally; perhaps the parents were around, but avoiding the cop who was inexplicably befriending their son. He couldn’t be sure and had decided from the beginning that he wouldn’t go out of his way to find out.
Looking cocky, Tito passed the ball to him. Duncan drove in for a layup, easily evading the boy’s feint at him. Tito tried to copy the move and thumped the ball against the backboard nowhere near the iron hoop. Scowling, he retreated and tried again, and again.
Duncan’s cell phone rang. Irritated, he jogged over to where he’d left it outside the painted line on top of his sweatshirt. It was displaying a number he didn’t recognize. He almost didn’t answer, but a glance told him Tito was occupied, yelling at himself as he dribbled away from the hoop, then turned to begin a new drive.
Duncan answered brusquely, “MacLachlan.”
A very feminine voice said, “Captain, my name is Jane Brooks. I’m a Guardian ad Litem for the family court. I understand you know Tito Ortez.”
His gaze went straight to the boy, leaping to rebound another missed shot. Tito looked at him in inquiry, and Duncan held up one finger. Tito nodded and dribbled the ball in for another attempted layup.
“Yes,” Duncan said. “May I ask what your interest is?”
“As I said, I’m…”
“A Guardian ad Litem,” he interrupted. “I get that.” And didn’t like what his gut was telling him. Tito hadn’t said anything about being involved in a custody dispute. Unless this had to do with the sister’s children? Guardian ad Litems were always appointed to be a child’s advocate—in fact, they were deemed the one person involved in a court case whose sole concern was the best interests of the child. “Does the case involve Tito?”
“Yes.” She didn’t embroider the bald answer. “I’d like to meet so that we can talk.”
Tito had stopped and stood dribbling the ball, watching him, although he was too far away to be able to hear even Duncan’s end of the conversation. From the apprehension on the boy’s face, Duncan realized his expression must have given something away.
“I’m with him right now,” he said curtly. “Tomorrow morning…”
“Evenings are better for me.”
He raised his eyebrows. Guardians ad Litem were paid, if minimally; many worked out of counseling services or the like. It would be normal to conduct business during the day.
Silence was an unbeatable tool for interrogation. He employed it now, and finally, grudgingly, she said, “I own a business. Dance Dreams.”
He knew every business within the Stimson city limits, his jurisdiction, at least by sight. He’d never had occasion to step foot inside Dance Dreams, which sold dancewear, presumably including tap shoes and toe shoes, tutus and a lot of pink sparkly stuff that appeared in the window. Not his kind of place—and the juxtaposition of pink tulle and sometimes ugly dependency court hearings seemed to be a strange one.
Meeting Ms. Jane Brooks might be interesting.
“Evening, then,” he agreed. “Tomorrow?”
“That would be great.” She hesitated. “Shall we make it a coffee shop?”
“Why don’t you stop by my place? We won’t want to be overheard.”
She agreed and he gave her his address. Duncan ended the call and returned to Tito. He conducted a lightning-quick internal debate and decided to say nothing yet. He’d find out what was going on first.
“Business,” he said, then grinned. “What say we hang it up and go get something to eat? I didn’t manage dinner and I’m starved.”
“Pizza?” the boy said hopefully.
“Burgers.” Duncan laughed at his expression. “Pizza next time.”
Tito sighed with exaggerated disappointment. Somehow or other, he’d manage to force himself to chow down a cheeseburger, a good-sized helping of fries and a root beer float at a minimum.
Hey, maybe he’d have that growth spurt yet.
CHAPTER TWO
AT SEVEN IN THE EVENING, it was still full daylight in the Puget Sound area. Darkness wouldn’t fall until eight-thirty or nine. The day had been hot for early May, and the heat still lingered when Jane arrived at Duncan MacLachlan’s.
She loved his home on sight. It was distinctive enough she suspected it had been custom designed and built. The lot wasn’t huge, but the houses on his side of the street all backed up to Mesahchie Creek and the greenbelt that protected it. Right here in the city, he had his own slice of wilderness.
The house was one story, sided with split-cedar shingles. Trim was painted forest green. From the driveway she could see interesting angles, bay windows and skylights, and a wooden arbor over a flagstone paved path that led around the side of the house.
Unable to repress a sigh, she got out. She was already afraid she was going to have the hots for him, and now she’d succumbed to his house before she even stepped inside.
I am unbiased, she reminded herself firmly. I’m being paid to think of Tito first, last and always.
She rang the doorbell and, as she waited, listened to the delicate music played by an unusual wind chime, long, thin shards of obsidian suspended from a branch of driftwood. It distracted her enough that she was startled when the door opened. She gave a betraying jerk, then felt her cheeks warm when she most wanted to be completely poised.
