Книга - Fugitive Mom

Fugitive Mom
Lynn Erickson


A woman in a bindFor four years Grace Bennett has lavished care on her foster son, ever since his mother gave him up. Now his birth mother wants him back, and under the law, she can have him.Grace has two choices–obey a court order and hand the child over or go underground with her little boy and become a fugitive mom.The man who could help herLuke Sarkov may no longer be working Vice for the San Francisco P.D., but he's lost none of his edge. He could help Grace flee–and get the goods on just how unfit a parent the biological mother of Grace's little boy really is.If he and Grace can control what has started to happen between them…









“Grace, I’m still mad,” Luke said. “I only hope you won’t pull another stunt like that.”


She heard him take a deep breath.

“Right now you can tell the FBI you had a breakdown and lost touch with reality, and that’s why you took off with the boy. I know that’s bull, but at least the law would have to consider it. But if the feds get wind that you were out trying to destroy his birth mother’s credibility, you can kiss the nervous breakdown story goodbye. They’ll throw the book at you. For the time being you’re the innocent victim in the public’s view. You don’t want to fall from…grace,” he said, “If you’ll forgive the pun.”

“That isn’t funny,” she said with a catch in her voice.

He frowned. “I can’t take it when a woman cries.”

“I’m not crying.”

“It’s okay. You tried to help. I overreacted. Come on, Grace.”

She let him enfold her in his arms, and suddenly nothing mattered. There was only Luke and pure sensation flowing through her veins. She tried to focus on the hurt he’d caused her, on how close they were to their goal. Her little boy…soon, soon, her little boy would be safely back with her.

But at the moment there was only Luke and her hopeless, spiraling need….


Dear Reader,

We first learned about a situation identical to the one in Fugitive Mom from an article in a newsmagazine. However, in real life the story had an unhappy ending when the foster parent was required by the courts to return her baby to the biological mother. A year later, one of our close friends underwent a similar ordeal, and our hearts were touched.

This is why we write books—we can solve these thorny problems and create happy endings. But we certainly do enjoy putting our protagonists through the wringer on the route to success. And wouldn’t it be wonderful if the heroine fell in love on her journey?

We hope you enjoy Fugitive Mom, and please visit us on the Harlequin Web site.

Best wishes,

Carla and Molly

(Lynn Erickson)




Fugitive Mom

Lynn Erickson





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#u0ba93e83-9a63-59cd-adc8-db5944dbcc36)

CHAPTER TWO (#u2c7c121b-7450-5367-8936-8c312e5b7c6b)

CHAPTER THREE (#ub659c6ef-0554-5d21-8326-943cea97df5a)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u1972dce3-512c-5566-aa39-1b5aa5fc881e)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u833ae007-7a57-5132-997b-9a3d3ec14ed2)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


COURTROOM C OF THE Boulder County Justice Center looked just like the other courtrooms in the sprawling building: blond wood, industrial blue carpet, judge’s podium, jury box and spectators’ benches in a kind of faux Danish modern style. But to Grace Bennett, sitting at a prosecution table in front, Courtroom C was the worst hell on earth.

“‘In the case of minor Charles L. Pope, he is remanded to the permanent custody of his biological mother, Kerry Ann Pope,’” the Juvenile magistrate intoned, reading his decision. “‘He is to be removed from the care of his foster mother, Sally Grace Bennett, in four days’ time. The State of Colorado and the County of Boulder thank you, Ms. Bennett.”’ His gavel thudded dully on its block.

Grace heard the young woman at the other table say something: “Oh, wow! Thank you, Your Honor.”

The words were spoken by Kerry Pope, in her early twenties, thin and pale, wearing worn jeans and a sweatshirt that said CU, out of prison six months ago, out of her halfway house only two months ago. Rehabilitated, according to the legal system. Charley’s biological mother. A joke! It must all be a stupendous joke, a bad dream. Kerry had never taken care of Charley. Never!

Grace put her head in her hands, elbows leaning on the blond wood table. She fought tears, felt desperation fill her to the brim and spill over.

The clerk of the court scribbled busily; the court stenographer tapped the judge’s last words into her machine. There was no jury to comment upon the decision, to murmur or gasp, but there were onlookers, mumbling in a monotone behind Grace, probably talking about their own cases, not hearing or knowing or caring….

No, Grace wanted to scream. You can’t do this. Charley, handed back to his so-called mother. Her Charley, whom she had cared for since he was three months old. Her son, for God’s sake.

“Grace,” her lawyer was saying, “come on, Grace, we have to go.”

She raised her face up to the woman who’d represented her at this hearing. “They can’t do this, Natalie. They can’t just—”

Natalie Woodruff took Grace’s arm gently. “We have to leave. The judge has ruled.”

“But can’t you…can’t we appeal this? There must be something we can do.”

Natalie’s eyes were full of sympathy—not that it would do Grace or Charley any good. “Not now, Grace. It’s over. We have to go.”

Slowly, Grace stood up. Her knees felt weak, her stomach knotted. Her heart pounded sickeningly in her ears. Charley, Charley. Automatically, she reached for her handbag and stepped away from the table. She glanced at the Juvenile judge again; he was reading a file the clerk had handed him, peering at it over half glasses. He’d already forgotten Grace and Charley—he was dealing with another case. Oh, God.

“Grace,” Natalie said again.

She moved shakily toward the double doors at the back of the courtroom, following Natalie. She prayed Kerry Pope wouldn’t say anything to her.

Natalie was pushing the first set of doors open; they closed behind Grace with a whoosh, then the second set opened and the world rushed back—the crowded corridor of the Justice Center, the front entrance not far away, summer sun spilling through, the security guards on duty.

“Come on, Grace, let’s get out of here,” Natalie was saying, but Grace felt so weak for a moment she slid down onto one of the long benches against the stark white wall.

“Ms. Bennett,” she heard, and looked up. A young woman was standing in front of her. Vaguely familiar. A little heavy, a worried frown between her eyebrows. Wearing a rumpled gray suit that showed her dimpled knees.

“Yes?” Grace said faintly.

“My name is Susan Moore. I’m with Child Protective Services. I…I know about you. I heard the decision.”

Grace adjusted her glasses and gazed at Susan Moore.

“I’m sorry,” Susan said. “I’m so so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Grace whispered.

“Here,” Susan said, pushing something into Grace’s hand. A scrap of paper.

Grace stared at her hand stupidly. “What is this?” she asked.

“Help,” Susan said. “A phone number. Call it.”

Grace raised her eyes. “I…” But Susan was walking away through the crowd.

“Who was that?” Natalie asked.

“Oh, an acquaintance. Telling me how sorry she was.” Instinctively, Grace lied. She had to think, go home and pay the baby-sitter and hug Charley and think. What did Susan Moore mean? Help. What kind of help? Who…?

“Do you want me to drive you back?” Natalie was asking.

“No, no, I’m okay. Honestly. I’ll make it.” Grace tried to smile.

“Sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Thanks, Natalie. I know you did your best.”

“I’m afraid,” her lawyer said, “the courts are prejudiced in favor of the biological parents these days. We knew that going in.”

“Even when the parents are drug addicts or abusive…yes, I know. You warned me.”

“We made a good try,” Natalie said, squeezing Grace’s hand.

“Not good enough,” Grace said sadly.

“I’ll file an appeal,” Natalie said.

“Yes, an appeal.”

“We can try again. If Kerry does something outrageous, if she puts Charley in danger, well, we can bring it to the court’s attention. The judge might review his ruling in that case.” Her voice held little conviction.

Grace stopped short and put her hand on Natalie’s arm. “She will, you know. She’ll do something terrible. You know it and I know it and the judge should have known it. Think of Kerry’s history. Drugs, rehab, more drugs. You think she’s really rehabilitated? For God’s sake, Natalie, she’s going to slip again. She was abused as a child, and you know what that means. You know…” Her voice clicked off.

“Take it easy, Grace. Social Services will send someone to check on her.”

“Oh, please, don’t patronize me.” It was the first flare of anger she’d felt, and it was satisfying. Better than hopelessness.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

Grace ran her hand through her dark-blond hair; it was held back by a clip, causing her bangs to stand up in spikes, but she didn’t care. Glamour was not one of her strong points. “No, I know you didn’t, but you can’t expect me to trust the system, not after what the court just decided was in the best interests of a minor.”

