Loe raamatut: «The Baby Cop»

CHAPTER ONE

ETHAN KNIGHT tried to block out the chirp of his cellular phone. He’d just gotten to bed after forty-eight tense hours dealing with a hostage situation—armed robber holding a mother and child. He sighed; the inconsiderate caller showed no sign of giving up. Rooting around under his pillow, Ethan found the phone and flopped over so his ear fell across it. “’Lo,” he muttered. His free hand batted at the cold wet nose of his big Alsatian, Taz.

“Sorry to bother you, Detective,” said an anxious voice. “You probably barely hit the sack. It’s Sergeant Vince Paducah. We need you here, man. Our team rolled on a routine nuisance call. We walked into a helluva mess.” The sergeant rattled off a street address and an apartment number.

Ethan reared up from his crumpled pillow and snapped on a light. Before his eyes focused, he’d scribbled the information on the ever-present notepad sitting on his nightstand beside a locked box holding his police revolver. Cursing, he shoved his legs into dirty jeans. “I know that address, Vince. What is it this time? Did Brucie-boy tie one on again and beat the crap out of his poor wife?”

Detective Knight shrugged into his shirt and tucked it into his jeans while reaching for his boots. The caller’s voice dropped. “Way worse. The worst.” Vince uttered a string of codes—department lingo for domestic violence resulting in murder.

Pain exploded in Ethan’s head as his fingers closed around his standard issue Smith & Wesson .38. Damn, his body was getting too old to handle the increase in after-hours cases—especially bad ones like this. “The kids?” he asked softly, trying to quell the flow of acid pumping into his gut. The team might want him ASAP, but Ethan figured he’d have to comb his hair and run a razor over a prickly chin or risk scaring two already frightened children with his wild-man look.

“They’re spooky kids. No hysterics, no tears,” Vince said. “Have you got a good safe place for ’em?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath, Ethan pictured a four-year-old girl with huge blue eyes and her stoic six-year-old brother. Two children who’d witnessed more violence in their short lives than any human beings in a civilized society ought to see. Only that was the problem; some people weren’t civilized. Bruce Hammond ranked high among the least civilized SOBs.

“I’ll make some calls on the way, Paducah.” Ethan checked his shield and slid it into a jacket pocket. “I’ll be there inside fifteen minutes.”

“Good.” Paducah expelled a relieved sigh. “My partner said that since Anna M. passed on, you probably don’t have the same deal with the new supervisor. He said to phone the Child Help Center direct. But I’ve heard Anna’s replacement is a regular battle-ax.”

Ethan had received a memorandum announcing that a Regan Grant was taking over Anna’s post. He’d never met this Grant woman, nor would he add to unfounded rumors. He merely grunted a noncommittal response and reiterated his estimated time of arrival as he hung up and stowed his phone in the pocket with his badge.

While he did a cursory shave, Ethan thought about his fifteen-year tenure on Desert City’s police force. For more than half of those years, he’d been called the Baby Cop. It was a nickname that had nothing to do with age but with his far-reaching connections in the city and outlying communities, which allowed him to instantly place kids who needed temporary shelter in loving homes. Homes where the adults cared more about a child’s welfare than the money the state paid every month for that care. Ethan had started by educating his eight brothers and sisters about the need in the community for safe homes. What had begun as a small network expanded over the years to include the families of police buddies and other friends. He’d convinced all these people—anyone of good heart and moral character who could offer a bed, food and TLC to traumatized kids—to license their homes for care. He’d done all this with the assistance and support of Anna M., the previous Child Help supervisor. Although he was a bachelor, even he was approved to provide emergency housing. An erratic work schedule precluded his taking a kid for longer than a night or two, but there had been times he’d used his vacation hours to turn up a safe house for a child.

Ethan’s grandfather, the first Knight to be a cop, had willed Ethan his rambling four-bedroom home. The old man’s charge to Ethan had been to fill the house with a passel of noisy kids. Of course, he’d meant that Ethan produce a family in the normal way. Ethan’s failure there hadn’t been for lack of trying, he frequently assured his nagging parents and siblings. He just hadn’t managed to connect with the right woman.

