Love In Plain Sight

The nearly three hundred kids who’d been placed with a sexual predator over the sixteen years it took social workers to figure out that many of these kids were being molested.

Negligence. Incompetence. Heartlessness.

Horror stories.

Most social workers weren’t the careless or inept monsters showcased in the media. The majority were the ones the general public never heard about. Social workers who maneuvered deftly through the obstacle course among laws and legalities and court decisions for kids they were responsible for protecting.

Most social workers cared more for needy kids than they did their own paychecks, because no one got compensated for all the work. Most didn’t mind the long hours, and usually found a way to squeeze in just one more kid when they were already burdened by a staggering caseload.

Given the crushing demands of the job, it wasn’t hard to see how mistakes could happen even to the most caring and competent social workers. They managed needy kids’ lives the way an air traffic controller oversaw airspace: the consequences of one oversight, one distraction, one error could result in the loss of human life.

The life of a child.

Courtney’s thoughts slowed enough to finally see the street through the window. DCFS offices were located in a utilitarian building on Iberville Street north of all the French Quarter action. From her second-floor window, she overlooked the stone wall of the cemetery, discolored and stained like the mausoleums within, many overgrown with weeds protruding from odd places.

Interstate 10 ran the length of the cemetery and all the way to Florida. The green directional signs were the only splash of color in a scene that had never looked so bleak, washed in gray skies that promised rain. Somehow it fit that she couldn’t look at the interstate without thinking of Nanette.

“What happens now?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “How do we find Araceli?”

Giselle could only spread her hands in entreaty. She had no clue, because how on earth did one go about tracking down a child who had potentially been missing for eight years?

How could they even hope to find her alive?

* * *

“DAMON’S COMING TO get me, right?” Marc DiLeo forced out the question through gritted teeth.

After all these months, he should have been used to asking. He wasn’t. He resented the hell out of it.

Especially something as simple as a ride when he owned a Jeep and a Harley.

His older brother, Nic, glanced away from the road as they were driving down Canal Street in Nic’s police cruiser. At least no one could see them through the heavily tinted glass.

Did anyone even care that he was being chauffeured to his therapy session because he couldn’t drive himself?

No. It only felt that way.

“Damon’s teaching a class,” Nic said. “Anthony will pick you up, and if he can’t get away, he’ll send one of the guys.”

Great. Now Marc’s ability to burden everyone reached beyond family into the periphery, to the guys who worked in his younger brother Anthony’s automotive garage.

This was his mother’s fault. She’d bullied him into leaving Colorado Springs for rehab. Not that Marc had put up much of a fight. He’d been in a medically induced coma when many of the decisions about his care had been made. After the haze of anesthesia and painkillers from four surgeries had worn off, all the decisions had been made.

That had been the time to reassert control over his life. Only he hadn’t had any fight in him.

So his mother had seized the opportunity to bring him home to New Orleans. And everyone paid the price because she was the only one of the bunch who didn’t drive.

“Tell Anthony not to bother,” Marc said. “I’ll take a cab.”

“Don’t start with me. Everyone wants to help.”

Help? This family would kill him with their help, which was why he had moved to Colorado Springs in the first place. “I’d forgotten what a pain in the ass an older brother could be. Good thing you’re the only one I have. If I changed my name, I’ll bet none of you could find me.”

Nic gave a disgusted snort. But he glanced at the road. He scowled harder when some idiot in a showy Bimmer sliced out of one lane and cut into the other, forcing the Yukon in front of him to brake, and by default him.

“You know, you’re a cop,” Marc said. “You could pull that guy over and give him a ticket.”

“You know, you’re a jerk. You could try saying thanks for everyone’s help and leave it there. No one has a problem getting you to and from your sessions.”

“Wrong.” Marc had a big problem.

Nic braked hard, and Marc instinctively grabbed the oh-shit handle to hang on as the cruiser swung toward the curb so fast the tires screeched. Marc’s cane hit the door with a clatter. The cop lights flashed with an accompanying whoop of a siren, scaring the hell out of some pedestrians who broke formation on the sidewalk and scattered.

Nic didn’t seem to notice. Or care. “Have all those painkillers rotted your brain? Do I need to throw your sorry ass in detox?”

Sorry ass was right. Marc couldn’t rebut that fact, but he wasn’t listening to Nic rant, either. Guess this was his stop. He reached for his cane and the door handle. The handle moved, but the passenger door didn’t open. Nic controlled the locks.

“Isn’t there some law against double-parking?” Marc said. “You’re a cop. You should set an example by observing the law.”

“I’m not a cop,” Nic growled. “I’m the chief of police, which means I get to do whatever the hell I want. And right now I want you to listen to me.”

Great. Marc’s day was crashing and burning and he hadn’t even gotten to physical therapy yet. Okay, to be fair he had practically begged for this confrontation. Nic’s patience had been simmering for weeks. He was the oldest brother, and used to stepping in to clean up everyone’s mess in this family. He’d been doing the job since their father had died, leaving their mother with a bunch of little kids who had needed caring for. The years since hadn’t done much except shorten Nic’s fuse.