The man filling the doorway studied her thoroughly. “No wonder you opened the store. You were a dancer,” he said, in the deep, somehow velvety voice she recognized from television interviews.
But his words helped her get a grip. “No.”
“You look like one.”
“I never had the opportunity,” she said flatly. She held out a hand. “Captain MacLachlan.”
He didn’t smile. “Ms. Brooks.” His very large hand enveloped hers for the briefest possible time considered civil. “Please come in.”
She stepped inside, trying very, very hard to shut down her physical awareness of him, but not succeeding. It wasn’t that he was huge; at a guess, he was about six feet tall, maybe even a little less. At five foot seven herself, she shouldn’t feel dwarfed by him. It was that he had…presence. She couldn’t think of any other way to describe it. He was the kind of man people would always look at first, no matter how big the crowd. Even when, like now, he wore neither uniform nor the kind of suit he was usually photographed in. He must have changed when he got home, to well-worn jeans, athletic shoes and a long-sleeved dark blue T-shirt that hugged broad shoulders.
He did indeed have a great body—lean and athletic. Not overmuscled, not thin. Perfect. His face wasn’t model handsome, not by a long shot. He had broad, blunt cheekbones, a heavy brow, too many furrows and a crooked nose. His eyes were a wintry gray, clear and penetrating.
And, damn it, her knees wanted to buckle because he was right there, so close she could have touched him. I did touch him, she thought, and rolled her eyes at herself when he turned to lead the way into the living room. Apparently her inner teenager was alive and well.
Even though mainly focused on him, she was aware enough of her surroundings to know instantly that she loved the interior of his house as much as she had the exterior. Wide-planked wood floors, wooden blinds, cushiony leather furniture in a warm, chestnut brown underlaid by the contrasting elegance and color of Persian rugs. Bookcases, packed full, flanked a river-rock fireplace. For the walls, he favored art-quality photographs over paintings. Above the rough-hewn mantel hung a large framed photo of a bald eagle sitting on a snag above a river. The doors of an antique armoire stood open to display a large-screen television and, below, a fancy-looking audio system.
“Coffee?” Captain MacLachlan asked.
“Thank you.”
He excused himself and disappeared, leaving her to wander and examine his books—an exceptionally eclectic mix of science fiction, thrillers, historical fiction and nonfiction that covered a gamut of subjects.
He returned with a tray and gestured her toward the sofa then sat across from her in a recliner that rocked forward as he added cream to his mug of coffee. Jane doctored her own with both sugar and cream then straightened.
“All right.” His tone was abrupt, his expression uncompromising. “What’s this about?”
She cleared her throat, going into professional mode. “Has Tito told you about his living situation?”
“I know he lives with his sister. I’ve talked to Lupe a couple of times.”
Jane nodded. “Apparently his parents split up and his mother moved back to Mexico four years ago. She took three of Tito’s sisters with her. There are a couple of other older siblings somewhere in the area. Tito stayed with his father.” She gave a small shrug. “They both thought that because he’s a boy, he needed a father more than a mother.”
MacLachlan grunted. She couldn’t tell what he thought about that rather traditional view.
“What happened to the father?” he asked.
“Three years ago, he was involved in a brawl at a tavern. He knifed another man, who died.”
The police captain’s face changed then. Hardened.
Jane continued, “He was convicted of manslaughter and given a five-year term. However, he’s done what he needed to be released early.”
He leaned forward and set down the mug with a sharp click. “Don’t tell me anyone’s thinking of returning custody to him.” His incredulity was plain.
“He has every right to regain custody of his minor children,” Jane said, as sharply. “There are no allegations of abuse or neglect. He was convicted of a crime unrelated to his family. He has continued to write and call Tito and likely his other children. He sees Tito as often as Lupe can drive him to Monroe.”
“He’s a convicted felon. A man with a demonstrated history of violence. Have you even met him?”
“Not yet.”
MacLachlan made a disgusted sound. “But already you’re his advocate.”
That annoyed Jane enough to have her setting down her mug, too, so decisively that coffee splashed onto the glass tabletop. “I neither said nor implied that. I have been asked to assess possible placements for Tito. It’s possible that his father will be his best bet. In case you’re unaware, his current placement with his sister is far from ideal. There may be other possibilities, and I will consider those, as well. At the moment, I’m keeping an open mind.” Unlike you, she didn’t have to say.
They glared at each other. After a moment he gave a choppy nod, and she felt a glow of satisfaction because he was the one who had to back down. She was right; he was wrong.