Running a hand over a now-clean jaw, Ethan turned his thoughts from his family to his job. He had worked out a good system with the compassionate Anna Murphy. Her unexpected death of a heart attack last month at only fifty-five had caused a lot of hardened men on the force to shed tears as they bore her casket to her final resting place. None shed more than Ethan. Anna had been one of a kind. Not a bureaucrat like the majority of city caseworkers who made police officers wade through miles of red tape in order to help victims of violent crimes. Anna’s focus from the outset had been to do everything possible to speed the care of innocents. Especially kids hurt by family disputes. Or kids who lost their next of kin to accidents and random crime.

Anna had trusted Ethan to take care of the children first. She allowed him to file the reams of messy paperwork once things calmed down and he had time to concentrate. Ethan would then supply Anna with the name and address of a foster family, and she’d do her requisite visit, making it appear as though she’d placed the kids all along. There was nothing wrong with their procedure except that it was backward. Unorthodox in the eyes of some Family Assistance personnel. Namely Nathaniel Piggot, the CHC director.

Fortunately for the kids, Anna Murphy had said screw protocol—and Director Piggot. Her first priority had been to ensure a child’s safety. To alleviate a child’s heartbreak.

“Anna’s and my method was the only sensible one,” Ethan grumbled as he let Taz into the front passenger seat of a perpetually unwashed Suzuki SUV. Flipping his headlights on high, Ethan headed into a dark moonless January night, determined to do his part to help two sweet kids make the transition into a cold cruel world that no longer held their anchor—a mom who’d served as punching bag for the scum she’d had the misfortune to marry.

Ethan hauled out his cell phone and called his cousin, Jessica Talbot, a woman with a tender heart. She’d never yet turned away a child in need.

“Jess, it’s Ethan. Sorry to wake you. Listen, have you and Dave got any vacant beds? I’m looking for two. Got a four-and six-year old.” Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “Didn’t I hear the judge gave custody of Megan and Caitlin Porter to their maternal grandparents? Figured that meant you had a couple of free beds.”

In the background, Ethan heard clothing rustle and a murmured deeper voice. “Apologize to Dave,” he said. “You guys know I wouldn’t call this late if I wasn’t desperate.”

His cousin, who’d finally collected her wits, responded as Ethan had predicted. “Bring them. But I swear, Ethan Knight, you have an unbelievable pipeline in this community. I barely washed the sheets on Meg and Cait’s beds.” Jessica chuckled, then yawned. “Dave’s already on his way to an all-night market to pick up extra milk and more kid-approved cereal.” Sobering, she asked Ethan, “How bad? Do these kids need medical attention?”

“I’ll arrange for psych counseling tomorrow.” He condensed an explanation of the circumstances as he turned down the street leading to the cordoned-off complex. He could see twirling red and blue lights grotesquely outlining huddled residents in nightwear. All were in the throes of interrogation by uniformed police. Two rows of yellow tape secured the crime scene.

Concluding his business with Jessie, Ethan angled the SUV next to a patrol car. He saw the heads of two small figures pressed ear to ear in the back seat. Exiting his vehicle, he popped the rear hatch and chose a soft white fuzzy bear and one dressed in Paddington rain gear from a laundry bag full of stuffed toys. Too well versed in the routine, Taz closed his teeth gently around both bears and trotted, ears erect, to the car where the children clung together. Ethan opened the cruiser door for him, and Taz approached the kids.

They recognized the dog at once. The girl, Kimi, disengaged from her brother and snatched the white bear, which she cuddled close to a thin chest. Mike, whose pinched face reflected both pain and fright, couldn’t seem to accept Taz’s offering. His vacant eyes were beyond seeing toys denoting childish endeavors he might never again pursue. Ethan understood. He’d handled too many of these cases not to gain some insight into the roller-coaster emotions that followed acts of violence.