“Calm down, Grace.”

“I’ve always been calm. I’ve always done the right thing. Look where it got me. And Charley.”

“Listen, I’ll go back to the office and work on the appeal. I have all those psychological studies you gave me.”

“The ones they didn’t allow into evidence,” Grace said bitterly.

“I’ll send them to the judge.”

“And maybe he’ll read them. Maybe.” She’d worked so hard, looking up studies on drug addicts with a history of child abuse, recidivism. She was a psychology professor, after all. She knew about addicts. She knew about Kerry Pope. She’d had many therapy sessions with Kerry four years before as a volunteer at the women’s shelter where Kerry was staying while she had her baby.

That was how it had all started. She’d only been trying to help the women in the shelter, the beatendown ones, the hurt and lost and abused ones. Kerry had been one of those refugees, a nice young kid, still a teenager at the time. Kind of innocent, pregnant by a boyfriend turned violent, sort of pretty in a washed-out way. Blue eyes, stringy blond hair. Skinny with an incongruously big belly. In those days Kerry cried a lot and was terribly frightened about caring for a baby. She was just out of high school, for God’s sake. Grace felt sorry for her, and she had broken the therapist’s first rule of thumb; she had become emotionally involved with her patient.

When Kerry had given birth, Grace had visited her in the hospital, brought a present, held the infant.

“Charles Leon Pope,” Kerry had said. “I like that name.”

Grace had stared down at Charley, his waving arms and tiny clenched hands, his pale, vein-etched eyelids, the blond fuzz on his head, and although she hadn’t realized it at the time, she’d fallen in love.

“You okay, Grace?” Natalie was asking.

“No. But I’ll manage. I better go home.” She smiled grimly. “The baby-sitter.”

She drove back carefully, aware that she was distracted. Pulling up in front of the half of the duplex she owned, she turned the car off and sat for a moment, her head resting on the steering wheel. Then she straightened, got out of the car and walked up the path to her front door. Familiar, comforting. Geraniums in pots, Charley’s plastic fat bike on its side on the grass, his old fire truck there, too, a muddy spoon and bowl from the kitchen sitting on the front stoop. What had he been doing with that?

Inside, the television was on—afternoon cartoons. Grace didn’t like Charley watching too much TV, but Ellen had probably been happy to let him. She was a sweet kid, lived down the street, and Charley loved her.

“Hi, Mrs. Bennett,” Ellen said, popping up from the couch. Mrs. Bennett. No matter how many times Grace had told Ellen there was no Mr. Bennett, the girl called her Mrs. She’d given up correcting her.

“Hi, Mommy,” she heard, and Charley appeared over the back of the couch, jumping up and down. “Hi, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! We’re watching cartoons!”

Mommy. Charley knew no other mother. He didn’t remember his first three months with Kerry’s post-partum depression, her inability to nurse him or hold him or provide him with more than perfunctory care. The word tore her heart out. Mommy. The court had negated four years of motherhood and declared an utter stranger his mother.

She paid Ellen and watched her walk out, then down the street to her house. She was trying hard not to show her inner turmoil, but she doubted her own acting ability. She was a straightforward person, a plain, ordinary, law-abiding woman. Her talents were few but enough for her own fulfillment. She was a good mother. No. Better. She was a terrific mother. And she was a darn good teacher. Her classes at the University of Colorado always had a waiting list: Psychology 101, Abnormal Psychology and a graduate course in Behavior and Therapy.

“Come here, Charley,” she said, sitting on the couch and holding her arms out.

He ran to her. His eyes were blue like Kerry’s, but he had darker hair. A dirty, healthy four-year-old. He was going to have a substantial nose when he matured. His father must have…

“Mommy.” His grubby fingers played with the collar of the suit she’d worn to court. A plain navy-blue suit. Several years old and not very stylish. The skirt was too long and sagged around her hips. But she’d wanted to look respectable. God, she might as well have worn jeans like Kerry.

“Yes, sweetie?” He was warm and solid on her lap, and smelled like dust and little-boy sweat.

“Can we go out for ice cream after dinner?”

It was his favorite outing—walking along the Pearl Street Mall in downtown Boulder and licking an ice cream cone.

“Not tonight, Charley.”

“Why not, Mommy?”

She took a deep breath. Because I can’t, because I’m done in, because I don’t want to see anybody. “Not tonight, okay?”

He sulked. But she knew he’d get over it. Charley had a sunny disposition and didn’t hold grudges long. He was independent, though. Stubborn and willful and wonderfully bright. She held him until he wiggled, burying her face in his hair.

Four days. She was only his mother for four more days. How was she going to explain that to him? The enormity of the mistake, the injustice, overwhelmed her once more. Charley was her son.

“Mommy,” he whined, wriggling off her lap. “I’m hungry.”

Grace could only go through the motions, fixing him a snack. Despite the routine, her mind raced, searching for a way out. An appeal might work. Natalie had said she’d write one up. But not in time, not in four days. Should she call the judge at home? What was his name? Fallon, yes, Judge Henry Fallon. Call him and explain, beg, throw herself on his mercy?

Ridiculous.

What, then? Hand Charley over as if he were a stray dog from the pound? Here you go, Spot, a nice new owner for you. Oh, don’t worry, you’ll get used to her after a while.

As a psychology teacher, she knew full well what this kind of disruption could do to a child. It could leave Charley with a profound distrust of adults, a possibly severe incapacity to trust, to form relationships, to love. It was worse than a mother’s death—at some point even a small child could accept a parent’s death, but to a child abandonment appeared to be a deliberate act. Punishment. Oh, God.

She sat at the kitchen table, watching Charley crawl on the floor, pushing a Tonka toy car.

“Broom, broomm,” he was saying. “And now he passes the blue car, faster and faster. Around the corner. Screech, he turns over!” He flipped the car and spun it around. His fingers left sticky peanut butter prints on his toy.

Charley.

Her life had been perfect. Her son, her teaching, her research, her friends in the wonderfully liberated atmosphere of Boulder, Colorado. Everything under control, no need for messy relationships or men. She’d been perfectly happy.

“And he spins and, crash, into the wall!” Charley said.

She’d just finished the paperwork for Charley’s legal adoption. She had needed the release from Kerry Pope, that was all, a simple, easy signature. Kerry hadn’t signed. Instead, she’d petitioned the Juvenile Court for permanent custody of Charley. After four years.

At first Grace had figured she herself was a shoo-in. Nobody would remove a child from a loving parent who’d taken care of him since birth and return him to a convicted felon who’d abandoned him years before.

Natalie had warned her, but she hadn’t listened. Not that it would have done any good.

Charley was lying on his stomach, twirling the wheels of his race car with a finger. He turned his face up to her and smiled. “We won the race, Mommy. Did you see?”

“Yes, I saw. Congratulations.”

Then he was up and running around the kitchen table, his sturdy legs pumping furiously, his elbows tight to his sides. “Broom, broo-o-m! Faster and faster! Watch me, Mommy.”

And then, at that very moment, Grace knew that she could never give Charley up.

What to do? What were her options?

Charley was in the living room now. She could hear him talking to Hazel and Whiskers, their two cats. The animals had ventured downstairs for their suppers, running the gamut of Charley’s overexuberant play. “Nice kitty,” she heard him croon. “Here, play with my car. Broom, broo-o-m!”

She needed help.

Help.

Susan Moore, the look in her concerned brown eyes as she stuck the scrap of paper into Grace’s hand. Help. A phone number.

Where was that piece of paper? She must have put it in her pocket. Yes, the pocket of her suit jacket. She hurried into the living room and grabbed her navy-blue jacket from the chair where she’d tossed it when she’d gotten home, felt in the pockets. Nothing in the left pocket. The right one, yes, a crumpled scrap that she’d jammed in there when Natalie had spoken to her.

She flattened out the paper with shaking fingers. There was a phone number scrawled on it, a Denver number. If she called it who would answer? What kind of help would be offered? But at least it was an option, a possibility.