“What I’m doing,” she said crisply, “is making time to talk to any adults active in Tito’s life. Lupe gave me your name, although she seemed unclear on how you’d come to be involved with him.”
He was exceptionally good at hiding his thoughts, which perhaps wasn’t surprising for a cop. Jane found it disquieting to have to wait, however, while he watched her with those cool gray eyes and apparently decided what and how much he was going to tell her.
He reached for his coffee again and took a long swallow. Jane dragged her gaze from his strong, tanned throat, and she was dismayed to feel her cheeks warming again. She silently blasted herself. What was wrong with her? She never reacted to a man like this. Think how hideously embarrassing it would be if he noticed!
“He broke into my house.”
Her eyes flew to his face. “What?”
He gave the faintest of smiles, and she bristled at the realization that he had enjoyed shocking her. “You heard me.”
Jane opened and closed her mouth a couple of times. At last, she said cautiously, “That’s how you met.”
“Yes.” Another of those smiles, barely a twitch of the lips. “The house was dark. I’d had a crappy day. When the Mariners game ended, I turned it off and I guess I fell asleep right here in my recliner. I heard the window break. I got my hands on him, discovered he’s only twelve. He claimed that he’d been dared to break into a house. He insisted he’s never done anything like that before.” His shoulders moved in a barely there shrug. “I gambled he’s telling the truth and didn’t arrest him.”
“Soo…” She drew the word out. “You became buddies instead.”
This smile approached the real thing and she could have sworn she saw a glint of amusement in his eyes. The combination was enough to make her glad she was already sitting down.
“Something like that. I told him I wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily. I could still arrest him at any time. I gave him a choice—spend some time with me and let me assess how honest he is, or be booked into juvie. Tito’s a smart boy.”
It seemed that Captain MacLachlan wasn’t quite as hard-assed as he was reputed to be. Tito had, somehow, some way, gotten to him.
“You could have arrested him and recommended him for diversion.” The diversion panels were made up of ordinary citizens who’d volunteered to serve. In lieu of a judge, they saw kids referred for minor crimes and were able to assign punishments. The program took a lot of pressure off the juvenile court, ensured young offenders had immediate consequences for their actions and gave them a chance to avoid having a conviction on their records.
“I could have,” MacLachlan agreed. More slowly he said, “I probably should have.” He frowned. “He looks like he’s about ten years old.”
Jane hadn’t yet met Tito. She didn’t say anything.
After a minute, MacLachlan released a sound that might have been a sigh. “I have two younger brothers who got in trouble with the law as juveniles. Tito reminded me of them. I thought I could make a difference for him.”
The gruff, unemotional voice was completely at odds with what he’d said. With his actions. Given all the pressure of his job, he had still somehow found time to spend with a troubled twelve-year-old boy.
Unless, of course… He was unmarried.
Her eyes must have narrowed. His facial muscles tightened. “No, Ms. Brooks, I am not sexually attracted to boys. Or men, for that matter.”
Oh, man. Now her face had to be flaming red. It didn’t even occur to her to deny that the possibility had crossed her mind.
“I’m sorry…”
He shook his head. “I’d think you were naive if it hadn’t occurred to you. If you’ve been at this long, you’ve seen enough horrors that you should wonder,” he said, with surprising gentleness.
“It does alter the way you look at people.”
“Try my job,” he said dryly.
“I can imagine.” She hesitated. “I suppose that’s why I was so surprised that you were making time for Tito.”
“I’ve made more than I intended.” MacLachlan was quiet for a moment. “I’ve had a good time with him.”
“What do the two of you do?”
He shrugged. “Sports. Shoot some hoops, kick around a soccer ball. I feed him. I’ve eaten more pizza and cheeseburgers since I met Tito than I’d had in months.” He sounded rueful. “He’s so damn scrawny, I keep feeling compelled to try to fatten him up.”
“His sister is petite.”
“Yeah, the dad is short and the mother even shorter from what he says. I think some of the kids give him a hard time. PE has been tough for him.”
“His grades aren’t very good.” Jane shuffled through her folder and found the most recent report card, which she handed to the captain. Their fingers touched, and it took determination for her not to react. Dumb.
He glanced at it, grimaced, then tossed it on the coffee table. So their hands wouldn’t brush again? Jane picked it up and inserted it in the folder.
“He’s a good kid,” he said finally.
“Despite his nocturnal activities.”
“According to him, his one-and-only adventure.” A quick grin did amazing things to his face. “I scared the crap out of him.”
Heart drumming, she thought, you scare me, too.
Unclipping the pen from her folder, she held it poised above the notepad. “Please give me your impressions of Tito.”
“I won’t betray his confidences.”