Bending the Rules (15 page)

She believed what she’d told Cory—that things might have been different if there had been a cop like Jason on the Capelli case. He was just too pigheaded, too detail-oriented, to let a man’s reward for courageously stepping forward to identify a killer be to forfeit his life.

“Kid’s got talent,” Jason said, interrupting her thoughts.

She looked up to find him studying some of Darnell’s work tacked to the walls. “He does. A boatload of it.”

“I don’t see a computer.”

“He probably uses the public ones at the library. Mrs. Jackson provides a good life for him here, but it doesn’t come with much discretionary income. And things like cell phones and computers? Well, they’re rarely on the have-nots’ side of the equation.”

He essayed a philosophical shrug that suggested he saw the divide between class privileges on a daily basis. “Sort through the wastebasket and see if there’s anything in it that might point us to his whereabouts.”

Mrs. Jackson rejoined them and Jason studied the wallet-size school photo she gave him. He had the older woman go through Darnell’s clothing to see if anything was missing, then asked her to identify the drawings of the people in the teen’s sketch pad.

“And that’s me, of course,” she said at one point, then sat silently for a moment as tears welled in her eyes. Sniffing, she sat straighter, but ran gentle fingertips down her likeness on the paper. Slowly she flipped the page and studied it for a moment. “I’m thinking this is that girl Darnell likes in Ms. Calloway’s class.”

Poppy leaned down to look. “Emilia, yes. They do seem to like each other quite a lot.”

De Sanges glanced at Mrs. Jackson. “What did she have to say when you called?”

When she said she hadn’t because she didn’t know the number, Poppy volunteered to contact the girl.

Mrs. Jackson’s face suddenly tightened.

Looking from her expression to the drawing in the book, de Sanges leaned in to study the sketch more closely. “Who’s this?”

“Nobody,” the older woman said flatly.

“He’s someone, Mrs. Jackson, or your grandson wouldn’t have sketched him.”

“His name is Freddy Gordon and he and Darnell used to be friends. But then Freddy joined a gang. They don’t see each other anymore.”

“I’ll need his address anyhow. We don’t want to leave any stone unturned.”

“I can tell you exactly what you’re going to find under that particular rock,” Mrs. Jackson muttered. But she stood and swept up the contact list she’d made, taking it back to the kitchen.

With the briefest expression-free eye contact, he passed Poppy the sketchbook. To her surprise, however, she realized she was beginning to read nuances in Detective Sobersides’s poker face. And looking down at the drawing, she saw why he might have a hard time taking Mrs. Jackson’s assessment at face value. It showed a youth with sad, old-soul eyes but a sweet if barely there smile.

“This kid might be trouble or a bad influence, but Darnell drew him with love,” she said softly, admiring the boy’s ability to bring personalities to life.

“Yeah.” He rose to his feet. “That was my impression, too.” Meeting the missing boy’s grandmother in the doorway as she returned from the kitchen, he accepted the revised sheet she handed him and said, “Mrs. Jackson, we’re going to take Darnell’s picture and this information and search for him. I’ll let you know the minute I hear anything.”

The older woman reached for his hand and held it between both her own as she thanked him. Then she did the same to Poppy. Five minutes later they were back in the car.

He looked over at her, something in his dark eyes telegraphing a sense that he was now as fully engaged in this quest as she.

“Let’s go have a talk with Freddy Gordon,” he said and started the car.

CHAPTER TEN

Oh, man, that smile. Not to mention what he did. It’s official. I’m toast.

F
IRST THING
Jase did, after turning off his car in front of a rundown house several blocks and a world of upkeep removed from Mrs. Jackson’s, was unlock the glove compartment and retrieve his gun from its rig. Then he grabbed his badge and his seen-better-days notebook with its cheap pen stuck through the spirals. Climbing from the SUV, he shoved the book into one hip pocket and his badge into the other. He tucked his gun in the back of his jeans and pulled his T-shirt from his waistband to conceal it. There. Now he didn’t feel so naked.