She lifted the cordless phone from its base and punched in the numbers, quickly, before she lost her nerve. The line rang, once, twice, three times. Oh, God, she’d probably get an answering machine, and then what would she do?

Someone picked up at the other end. Grace’s heart lurched.

“Women’s Assistance.” A female voice.

Grace couldn’t think of what to say.

“Hello, can I help you?”

“Uh, yes, I…”

“Are you in an emergency situation?” The question was put sharply.

“Uh, yes, well, no, we’re not in immediate physical danger, but we…”

“Okay, relax. Tell me what your problem is. We’re here to help.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t give you specific names. Just as I don’t want to know yours. We are an organization that aids women and children in danger of any kind.”

“Yes, I see. I…my son, he’s four. He’s my foster son, actually, and the court has ruled that his biological mother should have custody. In four days. I have four days. His biological mother is…she’s not able to take care of them. Drugs, prison. Oh, my God, I know she’ll hurt him. I can’t…”

“All right. Is there a father involved? Your husband?”

“No, neither.”

“We have a way. We call it our underground railroad. But you must understand, you can leave no tracks. You simply disappear. You end your old life. A clean break. You tell no one.”

“Yes,” Grace whispered.

“It’s up to you. It’s a big decision. If you feel your son is in enough danger to warrant such a drastic step, I can give you an address. No questions will be asked. You leave now.”

“Now?”

“Tonight, as soon as possible.”

“Oh.”

“And please destroy any records—this phone number, for instance. Memorize it if you must. Memorize the address I give you. We have to be able to trust you.”

“Of course. I understand.” Grace’s heart hammered. Should she do this thing? She and Charley—a vanishing act. Did she have the guts? The alternative was too awful, though.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m here.” She took a deep breath. “Please, give me that address. Will it be far away?”

“No, not far. And you’ll receive another address when you leave there. You’ll need to decide where you’re headed.”

“Can I make up my mind later?”

“Sure, that’s up to you. Only the person who gives you the new address will know.”

“Okay, I’m ready.” Grace found a pencil in her junk drawer, held it poised above the pad she kept for her shopping list.

The voice recited an address. It was in Denver. Good, not too far. She could get there easily by tonight. It was only thirty miles away. Thirty miles, but a gulf so wide she could never leap back across it.

“Memorize the address.”

“Yes, no paper trail.”

“Will you be all right? Get as much cash as you can. A credit card can be traced. Do you have a car?”

“Yes.”

“All right, good. But be warned that an APB could be put out on your car, on your license plate number. Also—” the voice hesitated “—if you leave the state with your son, if your action is declared a kidnapping, be aware that the FBI will be called in.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Weigh the consequences. We’ve had success, but we’ve had a few failures, too.”

“Yes, yes, I see.” Her voice quavered.

“Anything else you need to know?”

“I don’t think so. Oh, wait, is there a…a charge for your help?”

“No. If you’re able to leave some money at your stops, feel free to do so.”

She hung up, trembling, staring at the address she’d written down.

“Mommy, what are we going to have for dinner?” came Charley’s voice.

“Dinner, well…” She tried to sound lighthearted. “Charley, sweetie, I have to go out to run some errands, so let’s go to McDonald’s. How about that?”

“Cool, McDonald’s. Can I get the Kiddie Meal?”

“Sure, anything you want.” She was distracted, her brain going at full speed, planning, figuring.

Cash. After McDonald’s she’d go to the ATM at her bank, take out as much as she could. Gas her car with her credit card—no one could trace that any farther than Boulder. She had four days before the alarm would go out. Four precious days.

Ask Stacey next door to feed the cats. Buy cat food. How long would she be gone? Days, months, years? Her career, her life, her friends, her uncomplicated, comfortable existence—all gone. She’d be a fugitive.

Pack. Clothes, toiletries. Charley’s favorite toys. Some groceries to take in the car. A pillow and blankets for Charley.

The car. A gray Volvo station wagon, nondescript except for her license plates. But she had four days before she had to worry about that. Maybe she’d sell her car or rent one. No, no, she couldn’t rent one; that always required a credit card.

She stopped and drew in a breath, needing to calm herself. Then she moved around the house, getting suitcases, trying to think. It was too hard. Images kept flying at her out of the blue—her friends’ faces, the lecture hall full of her students, the women at the day care where Charley went to preschool. The courtroom again, Kerry Pope’s big triumphant smile when the judge had ruled. Charley, Charley in his crib, Charley in his new bed, all his toys, her cats, the basement stacked high with file boxes from her classes.

Her whole life was here.

Somehow she managed to pack, even remembering coats in the event they were still on the run when fall arrived. Towels, one set of sheets—just in case—pillow, blanket, toy cars and plastic dinosaurs and Charley’s favorite books.

“Charley, let’s go,” she called out.

At McDonald’s, Charley got ketchup all over his T-shirt. She could hardly eat—a chicken nugget or two, a Coke. Her heart raced and her hands trembled.

The pickles slid out of Charley’s burger onto his lap. He looked up at her guiltily, but she didn’t care, just wiped the mess up with a handful of napkins.

“Charley,” she said, “guess what?”

“What?”

“We’re going on an adventure tonight. A trip.”

“A trip. Where, Mommy?”

“Oh, nowhere special, we’ll just visit friends for a while. We’ll drive wherever we feel like it.”

Ketchup smeared on his face, dribbled down his shirt. Her beloved baby. She had held and rocked him, sat up with him when he had colic, gone through the ear infections and ampicillin routine. Read stories to him and taken him to Bambi and Lion King and Snow White. She was his mother, she thought fiercely.

By six o’clock that summer evening her car was packed, Stacey given her key and shown the twenty-pound bag of Cat Chow.

“And could you collect my mail? I’ll get it from you in a little while. Maybe you can send it. I’ll call.”

“God. You’re sure in a hurry,” Stacey said.

“Uh, yes, my dad is sick. My mother called. An emergency.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I hope he gets well soon.”

“Yes, we all do. Thanks, Stacey.”

She took one last look around her side of the duplex. Her home. The only home Charley had known. But she had to be strong and leave it behind. For her son.

“Come on, sweetie,” she said, and they went out the front door together. Grace let it lock behind her, walked down the path to her car, put Charley in the back seat and fastened his seat belt.

She drove away, down the familiar tree-shaded street, past her neighbors’ houses, past the large red-roofed, sandstone buildings of the University of Colorado, out to the Boulder Turnpike and south to Denver. Behind her was her whole life. If only she could see ahead.




CHAPTER TWO


GRACE NAVIGATED through Denver’s tidy Bonnie Brae neighborhood, craning her neck to read the street signs. Part of her was calmly aware of how mundane everything seemed in the quiet, middle-class area. Another part of her quivered with nerves in the warm summer evening as the shadows of the trees and houses reached darkly toward her. A dog raced out of the growing dimness and barked, chasing her tires.

“Mommy,” Charley said from the back seat, “that’s a bad dog. He’s going to get in my window. Mommy!”

Grace studied the house numbers. This couldn’t be the street. It was too…ordinary. In her distress, she must have written down the wrong address.

She shook herself mentally. What did she know about a safe house? She realized she’d been envisioning some foreboding, secret structure set back in trees, all shuttered up, no lights and windows. But she supposed the house could be any sort, even a mansion, for goodness’ sakes.

“Mommy, the dog’s jumping at my window!”

“Oh, honey, he can’t get in the car. There. See? He’s leaving, going home to his yard.”

“I don’t like him.”

“Well, he was probably just curious,” she said, on motherly autopilot.

She slowed the car to a crawl, squinting at the house numbers. There it was, the house near the corner of Adams and Mississippi. Could this place, this innocuous, square brick home, really be part of the underground railroad?

“Are we there, Mommy? Are we there?”

“Yes, ah, yes, sweetie, it looks like we’re here.”

Grace parked at the curb, as there was already a car in the narrow drive. She got out, noticed the weak watery feeling in her knees and took a breath. What if this wasn’t the place? What if…?

But she wouldn’t think about that now. She’d memorized the telephone number. If this really were the wrong address, she’d call the number again. No big deal.