“I’m Officer Friendly. Remember me visiting your class at school?” Ethan spoke directly to Mike in clear yet mild tones. “And you know Taz. We’ve come to take you somewhere safe, like the last time Taz and I came to your apartment.”

Kimi pulled the comforting thumb out of her mouth and erupted in tears. “I want Mom-meee,” she wailed.

Her brother stared mutely at Ethan from war-glazed eyes. Bending, Ethan lifted the little girl and cradled her close. He stretched out a hand to the boy. “You both need sleep now, Mike. I know a nice lady who has a couple of soft warm beds. Tomorrow we’ll talk about what happens next. I promise. Vince,” Ethan called to a broad-shouldered, uniformed cop talking to an elderly couple, “I’ve got the kids. Okay?”

Looking up, Vince nodded grimly and gave a thumbs-up.

A WEEK AFTER the sad incident, local newspapers still treated the story as front-page news. In that time Ethan made a drug bust, accompanied Kimi and Mike to the psychologist and attended their dad’s initial hearing. He also placed another child in a safe home, this one a ten-year-old girl who’d been repeatedly molested by an uncle. Sometimes there seemed to be a rash of bad calls. And Ethan had to step outside his job and remind himself that for a city of almost half a million residents, a population that doubled when winter visitors and other transients migrated here for the sun, crime statistics weren’t particularly high—no more than average for a community of this size. Still, it was easy to lose a sense of proportion when, day in and day out, you dealt with the dregs of society. For Ethan, a new perspective came through volunteer work with a county search-and-rescue unit.

In fact, over the weekend, Ethan and Taz had been airlifted to Canyon De Chelly, where they’d helped locate a lost camper.

Four o’clock Monday afternoon, Ethan finally had a breather. He sat at his battered desk in the department, typing a report for CHC on the Hammond kids and on Marcy White, the ten-year-old.

Finishing his two-fingered pursuit at last, he stapled vouchers to both reports and re-tallied receipts accounting for monies he’d advanced in each case. He’d paid for the first psychologist’s visit for Kimi and Mike. And for Marcy’s initial Emergency Room care. He and Anna had designed this arrangement because it expedited services that would otherwise be a long time gaining approval. Authorization came much faster after the fact.

Checking his watch, Ethan decided to drop the forms off with the new CHC supervisor before meeting his partner, Mitch Valetti, at a stakeout planned for 6 p.m. He and Mitch hoped to nail the next level up in the latest chain of drug dealers to plague the local high schools.

Whistling for Taz, who slept under Ethan’s desk, the two left the police station. Rather than drive the three blocks to the Family Assistance building, Ethan jogged. Two weekends from now, he and Taz were registered for a classic Schutzhund competition. They’d participated in the skill events with regularity ever since Ethan had collected Taz from a breeder in Holland, a breeder known for producing obedient, trustworthy, intelligent dogs with the stamina needed for lengthy search-and-rescue missions.

Police work paid Ethan’s bills. Search-and-rescue was his most passionate hobby. Between the two, they took up most of his time. Not that he complained. Ethan loved every minute of both. Though Schutzhund events, originating in Germany, were geared to show a dog’s skill in tracking and searching for hidden objects placed in rough rugged terrain, handlers had to be in pretty good shape, too. Which Ethan was, if the admiring look bestowed on him now by Nicole Mason, the CHC Department receptionist, was any indicator.

Ethan returned the appreciative glance. A healthy thirty-six-year-old male, Ethan liked pretty women. And he hadn’t seen Nicky since Anna’s funeral. He would have taken a minute to flirt and maybe ask Nick a few questions about Anna’s replacement. But the pert redhead was tied up at the switchboard. A casual wave sufficed as Ethan’s greeting.

Taz, too, glanced longingly at Nicole. Normally she gave his soft brown ears a rub. As if he understood she was too busy today, Taz trotted past the switchboard and on down the hall, several feet ahead of his master. He turned the corner leading to the administrative offices and sped up. Taz knew Anna Murphy kept doggie treats in the bottom drawer of her desk. She had never failed to give him one.