Poppy was actually still sitting in the passenger seat when he rounded the hood, instead of already halfway up the cracked walk ahead of him. He opened her door, but she didn’t move, just gave him a look.

“Not thrilled with the gun, de Sanges.”

“Sorry to hear it, Calloway. I’m not thrilled with the feel of this place. The gun stays.”

She gazed at him a moment longer, then nodded. “I know what you mean about the feel. Why do I have the sense this kid isn’t going to get the same kind of concern Mrs. Jackson displayed for Darnell?”

“Because you’ve worked with enough kids to get a feel for the ones in bad family situations? Or, hell, maybe just because it’s still a sunny evening, but all the blinds are closed, or the fact that this place is a dump.” He looked at the dirt-and-weed-choked yard littered with broken, discarded bikes and trikes as he ushered her up the uneven walkway to the front door. “Even the doesn’t-require-much-money, easily fixed stuff hasn’t been done.”

They stopped on the sagging two-step stoop. A television inside blared Oprah and when Poppy once again failed to make a move—which was very unlike her—he reached around to rap his knuckles on the door.

It opened and he had to adjust his sights a good deal lower to the little girl standing on the other side. Wearing a grimy, food-stained T-shirt and corduroy pants, she planted her finger firmly in her mouth and stared up at him with solemn eyes.

And Poppy finally came to life. “Well, hello there,” she murmured with a soft smile and dropped to her haunches in front of the child.

The little girl reached out to touch the blond mass of curls brushing Poppy’s collarbone. Her own hair looked as if it hadn’t seen a comb or brush that day. A shy smile curled her lips around the damp finger.

“Whatayou want?” demanded a harsh voice and the kid snatched her hand back, the smile dropping from her face. She gave her finger a comforting suck.

Pulling his attention from Poppy, who was trailing gentle fingertips over the crown of the little girl’s head as she rose to her feet in a swirl of filmy skirts, he directed it at the irritated countenance of the reed-thin woman who’d gotten up and come to the door.

Ignoring the ash that fell from her cigarette onto the floor, she stared back at him.

“You Mrs. Gordon?”

Suspicious eyes narrowed behind the screen of smoke she blew between them. “Who wants to know?” Then she gave him a closer inspection. “Shit. A cop.” Turning her attention to Poppy, she glared. “And you got that do-gooder look about ya, so you must be—what? CPS?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not with Child Protection Services. Darnell Jackson is in an art class I teach. He’s missing and we’re trying to find him. We heard he’s friends with Freddy.”

“Well, he sure ain’t here,” the woman scoffed, tossing her cigarette out the door. “Darnell don’t come around much anymore. That was his tight-assed granny’s doin’, but for once I hadda agree with the old bitch. Boy’s got no reason to be hangin’ with my son. Darnell’s got somethin’—you can see jest by lookin’at him that he’s gonna be someone someday.” Then the warmth bled out of her voice. “Freddy ain’t never gonna amount to shit.”

Jase saw the shock on Poppy’s face that a woman could say such a thing about her own son. With the authority he’d been soft-pedaling until now, he barked, “Is Freddy around? I’d like to talk to him.”

“I don’t know where the little bastard is. Ain’t seen him since Sunday night.”

“You didn’t get him off to school?” Poppy asked.

“He’s almost eighteen, lady. He kin get hisself off to school.”

Poppy’s eyes started flashing fire and Jase took a lateral step to place himself between the two women. “Does Freddy have a cell phone?”

“Yeah.”

When she didn’t elaborate, he said in a you-don’t-want-to-mess-with-me voice, “What’s his number?”

Muttering under her breath, she shuffled on worn bedroom scuffs back across the living room, then returned a moment later, a fresh cigarette in one hand and a dollar-store address book in the other. She turned its pages with painful slowness until she finally hit upon the one she sought. Without looking up, she recited it aloud.

He wrote it in his notebook, then passed her his card, accompanied by a hard look. “Call me the minute you hear from him.”