No big deal? her brain cried. But Charley was undoing his seat belt and opening the back door. “I’m hungry, Mommy. You didn’t give me dessert. Do they have ice cream?”

“I’m sure they have something, sweetie, but let’s make sure this is really my, ah, friend’s place first. Okay?”

Charley took her hand. “Okay.”

She advanced up the walk, gulping air, trying to come up with an excuse should this be the wrong place. One step, two, three. As she rang the bell, her mind was so full of muddled thoughts she barely realized that someone was standing behind the screen—a young teenage girl.

The girl eyed first Grace, then Charley, then called over her shoulder, “Hey, Mom, your friends are here.”

Friends. No names. Just friends. So this was the place.

“Come on in,” the girl said, pushing open the door, giving Charley a perfunctory smile.

A woman was moving toward Grace, her hand out, a gracious smile on her face. An ordinary-looking woman, with brown curly hair and faded jeans and a tank top. A mother, too, but so different from Grace. So courageous. How many frightened women and children had she sheltered?

Grace took her hand and tried to return the smile.

“Well, let’s get you settled,” the woman said, and she gently ruffled Charley’s silky hair. “And I’ll bet you’re hungry, young man.”

Charley looked up at Grace with soulful eyes.

“Yes,” Grace said, “I’m afraid he’s always hungry this time of night. I didn’t think to…”

“Of course you didn’t. Here, your room is just down this hall. It’s off the kitchen. There, the light switch is on the left. And there’s a small bath just to the right. And, by the way, don’t worry, no one can do much rational thinking in this situation. Don’t forget, it is your first night. Get settled and I’ll see you in the kitchen, okay? And you, young man, do you like cookies? Or maybe a Popsicle?”

“A Popsicle.”

“What do you say, Charley?”

“Please.”

The woman smiled again and closed the door behind her.

“Wow,” Grace breathed, sinking onto a queen-size bed.

“What’s wrong, Mommy? Can I get my Popsicle now?”

“In a minute. I just need a minute, honey.”

“But I’m hungry.”

Grace sighed, trying desperately to collect herself. She felt as if she’d stepped onto a train on this so-called railroad, a train with no destination, a train that would never stop. Her heart pounded furiously and suddenly the room was too close. She rose and opened the window that looked out onto a square backyard and an alley behind it. The sound of children playing nearby drifted in, all so normal, so placid in the face of her predicament. She should be home, calling the cats in for the evening, telling Charley to brush his teeth, arguing about his bedtime on this warm summer’s night.

After a few more complaints from Charley that he was hungry, she finally took his hand and led him to the kitchen, where the woman was doing dinner dishes.

The situation was so terribly awkward. She and Charley were strangers in a strange place. She felt sick with confusion and unfocused dread.

“Oh, there you are. We’ll get your suitcases and you’ll be settled in for the night.” The woman dried her hands on the dish towel that hung from the refrigerator handle and clucked at Charley. “And I’ll bet you want that Popsicle, young man.”

“Yes, please.” Charley beamed.

She looked at Grace. “Coffee? I have decaf. Or there’s iced tea.”

“Iced tea would be nice, thank you.”

“While I fix the tea, why don’t you bring in your bags.”

“Will my car be okay? I mean…”

“For tonight it will be fine.”

And then what? Grace wondered. Could any of this be happening?

Charley ate his Popsicle while Grace got their bags from the car and sat them in the bedroom. Then it was time to settle Charley down, to insist, despite the newness of his surroundings, that he put on his pajamas and brush his teeth.

“I want to watch TV,” he said, and she was afraid he was going to pull one of his “terrible fits,” as she called them.

She drew one of his favorite books out of his bag, and he snuggled against her. It was a short simple book called A Happy Sad Silly Mad Book, which she found effective with children when they were upset. Not that she did much therapy these days. No time for it since she’d taken on Charley. The book asked children how they felt, described the emotions, told them it was okay to feel them.

The method never failed with Charley.

She turned the last page and bent to kiss her little boy’s forehead.

“Good night, Mommy,” he said, and he hugged her around the neck.

“Good night, sweetie.”

She stood, whispering up a prayer of relief. This was impossibly rough on him. Bad enough for her, but Charley was the innocent one, the victim of an unjust court system. He shouldn’t have to suffer. Damn, not this beautiful child.

The ice was practically melted in her tea before Grace finally sat across the kitchen table from her hostess. Down the hall, the door to the bedroom she was to share with Charley was open, and the sound of the TV and the teenage girl talking on the phone came from the living room.

She looked up from her glass and caught the woman’s gaze. “I…I feel so awkward,” she began. “It isn’t that you haven’t been most gracious…It’s just that…”

“It’s your first night,” the woman put in. “And you don’t know where any of this is heading and you’re scared to death.”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

“You have to take it one day at a time. If you’re strong for your son, you’ll succeed. Things work out.”

“Do they?”

“Often enough.” The woman nodded, an inner strength shining through. The glow made her look beautiful.

Grace tucked a stray strand of mousy hair behind an ear and adjusted her glasses on her nose. Oh, she knew she was a plain Jane and a little timid at that, and she couldn’t help wondering, if she’d been more outgoing and assertive in court, would the judge have ruled differently? If, for instance, she had carried herself more like this woman, would she be in this mess?

“I wish I could give you all the answers,” the woman was saying. “But that would be impossible. Everyone’s situation is so different, you understand.”

“Of course.”

“There are a few things I can tell you, though, and maybe they’ll help.”

Grace gave a strained laugh. “That would be nice.”

“And a piece of advice here. Don’t let yourself become emotionally entangled in other sponsors’ lives. In my experience, most people who take you in are pretty closemouthed, but there’ll be some who’ll virtually dump their troubles on you. You’ve got enough problems of your own right now. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

Grace let out a breath. “Yes, completely.” She nodded. Oh, God, she thought, it was all too real.

“As for your car…you’ll need to stash it with someone, a good friend, a relative, whoever. Use the bus or train, whatever feels comfortable. And keep moving. I know how awful all this sounds, but you need to lose yourself and, of course, Charley.”

“Is this…forever?” she ventured, gripping her glass of tea whitely.

“Yes and no. Everyone’s situation is so different. I can tell you my own, if it helps.”

“Please.”

“Well, I was on the underground railroad for three years.”

“Three…years,” Grace gasped.

The woman smiled ruefully. “And my case, unfortunately, is very typical. I’ve heard of women and their children being on the run for…Oh, never mind, you really don’t—”

“Tell me. How long?”

“Ten years, longer. And even now they live under false identities.”

“But…”

“But how? How do they manage? You meet people on the route. People who can help with new Social Security numbers, new names, jobs, everything.”

“I didn’t…realize.”

“Why would you? But that aside, you need to stay on the move until it’s impossible to trace you. You need to change. Become someone else. And you need to be strong. Above all else, you can never give up. It’s your child you’re protecting. It will be hard. Worse than hard. I hope you don’t think I’m a doomsayer. I’m simply being straight. But better to know now just how tough it can be rather than to be shocked later on.”

Grace said nothing.

“Anyway, tomorrow you should leave Denver. Leave Colorado, in fact. And I’ll warn you, other than maybe parking your car with them, stay away from family and friends. The authorities will be watching them for a very long time. If you decide to ditch your car with them, do it soon and do it quickly. Just get rid of it and take off. You don’t want to put friends or your family in jeopardy. It’s bad enough as it is. You’ll just have to learn to be alone in this. You and your child.”

Grace bit her lip.

“I know, that’s the worst. It’s not forever, though. Someday your son will be old enough to take care of himself. And after what he’s been through, he’ll be strong. You’ll never have to worry about that.”

“But I won’t ever be my real self again, will I?”

She shook her head. “There will be charges against you. Federal charges. They won’t disappear.”

And then Grace had to ask. “But you, your job…? I mean, how did you manage?”

“I was lucky. One of the lucky few. My ex-husband never contacted the authorities when I disappeared with our daughter. Not him.” The woman sneered. “He was very wealthy, you see, and he hired private investigators to trace me. I never stayed two nights in the same spot. For three years we ran. During that period I even had to school my daughter myself. We had no friends, no family we dared to contact.”