The fact that this ritual would have to change didn’t register with Ethan. Not until he reached the open door of Anna’s old office and saw pure terror leech all color from the face of an attractive blonde seated behind the desk. Ethan thought the woman was going to scream, but instead, her eyes—so light a blue as to appear transparent—rolled back in her head. Her entire body went limp, although she made a vain effort to hang up the phone before she lost consciousness.

Shocked, Ethan could only follow well-honed instincts. Dropping his reports, he leaped forward and grabbed the woman seconds before she tumbled to the floor.

His boot barely missed Taz’s tail. The dog had nosed open the drawer. He’d rooted under a purse and tossed to the floor what looked to Ethan like several packages of unopened nylon stockings.

Not finding his doggie treats, Taz flopped down on his stomach with a disgusted sigh. He stared at Ethan and the woman with an injured air.

Ethan had his hands full. The Grant woman was no lightweight, even though she appeared to be nicely put together. Ethan knew she was Anna Murphy’s successor. She wore a name badge pinned to the breast pocket of a navy pin-striped suit. Her breathing seemed normal. At least, her badge rose and fell steadily.

Calling on his first-aid training, Ethan grasped the narrow chin between his thumb and forefinger. He shook her gently but firmly and spoke her name. “Ms. Grant, open your eyes. Tell me what’s wrong. I’m with the Desert City police. Are you in need of medical help? Are you diabetic? Was that a threatening phone call?” Shifting her weight, Ethan spared a cursory glance at the dangling phone receiver. Lunging for it with his free hand, he realized there was no caller at the other end of the buzzing line. Still confused, he slammed the instrument back into its cradle and gently slapped her cheeks.

Light-colored eyelashes with sooty tips flickered, finally rising a fraction to reveal eyes dilated in confusion. Huge dark pupils stared past Ethan’s broad shoulder and promptly grew wider. This time the woman shoved Ethan. So hard he landed flat on his butt on her carpet. She sprang away and tried to hide in the corner next to two tall filing cabinets. “Ge…get th-that be…beast out of here,” she gasped, her fingers clawing the wall behind her.

Her ranting made no sense to Ethan. He deduced that by beast she meant Taz. A dog now lying in perfect repose except for the occasional flick of one ear.

Nevertheless, it was clear that Regan Grant was too terrified to think straight about anything. She probably hadn’t heard Ethan say he was a policeman. Headed as he was for an undercover assignment, he looked pretty casual.

With a hand signal and two words of softly spoken Dutch, Ethan banished Taz to the hallway. Rising, he dusted off his jeans. “My dog is outside, Ms. Grant. Do you think you can relax now?”

She uncurled a little at a time, unconsciously clamping a hand over an almost invisible scar that started at the base of her jaw and ran the length of her neck. It was one of several jagged scars long since repaired by plastic surgery. Regan had some wounds that could never be repaired.

Forcing her hand and mind away from bad memories, Regan ran shaking fingers through her heavy mop of corkscrew curls. Her sun-streaked hair had fallen into her face when the clip restraining it had somehow become dislodged. Seeing the silver clip lying on the floor, she bent to retrieve it and felt woozy. Her heart beat so hard and fast she doubted she could calm down. It’d been two years since she’d had a fear attack this bad.

A few weeks ago, when she’d been out jogging, Regan had actually passed a woman walking a Scottie. She hadn’t crossed the street to avoid them. A feat so rare Regan had patted herself on the back. Her hope then was that it meant she was conquering her phobia. Obviously not.

Ethan took heart as a bit of color crept into Regan Grant’s chalky face. Familiar with the private bathroom in this office, he took the liberty of drawing her a glass of water—which he extended slowly to the woman he’d come to meet. While he was at it, Ethan grabbed the opportunity to make his own assessment of someone secretly labeled a battle-ax.