“Huh,” she grunted and held the front door open in a clear invitation to leave.

He followed Poppy from the house and could tell by her stiff-gaited stride that she wasn’t happy.

And if that hadn’t been hint enough, she was less than shy about stating her opinion. “Can you believe that woman?” she snapped as she slid into the car.

He shut the door in her face, but she was turned toward the driver side when he climbed in seconds later.

“I wish I had been CPS—that woman was just begging to have her children taken away. Dammit, Jason, that sweet little girl didn’t look as if she’d had an ounce of care given her in I don’t know how long.”

He didn’t like the way he kept getting all hung up on the sound of his name coming from her lips. Consequently, his voice was stiff when he said, “I agree Mrs. Gordon won’t qualify for mother of the year anytime soon. But I’ve rarely seen the foster system add quality to a kid’s life.”

“At least the child wouldn’t die from secondhand smoke,” she muttered. But she sighed and visibly reined in her anger. “All right, I know that,” she admitted softly. “I do. It’s just…”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “It bites.” He tried calling the number he’d gotten for Freddy, but it went straight to voice mail. After leaving a brief message with his various numbers, he disconnected, then turned back to Poppy.

“Listen, work’s piling up on my desk. If you can dig up Darnell’s girlfriend’s address we’ll go by and see if she’s home. But win or lose on that front, Blondie, I need to head back to the station the minute we’re done.”

“You’re kidding me. It’s already after six.”

He shrugged. “Work’s piling up on my desk.”

Reaching across the console, she touched warm fingertips to his forearm. “Thank you, Jason. For everything. You’ve been great about this and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

Jase had a quick mental vision of her demonstrating her appreciation. With nudity. Flex-cuffs. And a headboard.

He snapped erect. Jesus. He was more, dammit, than the sum total of his fucked-up genes. His voice developing some snap, he said, “You can thank me by hustling for that address.”

“I’ve got it here.” She’d been scrolling through her cell phone, clueless, thank God, to the direction his thoughts had taken. She rattled off an address in south Seattle. “You want me to call first to see if she’s home? It’ll save you some time.”

“No. Calling can be a time-saver, but with kids it usually just gives them the chance to book.” He fired up the engine and pulled away from the curb.

“Man, I wouldn’t have your job for the world,” she said. “You really do see the worst in people, don’t you?”

“As opposed to through your Pollyanna-rosy glasses, you mean?”

“Yeah.” She grinned at him and launched into a story about her art-class kids. One thing you could say about the Babe, he mused during the crosstown drive, you never had to worry about digging for things to talk about. After regaling him with an anecdote of one of the boys in her project, she segued into the logistics of the selection process of the three Seattle high schools that had contributed kids to her program. Emilia, for instance, the girl they were traveling to see, had been culled from Chief Sealth on the recommendation of a teacher. Jase was cresting Highland Park Way—more commonly known as Boeing Hill—and headed toward White Center by the time Poppy finished praising the girl’s apparent aptitude for drawing landscapes and buildings and shit.

He turned off the arterial before they reached Roxbury, the main east-west street cutting through the area shopping district, then turned again and cruised down Tenth until he spotted the house he was looking for. It was a small but beautifully maintained wood-frame single-family residence with a landscaped yard. After he parked in front of it, they got out of the car and for the third time that evening walked up to a front door. He stood one step behind Poppy while she rang the bell.

A pretty teenaged girl around Poppy’s mid-five-feet height opened the door, and he took a wild stab and guessed it was the much-touted Ms. Suarez—a conjecture he figured was right on the money when the girl’s big brown eyes went wide and she said in patent surprise, “Ms. Calloway!”

The look she gave Poppy was at once thrilled and horrified…and Jase’s professional radar went on red alert over the latter.

“Hi, Emilia,” Poppy said. “I’m sorry to bother you at home but—”

“The hell with that,” he interrupted gruffly and the girl jerked, as if just now noticing him. He stepped forward, towering over her. “Where’s Darnell?”