“But now…?”

“Well, my very wealthy husband finally messed up with the wrong people. He beat up a girlfriend. Badly, I’m afraid. Anyway, her father was a lawyer and made damn good and sure Larry was put behind bars for a very long time. My daughter will be grown and out of college before he sees the light of day again.”

“So you were able to resume your life. Your real life.”

“Yes. That was years ago now, and I’ve done okay on my own. If nothing else, living on the run gave me a strength and courage I never knew I possessed. Before that, I was just another abused woman. Frightened, afraid to leave him and afraid to stay.”

“Why did you finally leave?”

The woman met Grace’s eyes fiercely. “It was one thing when that bastard struck me. It was another when he turned on our child. He broke her arm.”

“Oh, God.”

“It was horrible, yes, and we’ll carry the scars all our lives, but we have a good life now.” She nodded toward the living room, where her daughter was still talking a mile a minute on the phone, the TV still on in the background. “Her biggest problem now is what to wear to school. I’m very lucky. We’re very lucky.”

Grace sat back and stared into the middle distance. She knew, in her heart of hearts, that her own story, that Charley’s future, could never be as bright. In four days—closer to three now—the court expected her to carry out the order to surrender Charley to his biological mother. And when Grace failed to turn him over, when the authorities learned she had fled with the child, she would forever be a fugitive. There would be no turning back.

Shortly before midnight, she slipped quietly into bed next to Charley. She could hear the little sounds he made as he slept, and she carefully snuggled up next to him and drew in his scent. She could do this. As awful as it sounded, as frightened as she was, she had to do it. Her hostess on this first night of a long journey had told her to be strong. She could, she would, do it.

She shut her eyes and tried to empty her head of all thought. She needed to sleep. Her body was craving precious rest. Sleep.

She listened to the night sounds outside the open window and she tried to breathe deeply. All in vain. Rather than slow, her heart drummed against her rib cage and tiny nerves beat sporadically against her skin, causing her to twitch. Once, her heart seemed to do a somersault in her chest and her breath halted in her lungs.

A lifetime of running from the law. Fugitives. Both of them. And how would she support them? What would happen when her classes started in the fall? Where would they end up? What would happen to Charley’s psyche?

The digital clock on the dresser blinked 3:00 a.m. and all of Grace’s resolve fled. She couldn’t handle it. Tomorrow she would return to Boulder, to their lives, and she would turn Charley over to Kerry Pope. Not for long, though. She’d think of some other way to convince the judge he had made a terrible mistake. She’d hire a fleet of lawyers. No matter the cost. Surely a dream team of lawyers could somehow right this ghastly wrong. It might take time, though, and meanwhile, Charley would be in Kerry Pope’s care and…

Oh, dear God, what was she going to do?

THE MILES THROUGH the Rocky Mountains crept by. She’d gotten a late start. First, after listening to her hostess and hearing how long she might have to be on the move, she had decided to all but wipe out her checking account, and she’d had to wait for the branch bank in Denver to open. Then the lines had been long and Charley had had to go “Pee-pee, Mommy,” and then there’d been heavy traffic along the Interstate 70 corridor crossing the Continental Divide, and then Charley had needed lunch. And they hadn’t even reached Vail. Her only good news was that with each passing mile, no matter how slow her progress, she was putting distance between herself and Boulder, herself and the court and Kerry Pope. She was doing the right thing, the only thing possible for the safety of her child, and she clung to that thought as she drove through Glenwood Springs on the Western Slope, toward the high desert of Utah.

Charley was really very good in the car as the afternoon proceeded. She stopped at rest areas and gassed up in Green River, Utah, where she bought Charley an ice cream. Too much ice cream, she thought. His teeth would rot out of his head. But it was an easy way to make him happy in this awful fix they were in. A kind of bribe. Though not the best way to handle a child, her psychologist’s mind admonished silently.

While Charley busied himself with his treat, she called the number of the next safe house on the underground railroad. She’d been told she could just show up in Salt Lake City, and she’d be given shelter—no questions asked. But what if this person was not home? She supposed she could pay cash for a room that night, but she had no idea how long her fifteen hundred dollars would hold out. Certainly not for years. But, she thought ruefully, like Scarlett O’Hara, she wouldn’t think about that until tomorrow.

“Hello,” Grace began when a woman answered, “my name is…well, sorry, I was given this number, and I’m on the road with my son in Green River and I was hoping—”

But Grace was cut off. “Get off the interstate. I assume you’ll be on Interstate 15?”

“Yes, in a few hours. Going north.”

“Okay, then get off at exit 198, take a right…”

Grace memorized the directions, then said, “We’ll be awfully late getting in.”

“Your room is over the garage. Use the side steps on the left. I may or may not see you in the morning. I’ve got to work at eight. Will you be here for more than the night?”

“I…probably not.”

“Well, then, if I don’t see you, best of luck. I’ll turn on the light for you and leave another number for you to call. You said you’re heading north?”

“No, I’m going to the coast, the San Francisco Bay Area.”

“Okay, then, I’ll figure around a ten-hour drive from here and leave the number. Is that going to work okay?”

“Yes,” Grace said, feeling Charley tug at her shorts with sticky fingers, “and thank you so much.”

“It’s the least any of us can do.”

THE WESTERN UNITED STATES, and particularly the high desert of Utah and Nevada, was suffering an intensely hot dry summer, and as Grace drove away from Salt Lake City the following morning, she knew the day would be a rough one both for her and her son. Last night, just before she’d taken the exit on Interstate 15 to the safe house, her air-conditioning had gone on the fritz.

“Mommy,” Charley said from the back seat, where he was playing with his Lego toys, “I’m firsty. It’s hot, Mommy.”

“Yes,” she said, feeling her short-sleeved cotton top glued to the leather seat. “It sure is. We’ll stop at the first rest area and cool off, okay?”

“Put on the air conditioner, Mommy,” he whined.

“I wish I could,” she said, but she’d already calculated the cost of stopping and having the car fixed: the time and expense made that impossible. They’d have to suffer.

By noon, driving along Interstate 80 toward Winnemucca, Nevada, she wondered if they would even survive. Utah at least had mountains and greenery in places, but Nevada…She might as well have been driving the surface of a long-dead, barren planet that broiled unprotected beneath a giant sun.

Charley justifiably complained and wanted to stop often, and she herself felt the summer heat frying her brain cells. Still, despite her discomfort and nagging doubts, a plan was beginning to take hold. She realized there were only two options open to her. Well, three, she decided. But the third—turning around and surrendering Charley to his…to Kerry Pope—was out of the question. So that left two options.

One, she and Charley could stay on the underground railroad until it was safe to stop and take on new identities, even get a job, settle somewhere for the rest of her life—their new lives, that was.

Or, she thought, there was option two. She was not yet a fugitive and at this point she could elicit the advice of her parents, particularly her father, who was a retired policeman. The last thing she wanted was to get her folks involved in this mess, but her dad could at least advise her on what she needed to do to enlighten the court on the inadequacies of Kerry Pope, forcing that court to admit the very real danger to Charley.

In short, as her father, Big Bob Bennett, would say, Grace needed to get the goods on Kerry Pope. And Big Bob had not only been a policeman, but a juvenile officer with the San Francisco PD. Who better to advise her? On the other hand, she hated to lay her troubles at his feet. Really hated the thought. She’d never had to turn to her parents for this sort of support. Thinking about it now, she supposed she’d been a real Goody Two-shoes. Shy, cerebral, nonconfrontational. Heck, the only experimenting she’d done as a teen had been in science class. How was she going to explain her actions?

But who else could she turn to?

They spent their third night on the underground railroad on the outskirts of Sacramento, and from there, using a pay phone at a convenience store, she finally called her parents. As she dropped change into the coin slots her hand trembled, and she had to tell herself over and over that her mother and father loved her as much as she loved Charley. Turning to them for help was the right thing to do.

Amazingly, she realized as the phone rang in her ear, she’d never fully comprehended the true commitment of parenthood. She would ask for their help and they’d unstintingly give it, just as she was going the whole nine yards to protect her child.