Ethan would guess Regan Grant’s height to be five-five or-six. He’d pass on weight. She looked trim. Vroom-vroom, in fact. When he’d held her briefly, he’d had a sensation of holding something solid—not just skin and bones. Her taffy-streaked blond hair was cut in one length to her shoulders. A million curls picked up rays of afternoon sun and danced around her narrow face like a jagged halo. Any normal man would give her face a second look—or a third. If her generous mouth didn’t draw a guy’s interest, the arresting pale-blue eyes certainly would. Ethan knew he could never call anyone who looked like Regan Grant a battle-ax.

Regan stared for far too long at the unwavering water glass held by a bronzed masculine hand. She licked her lips, wanting the water. But she was still shaking so badly she thought she’d spill it if she accepted the glass. What must this man, this stranger, be thinking of her? And who was he? Her last appointment of the day had been Mrs. Campbell. She’d been gone more than an hour.

With the hated dog out of sight and her thoughts returning to work, Regan managed to accept the glass. “Thank you,” she murmured, motioning her Good Samaritan into a visitor’s chair while she returned to her desk. Only after she was seated and the water had eased the tightness gripping her throat did Regan examine her unannounced visitor.

She had no doubt her staff would consider him “hot.” She frequently overheard co-workers rating men who visited the CHC offices. This one had appealing black curls falling over straight black eyebrows. And eyes so dark, so rich a blue, they were almost black. He was a little too tall and muscular for Regan’s taste. But he had a nice smile. And he smiled it at her now. Waiting.

She set the glass down with a thump and, with an effort, refrained from straightening her blouse and checking the status of her suit jacket. “Uh, I’m, Ms. Grant, supervisor of the Family Assistance Department’s Child Help Center. Nathaniel Piggot is our director, Mr….?” Regan reached a hand across her desk. Her firm clasp demanded the man seated opposite her supply identification.

Ethan’s stomach turned when he heard Nathaniel Piggot’s name. He could only hope Ms. Grant wasn’t taking a page out of the director’s book. Left up to Nathaniel, all needy kids would eventually be phased out of the system to sink or swim. He guarded the department’s budget as if it were his private fortune. Piggot didn’t believe in providing what he termed “frivolous” services. Basic needs, in Ethan’s estimation.

“Sorry,” Ethan said, realizing he’d taken too long to give her his name. “I’m Ethan Knight, Detective, Desert City PD. That’s my partner, Taz, out in the hall. One of them, at least. Mitch Valetti is the other.” Grinning, Ethan turned briefly toward a huge black shadow visible through the frosted glass panels that flanked Regan’s door.

She followed his movement and barely suppressed a shudder. Her lips tightened and her earlier welcoming voice became decidedly cool—due only in part to the hulking animal. Regan erased her first favorable assessment of Ethan Knight. Policemen didn’t rate high on her list. In fact, she’d taken this job to forget a messy breakup with her fiancé. Jack Diamond, a captain with the Phoenix force had the same outward charm as Detective Knight. Too late, Regan had learned that Jack spread his charm around to every woman he met, including some he arrested. They’d lived together a short time, yet she’d been the last to find out Jack had a problem keeping his pants zipped. His pals on the force all knew, but not one had clued her in. In Regan’s estimation, policemen were vermin scraped from the bottom of the barrel.

She clasped her hands on top of her desk and leveled at Knight the sternest look she could muster. “I’ve read your name on case files processed by my predecessor, Detective. While you may have worked directly with Anna, I have a different policy. All new cases go straight to Level-one Intake. There they’ll be read, ranked and assigned to available caseworkers on a needs basis set up by Director Piggot.”

Ethan, who’d gathered his reports from the floor during her terse little speech, slapped the stack in front of her on the desk. “Well, I’ve saved you the trouble of ranking Mike and Kimi Hammond, as well as Marcy White.”