The phone continued to ring. Maybe they had already left on their annual summer vacation. Maybe…

“Hello?” Her mother, Sally, whose name Grace also carried.

“Mom?” Grace had to clear her throat. “Mom, it’s me.”

“Gracie! What a lovely surprise. You never call.”

“I do, too. I…”

“Not enough. Is Charley there with you?”

“Yes, Mom, he’s standing about two feet away, eating an ice cream cone.”

“It must be his bedtime.”

“Well, ordinarily it would be, but we’re not in Colorado.”

“You’re…?”

“Mom, we’re only a couple of hours away, just east of Sacramento.”

“You’re where?” Sally gasped, and Grace began the awful tale of the past two days. When she was finished, all Sally Bennett could say was, “I guess I’d better put your father on.”

Grace sighed. “Good idea. And Mom, I love you guys. I’m so, so sorry to be dumping this…”

“Oh, for the love of Mike, honey, just can it, will you?” And then Grace heard her call, “Bob! Bob get in here, Gracie needs you.”

Telling her father was even tougher. She knew it was because he’d been a policeman his whole life and Grace, in another forty-eight hours, was about to break the law big-time.

He surprised her, though. Rather than tell her to turn around, drive back to Boulder and obey the court order, he hesitated for a second and then said, “Those damn juvie courts. Sorry, baby, but if this just doesn’t top it all. You should have let me come to that hearing. I warned you. Your mother and I were wondering why we hadn’t heard from you, but then we figured everything must have gone okay.”

“Well, Dad, now you know,” Grace said. “And I hope I’m not making things worse. I just couldn’t let Kerry Pope have him. It isn’t that I’m selfish, Dad, honestly, and I haven’t gone crazy. If you could see Kerry’s criminal history, Dad. If you could—”

“You think that after almost thirty-five years with juvies I don’t realize? Grace, honey, give me some credit.”

“Sorry, Dad. It’s just that I don’t know how to get proof that a girl like Kerry will never be rehabilitated, certainly not to the extent that she could raise a child, and—”

“Look,” Bob Bennett cut in, “you get yourself to San Francisco with Charley and call us. Best you don’t stay here, okay?”

“Of course, I understand.”

“Okay. Then get here and we’ll come up with something. You haven’t broken the law yet. Maybe…I have to think about this. Talk it over with your mom. Listen, do you need any money? I hope you haven’t been using a credit card, honey.”

Grace laughed without humor. “No, no credit card, Dad. I’m getting to be a real good fugitive.”

Bob groaned.

“Sorry, but that’s how I feel.”

“Okay. You call us as soon as you get settled in one of your safe houses, and we’ll figure this out together.”

“Dad, I only need advice, really. No way am I getting you and Mom involved.”

“Now, you listen here, Gracie. I may have been a cop, but there’s nothing more important on the face of the earth than you and that boy. You let me worry about our involvement.”

“But, Dad…”

“Don’t Dad me. Just drive carefully.”

He hung up before she could utter another word of protest. She stood in the growing darkness outside the market and watched the customers coming and going. Ordinary people with ordinary lives. Sure, they had their problems, but not like the ones she had. She wished—oh, how she wished—she could be like them, back in her comfortable, safe life in Boulder.

But she couldn’t. That life was forfeit now. And she had to learn to live a new one.




CHAPTER THREE


LUKE SARKOV WAS BROODING. He was sitting at his desk in the downtown San Francisco offices of the Metropole Insurance Company, supposedly checking into a client’s bank accounts. He knew damn well the client had torched his own restaurant, but he had to prove it; these days, he was an insurance fraud investigator.

But that was only partly why he was brooding.

He stared at the phone, his sandy eyebrows drawn together and his long face taut and angry, the double lines bracketing his mouth cutting his skin harshly.

He wanted to call Judith, his estranged wife, and hear her voice. He wanted her to say their split was all a mistake. He wanted to call his buddies down at the department, get together for a poker game or a few beers, talk cop talk, discuss cases and the latest screw-up perpetrated by the powers-that-be on the heads of the hardworking policemen.

He was forty-one years old, his career down the tubes, wife gone, his life spinning out of control. And here he was, checking into an arson case for an insurance company.

He sneered as he willed himself to pick up the phone, dial the arsonist’s bank, get the records, make Metropole Insurance happy.

His finger pressed Judith’s number of its own volition, and he waited, hearing the ring, picturing the phone at the other end, the table it sat on, the room the table was in. Judith’s new apartment.

God, he wanted her back. He loved her, and despite her protestations, he was sure she still loved him.

The phone rang. It rang again. Then he heard the electronic click, and her answering machine switched on: This is Judith Bancroft. I am not in at the moment, but if you leave a message I will return your call. If this is in regard to a modeling job, please call the Best Agency at…

Her voice—slightly husky and sexy as hell. He drank the tone in, even if what he was hearing was only a recording. A lump formed at the base of his throat. Judith Bancroft. She didn’t use his name anymore. Damn it, they were not even divorced yet.

He hung up without leaving a message, aware that he was grinding his molars. That he was tense, up-tight, not sleeping well, spending too much time alone in the two rooms he was renting. Damn Judith.

Marriage meant loyalty, right? Till death us do part. Well, he’d meant it. Apparently, she hadn’t.

He shut his eyes for a second, took a breath. Reached for the phone, dialed the bank. He knew the bank officials were going to give him a hassle—they always did. But the bank had been served a subpoena and had to cough up the information.

“U.S. Bank, Haight-Clayton Branch,” he heard the receptionist say.

“Regarding Samuel Rae’s account. Mr. Dressler, please.”

The whole rigmarole would have to be gone through, but Luke could be tough. He’d had plenty of practice being relentlessly tough while on the Vice Squad. He could spot a lie a mile away, read people without effort, barge through prevarications and misleading statements, dig out the truth. He could handle pimps and pushers and whores and snitches. Hell, this was only a bank president, and the branch bank at that.

A half hour later he had Dressler’s promise to send him copies of Rae’s accounts for the past three years. And when he got them, he was positive the figures would show a business in trouble, kited checks, overdrafts, stop payment orders, the whole gamut. He’d seen the downslide of businesses before, seen the owner go into the weeds never to see daylight again. And then arson. A desperate act. A dangerously illegal act.

Of course, investigating insurance fraud wasn’t like being a cop. He was only chasing the miserable losers who cheated insurance companies.

When he’d been forced to resign from the San Francisco Police Department, he’d convinced himself that he didn’t want his old job anyway, that he detested the hypocrisy and addictive violence of big-city law enforcement. But, if he admitted the truth, he’d sucked it up, enjoyed the inside knowledge of man’s capacity for evil. What he couldn’t abide was the boredom and predictability of the ordinary world. He guessed he’d learned to love the power over the bad guys and the adrenaline high of danger too much.

Well, he sure wasn’t making the world better for democracy anymore.

His cell phone rang in the pocket of his sport coat, which hung on the back of his chair. Judith? His heart gave a lurch, as if he were coming alive for the first time that day.

He dug the phone out of his pocket, flipped it open and barked, “Hello.”

“Hey, kid.”

Not Judith. But a voice nearly as welcome.

“Bob, my man.”

“I’m not your man and you know it,” came Big Bob Bennett’s raspy voice.

“What’s up, Bob?”

“How are you doing, kid?”

“Oh, you know, okay.”

“Sure. Okay.”

“I’m nailing guys right and left. Women, too. You wouldn’t believe how people cheat.”

“Sure I would.” Bob hesitated. “Listen, I have a favor to ask.”

“Anything.” Luke owed Bob; he owed him big. The man was retired now, but he’d been a Juvenile Division cop back when Luke had met him. Luke had been in college, San Francisco State, when he’d been injured and lost his athletic scholarship. For a while back then he’d felt hopeless and angry, and he’d quit school and gotten into trouble. Luckily, a judge gave him community service instead of hard time, and he was sent to Lieutenant Bob Bennett, to help him coach an inner-city school football team.

Big Bob, as he was known even then, set him straight, got him back into school and then helped him enter the Police Academy. Bob had been his mentor, his father and his family for twenty-two years. Luke had never known his own family; he was an orphan, one foster home after another. Bob understood why Luke had been asked to resign from the force last year. Luke’s mentor didn’t judge; he accepted. Oh, yeah, Luke owed the man.