Regan’s narrowed gaze went from the man’s thinned lips to the papers still fluttering on her blotter. She didn’t like Ethan Knight’s belligerent stare or his arrogant attitude. “Wh-what do you mean, saved me the trouble? Ranking cases based on service requirements is what we do at CHC. Reports come to us from several sources. Police intervention is one, but minor in the larger scheme, I assure you. Take these forms to Sandy Burke, three doors down. Oh—should you need to see me again, please leave your dog outside. I assume there’s a rule excluding animals other than seeing-eye dogs from government buildings. If not, there should be, and I’ll certainly make a request to have one implemented.”

“Really?” Ethan leaned forward, supporting both arms on the desk. His nose nearly touched Regan’s. “My dog has better manners than a lot of people you’ll meet, including some who work here. I don’t know where you got your training in social work, Ms. Grant, and I don’t give a damn. But in Desert City we take care of our needy or abused kids at the time they require help. We don’t send them up dead-end channels never to be heard from again.” Rising to his full six foot two, Ethan glared down into her pale features. “These kids have been processed. All my reports need is your look-see at the foster homes and your signature. It’s fine by me if you shred the vouchers. The kids got the medical care when they needed it. That’s what counts in my book.”

Regan picked up the top set of papers and scanned the page until anger blurred her vision. Her jaw sagged, but her head shot up and she impaled Ethan with a scowl. “I can’t believe you have the gall to step on our toes so blatantly and then come here and deliver me a lecture, as well. What credentials do you have? What gives you the right to decide who in this town is qualified to care for a troubled child?”

“Three children—this time,” Ethan said in a low, dangerously soft voice. “I suppose you could say my credentials come from working Desert City streets for fifteen years.”

Regan drummed her fingers on the paper she’d let fall. “No degree in psychology or sociology?”

“Criminal Justice,” Ethan snapped.

“I see.” She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the back wall. “I have a master’s in child psychology and one in social work, Mr. Knight.”

“Detective,” he said curtly. “A rank I earned working with the scum of society while you sat in civilized classrooms and studied in quiet libraries.” Damn, but something about the snooty tilt to this woman’s chin irked him.

Regan pursed her lips. “I don’t have to defend myself to you. I think you’re well aware that you’ve exceeded your authority, and to what extent. I want it stopped here and now.” She stabbed a finger at Ethan’s painstakingly typed reports. “Otherwise, Detective, I’ll initiate a formal reprimand and personally place my complaint in the hands of your commander.”

Ethan felt heat claw its way into his throat. Suddenly the term battle-ax didn’t seem so far out of line. Rising stiffly, he inclined his head in a curt movement, his back teeth clamped too tightly to manage any sort of formal leave-taking. For a moment he was tempted to whistle Taz back into the room to give the psychology expert another taste of the type of fear kids experienced when their worlds were turned upside down. But he was more humane than that.

Yet it went against Ethan’s grain to leave, allowing the supervisor to think he’d heeded her threat. Other social service agencies in town lauded the system he and Anna Murphy had built. If Ms. Power Suit Grant assumed he’d turn away from a suffering child rather than risk a reprimand from the chief, her degree in psychology wasn’t worth crap.

Bringing Taz to heel with a flick of his finger, Ethan strode from Regan’s office. Still fuming, he collected his vehicle from the station, then drove to meet Mitch.

“Wow,” Mitch said a few minutes after Ethan and Taz joined him in the unmarked car they’d been assigned. “Who climbed your butt?”

Ethan, who’d thrown himself into the passenger seat, aimed a glower at his closest friend. “What makes you think anybody did, cowboy?” Mitch was known as the Italian Cowboy around the department for two reasons—he was of Italian extraction and he owned a small horse ranch.

“I wonder.” Valetti laughed. Brown eyes sparkled with humor. “I’ve got it.” He snapped his fingers. “You got taken down a peg or two by the heir to Anna’s throne. Your message on my voice mail said you were going to drop some reports off to her. So—” Mitch waggled his dark eyebrows “—rumors must be true. Grant is a certifiable bitch.”