“My daughter’s in trouble,” Bob said flatly.

“Your daughter?”

“Yes, damn it, Grace. You know, my kid.”

“Sure, I know her, but, wow, it’s been years. I mean…”

“Grace has a little boy named Charley. She got this kid from a junkie. She’s his foster mother.”

“Oh, right, I remember.”

“Anyway, the idiotic judge in Boulder gave custody of Charley back to his biological mother, and Grace took the boy and went underground.”

“She did?”

“Oh, yeah, my little angel. And in a couple days she’s going to be a federal fugitive. She’s in deep, and I’m afraid I’m about to get in just as deep.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Exactly.”

“You sure it’s wise for you to get so involved?”

“Luke, she’s my child. I’ll go to the ends of the earth to help her.”

“Maybe she should turn herself in.”

“She’s afraid for the boy’s safety. She won’t do it and I’m not going to advise her to.”

“But what…hell, what can I do?”

“You could help get the goods on the biological mother for Grace. She’s a sad sack—drugs, jail time for armed robbery. Says the boyfriend forced her to help him. She’s no fit mother, that’s for damn sure.”

“And where is this biological mother?”

“Denver, Colorado.”

“Mmm.”

“If this wasn’t so important, I’d never ask. But, Luke, can you take some time off and help Grace out?”

He couldn’t refuse. No matter what. Big Bob had saved his life and his soul, and he’d never once asked for help. Luke didn’t hesitate. “Sure I can. Let me get a few things finished up here. I have vacation time coming.”

“She’s driving in today. I want you to meet her, kid. Sally and I will watch the boy, and she can use our car. I’ll take care of hers. I mean, she has to disappear. Tell me where she can meet you. She’ll be able to give you the whole story.”

“Meet her, huh. You want me to come out to your house?”

“No, no. I don’t want her here at all. The feebies will talk to our neighbors—the usual drill. Can she come into the city, meet you somewhere, you know, discreet?”

“Sure. Does she know her way around?”

“You forget, kid. She was raised here.”

“Okay. How about Lum Lee’s, in Chinatown, on Grant Avenue. I’ll be there at six. Will that work?”

“Sure. Lum Lee’s.”

“Does she remember what I look like?”

“I’ll update her,” Bob said dryly.

“I don’t know what I can do, but I’ll try.”

“Hey, listen, Luke, you’re the best investigator the department ever had. You can do it.”

“I was.”

“You’re still the best, kid.”

“Yeah, sure, my man.”

“Six at Lum Lee’s. And don’t forget, this is my daughter you’re helping here.”

Luke barely had time to consider what he was getting into before the perfunctory morning meeting at Metropole Insurance was convened. He took up his wrinkled sport coat and slipped it on, gritting his teeth. Every morning, 10:00 a.m. sharp, it was meeting time with the “suits.”

This morning, sitting around the giant oval boardroom table, it was the same old litany. Bottom line, bottom line. What the suits meant, was: Who can we screw today to increase the bottom line? Which Luke translated more aptly as, How can we keep Metropole’s shareholders happy and increase our personal golden umbrellas?

Metropole’s offices took up the entire sixteenth floor of the steel-and-glass skyscraper—earthquake proof, of course—on Powell Street across from Union Square. Next door, an older office building had been razed—imploded, actually—and for the last few months Luke had whiled away his time in the meetings watching the new structure take shape. More specifically, he watched, and marveled at, the steel walkers, the guys who worked fearlessly atop the steel beams as they were hoisted toward the blue heavens.

Luke had a thing about heights. A real thing. He didn’t even fly, not if he had anything to say about it. Driving took longer, sure, and the gas and rooms cost, but at least he didn’t have to sit on a plane, desperately holding it up in the air through sheer willpower. Yeah. Driving was fine by him.

“Twenty-three cases of suspected arson since January 1 of this year,” a voice was saying—one of the suits. “Are you aware, Mr. Sarkov, that Metropole has paid out on nine of those cases? Three of which were assigned to you?”

Luke dragged his thoughts from the swinging steel beam being levered into place and cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, I am fully aware of the numbers.” Then he smiled thinly. “The trouble is, sir, those three fires were legit.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look, sir—” the sir came out a little too heavy “—things just sometimes burn down. There are accidental fires, and a lot of lives are ruined.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” the suit said impatiently, “but we are not fully satisfied that this structure in San Jose at…let’s see, on Marina Boulevard, was accidental.”

Luke grinned ferally. “A nursing home, sir? A profitable, family-owned and-operated nursing home? Come on.”

“I don’t like that tone, Sarkov.”

“Look,” Luke said, no apology offered, “the report from the fire marshal in San Jose, the nursing home’s books—everything came out clean. It was an electrical fire on the new wing. That happens.”

The suit made a blustering noise, then moved on to Luke’s present case, the fire last week at Sammy Rae’s restaurant up near what was known as the Haight. A rough area.

“I’m on it,” Luke said, wanting to suppress a yawn right in this jerk’s face. He glanced at his wristwatch. “In fact, I’m late for a meeting with the fire chief as it is.”

“Well, all right, get going, then. But no matter what the chief says, we all know this is a case of arson. Prove it. Damn it, prove it and let’s not get into a long and drawn-out court case. Nothing is more costly, Mr. Sarkov. The restaurant owner knows that and is counting on Metropole to pay off. Do whatever it takes, but dig up enough on this Sammy Rae to force him to acquiesce or face criminal charges.”

“Of course,” Luke said, rising, escaping. God-damn, he hated this job.

He didn’t have to meet the fire chief for an hour, so he checked his voice mail—nothing from Judith—then grabbed a sandwich at the corner deli. Breakfast and lunch rolled into one.

He sat on the bench in Union Square and ate half the Reuben, leaning over and dripping sauerkraut juice on the sparse grass. Idly chatting with the bum resting coiled up behind the bench, he tossed crumbs to the pigeons. “Hell,” he said, “insurance companies are no different from carjackers. One is legal. The other is not.”

“Hear, hear,” the bum grumbled.

Grace Bennett. Gracie, Bob used to call her. Yeah. It was coming back now. She must be in her mid-thirties, because when Luke knew her—or had seen her once or twice—she’d been maybe fourteen or fifteen years old.

He shook his head disdainfully. She’d been painfully skinny when she should have been filling out. Yeah. And long stringy blondish hair—no style to it. Glasses. Right. A real academic nerd. He hated to think about Big Bob’s kid that way, but really. And he couldn’t imagine her any different now. Still, the kid—well, woman—was in trouble. On the run. As far as the law was concerned, she’d shortly be a kidnapper.

Go figure, he thought, splitting the last of the crust with the pigeons, then laying a five-spot on the bum before rising and dusting himself off. Time to go to work.

The fire chief handling the Haight-Ashbury district met Luke at Sammy Rae’s—or what was left of the restaurant—exactly on time.

Luke stood on the still-charred sidewalk in front of the burned husk of building and whistled under his breath. “Well, this one sure went out in a blaze. Any of your men injured?”

Fire Chief Rollins shook his head. “Lucky was all. Whole building went in less than an hour.”

“Gotta be arson.”

“Oh, yeah, you better believe it. The lab’s got at least twenty samples of combustibles from hot spots.”

“Good. Where did it start?”

“You mean where was it started? Kitchen, of course. Grease trap.”

Wearing hard hats, they made their way into the scorched, fallen remains of Sammy Rae’s.

“Careful,” Rollins kept saying, nodding and pointing, stepping over debris, his big utility flashlight spearing the dimness.

“Phew,” Luke said once, “stinks to high heaven.”

“Yeah, the whole thing stinks.”

The fire chief showed Luke what was left of the grill and the ventilation hood, then pointed out the grease trap on the side of the fire-twisted grill. He showed Luke the so-called hot spots, which had burned too easily and too quickly, at the same temperature and for the same amount of time as the fire source, indicating that the hot spots and grease trap had all gone up in flames together. Of course, modern forensics would no doubt turn up the starter fuel. Nowadays, fires were creating a whole new field of science and a whole new set of problems for the average fire starter, who merely wanted to collect on his insurance.

“Think I can tell the suits over at Metropole they can keep this out of court?”

“Oh, I’m sure. In fact, we’ll probably have enough to press charges on old Sammy.”

“Well, then, I assume I can have copies of the lab reports when they’re done?”

“No problem. I’ll sign the requisition.”

They made their way back out into the sun, and Luke took off his hard hat and handed it to Rollins, dusting off the sleeves of his jacket. “Thanks for your time, Chief,” he said, turning to go.

Then Rollins spoke. “You don’t remember me, do you?” he said.

Luke pivoted. “I, ah, no, not really.”

“It was ten, twelve, years ago.”

Luke shrugged.

“A waterfront fire down on Third Street.”

“Sorry, but I…” Then it came back to him. Sure. Rollins. He’d been a fireman then, and some real junked-out dudes had been playing chemist at home and blown up their rat hole of an apartment. Luke and his partner had been on a Vice surveillance two buildings down. They’d raced to the scene only seconds after the explosion, and Luke had helped Rollins drag an entire family of illegal immigrants from the blazing second story to safety.

Sure, now he remembered. Back then, Luke had been a hero.

“The fire,” Luke said, nodding. “We both got some good press that night.”

“Yeah,” Rollins said. “Well, anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry about your…job. Your resignation and all that.”

“Mmm,” Luke said.

“I saw your name in the papers last year, and well, I felt real bad for you and all the others who, ah, resigned. I just wanted to tell you that.”

“I appreciate it,” Luke said, and he lifted his hand, gave Rollins a short wave, turned and headed to his car.

No one, he thought, was sorrier than he.




CHAPTER FOUR


GRACE PACED in front of the main entrance to the Avenues Mall in Oakland and gripped Charley’s hand. She’d wanted to meet her parents at their house, somewhere familiar and comfortable, for Charley, but, as Bob had told her, it was a bad idea. The feds would be nosing around once she was declared a fugitive, and one of the first things they’d do would be to stake out their house. An ex-cop’s home, she thought, cringing, knowing what this action of hers was doing to her father, her law-abiding father.

Charley was being an angel, looking forward to seeing Gramma and Grampa, but he was bound to wear down soon. So much traveling. A new bed every night, new faces, hours and hours stuck in the hot car. It wasn’t fair.

She tugged gently on Charley’s hand and moved to the curb, where the valets were parking cars. She looked up and down the crowded parking aisles. Where the heck were her parents? Her nerves scratched beneath her skin. It had been Bob’s idea to meet at the Oakland mall. One o’clock, he’d said, at the main entrance where the valet stand was located.

She looked at her watch. It was almost 1:05.

Calm down, she told herself.

“Mommy?” Charley kicked at a pebble on the sidewalk. “Where are Gramma and Grampa? I’m hungry.”

“I’m sure they’re just parking their car, honey. They’ll be along.”

“Can we have pizza?”

“I think you’ve had enough junk food to last a lifetime, young man.”

“Pizza is not junk food, Mommy. Ice cream is junk food. You said so last night.”

“Well, yes, I did. And it’s true.”

“Where are Gramma and—” But before he could finish, Bob Bennett had swooped him up from behind and was giving him a big kiss on the cheek. “Grampa!” Charley squealed in delight, and Grace felt tears press against her eyelids.

Big Bob Bennett was a bear of a man, barrel-chested, tall, grizzled hair poking out of the open collar of his shirt. His face was heavy featured and sagging, but it was a good face, strong and kind.

Her mother, Sally, was petite and adorable. A mismatched couple, one would say to look at them, but they’d been married for forty years and were still going great guns.

Sally hugged Grace tightly, then took Charley from Bob. “Look at this boy, how big you’ve grown since last Christmas. Oh, stop squirming and let Gramma have all the hugs and kisses she can get.”

“God, I’m so glad to see you both,” Grace breathed. “I’ve got so much to tell you and—”

“I’m hungry,” Charley announced to his grandparents, the only grandparents he’d known. “Mommy says pizza is bad for me, but I bet Gramma wants pizza. Are you hungry, Gramma?”

“The boy sure is learning,” Bob said, grinning, giving Grace a big hug.

“Oh, pizza, yum yum,” Sally said, taking Charley’s hand, “that’s exactly what Gramma wanted, too. How did you know? Did a little elf tell you?”

Charley shook his head and laughed and held on to Sally’s hand, half dragging her into the mall.

Grace and Bob followed a few paces behind, Grace tucking her arm into Bob’s, laying her head on his shoulder as they walked. “Oh, Dad,” she said, “what have I done?”

“The only thing you could have.”

“But you were a policeman. How can you say that? It’s wrong. It’s just that I…”

“You believed you had no other choice. Do you think you’re the first person who’s been faced with this kind of decision?”

“No, but…”

“Sure you’re having doubts. You’re a good moral young woman.”

“Not so young anymore.”

“Thirty-three is not old.”

“Dad, I’m thirty-five now.”

“You are?”

“Oh, stop teasing. It isn’t funny.”

“I’m sorry. But I had to see if you could muster up a smile. You know, you’re still our baby.”

She sighed and squeezed his arm and watched Charley tugging on Sally’s hand as they all passed a shoe store and a B. Daltons, his four-year-old nose leading them straight to the food court.

Everything seemed surreal to Grace when they found a table and Sally went to get pizzas and Cokes. The last time Grace and Charley had been here was over the long December break from her classes at CU. The mall had been so crowded, Christmas shoppers everywhere, and Charley had been delighted at the carolers and beautiful displays of decorated trees and huge candy canes and reindeer and elves and snowmen. He’d ridden on the big Wonderland train set up in the middle of the mall, and he’d sat on Santa’s lap and been so brave. Bob had taken a whole roll of film, and Sally had sent Grace and Charley copies in January. They’d been so happy.

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.”

“Jay,” Renee had said, “look at this. Kidnapping.” She’d pushed the paper under his nose.

He’d read carefully and methodically. Jay was a slow-moving, heavyset man, giving some people the idea that he was also mentally slow. But Renee knew better. Her husband was a brilliant, calculating statistician for the FBI. The tortoise to her hare.

She loved her husband. He was her opposite, fitting into her mental and emotional hollows with perfection. He was her rock, and she knew she’d flounder without him. She was aware that people thought them an incongruous couple and that Jay must bore her. But those people didn’t know Jay. Nor did they know her.

What seemed to be slowness was careful consideration. He was brilliant, yet still down to earth, and he saw the world perfectly and objectively for what it was. Jay had proposed the move from Washington, D.C., to Denver, insisting that they’d each have more opportunity for promotion, and he’d been right, as usual.

“So this Grace Bennett took the kid and disappeared,” he had said, watching Renee. “You have any idea why?”

“Selfishness,” Renee had replied instantly.

“It says right here she had the boy for four years. Presumably, the biological mother couldn’t—or, more likely, wouldn’t—take care of her son.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Tell me why a college professor, a woman with an excellent career, would give it all up and run away,” Jay had said mildly.

“I don’t know. But I bet our office gets this case. God, I hope they let me have it.” She’d grinned, her teeth white against her café-au-lait skin. “It’s got promotion written all over it.”

Driving with Jay from their home in Englewood to work that morning, Renee talked of inconsequential matters—when Jay’s widowed mother was coming to visit, who would do the grocery shopping, a movie Renee wanted to see. But her mind was listing the steps an agent would have to take to find the runaway professor.

Interview the grieving mother; do a computer check on Bennett; talk to friends and neighbors of the woman, relatives. Out-of-state relatives? Boyfriend? Co-workers, yes. Did little Charles Pope attend day care?

All right, so the case wasn’t hers, but she still couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Jay parked in the usual place near the downtown Denver Federal Building, and they walked to the entrance together. He kissed her on the cheek, as he did every morning, and they parted ways, going to separate offices.

They both loved Denver now, a sprawling western city that was growing by leaps and bounds. True, it was hot in summer, but not with the cloying and oppressive heat of Washington. And always, when she looked to the west, the tall, cool, snow-capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains stood sentinel.





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