Marc was usually exempt from the bullying because he was next in line to the throne, the only one who had been old enough to work and make a difference, which took some of the responsibility off Nic’s shoulders.

Not today. Today, Marc had pushed too far.

“I want to know what the hell is wrong with you,” Nic demanded. “I want to know why you’re such a miserable pain in the ass to everyone who is going out of their way to help you.”

“That answer should be obvious.” It was stretched out awkwardly before him, braced at the knee and ankle for support. His busted and surgically pieced together right leg that impeded him from doing just about everything from walking to sleeping because of the never-ending pain.

“That’s your leg, Marc. I’m talking about your shitty attitude.”

Marc didn’t bother replying. The shitty attitude and the answer would be the same. One minute he had been chasing a skip toward the Mexican border over rough terrain. The next he was ejected from his Jeep at ninety miles an hour.

At least the skip hadn’t bolted. The border patrols had had to cut him out of an SUV.

Now, four months later, the skip sat in jail awaiting trial, and Marc was an out-of-work bounty hunter who could barely stand to take a piss let alone drive, living with his mother in this city he’d put behind him long ago.

“You’re not usually so dense,” Marc said. “I didn’t realize becoming a father dulled the edges.”

Nic clutched the steering wheel, knuckles white, visibly restraining himself. Probably wanted to throw a punch. When all else failed, restrain the idiot pissing him off. Made him a helluva cop. Probably would have thrown a punch, too, if all his high-tech computer cop gear hadn’t blocked a decent shot.

“All right, Marc, you listen to me. And you listen good because I will not repeat myself. This is your one and only warning. Next time I will knock you down and keep you there while everyone you’ve been rude to takes a swing. You hear me?”

He expected an answer?

Nic exhaled hard, frustration radiating like heat off asphalt. “I get that it’s taking you a long time to heal. I get that your leg hurts and the therapy is only making the pain worse. But you’re alive, and you have a lot of people who care about you, even though you’re pushing everyone away. The next time you want to open your mouth, just remember that if anything more than a thank-you comes out, my fist will be going in.

“You’ve got Mom worried sick. No one will drop by the house because you’re so miserable to be around. You’ve even managed to piss off my daughter, who’s in love with everyone and everything in this family. Really, man, you’re making a hell of an impression on your niece. That make you proud?”

Pride would imply Marc cared. And Nic’s daughter, Violet, was an impressionable teenager who needed a good dose of reality. She’d lived most of her life without knowing her father or this crazy family. She might have been better off living the rest of her life without knowing them.

“Do you hear me, Marc? I’m not playing. Knock it off with your pity party before you alienate everyone and wind up alone with your busted leg.”

“What makes you think that’s not what I want?”

A valid question. But Marc miscalculated the protection of the cruiser’s computer gear because the next thing he knew, Nic’s fingers were tightening around his collar until he swallowed hard against the pressure.

Damned painkillers were slowing his reactions.

“Get. Over. It.” Nic spit out each word, the veins bulging in his temples.

Marc wouldn’t give his brother the satisfaction of a reaction. He would sit here and asphyxiate. No sweat. A corpse in the front seat of the police chief’s cruiser. Nic was the only one with a problem here.

He knew it, too. His gaze narrowed as he reined in his anger, emphasizing the point with another twist that nearly crushed Marc’s windpipe.

Finally, Nic eased his grip. “You get what I want?”

Under normal circumstance, Marc wouldn’t have taken this crap. But circumstances weren’t normal. He couldn’t throw off his brother. Couldn’t even argue because Nic was right. Marc was a miserable asshole. He knew it.

The drugs were making his brain rot because he didn’t care.

“Unlock this door before I put my fist through the window and you get blood all over your front seat.” He forced the words out through his raw throat.

He wasn’t playing, either. What was one more injury when he was a damned cripple already?

Nic must have recognized it, too, because he finally leaned back and warned, “Get a grip, Marc. Seriously. I get whatever the hell I want. I’m the chief of police in this town and your older brother. You’re screwed either way.”

That much was true.

CHAPTER TWO

Two weeks later

JUST DRIVING THROUGH New Orleans and parking in front of Mama DiLeo’s house made Courtney feel better. As if she were somehow in control of her life. As if she somehow had a say. She didn’t, but for one shining moment, she almost felt that way.

Late summer heat pounded at the windows even this early in the day, but she sat there, ensuring that her emotions wouldn’t leak around the edges. Not usually a problem, but with life upside-down, the self-control she took for granted was giving her fits.

Courtney had been placed on administrative leave from work while the FBI conducted the investigation on Araceli Ruiz-Ortiz—a situation that had gotten worse when the girl they’d presumed was Araceli had also gone missing within days of the classroom fight that revealed this mess.

Life had come to a screeching halt for Courtney. Days that had passed at a frenetic pace and ended with still so much to be done were suddenly empty. Hour after hour, from the time she opened her eyes until they shut of their own accord—who could sleep anymore?—were minutes ticking by with no purpose.

No more caring for kids. No more stabilizing, learning and managing their lives. Her keys to the department had been confiscated. She had been temporarily evicted from her office and told to wait for others to sort out the situation of the mixed-up and missing girls. She had been told there was nothing she could do but catch up on things at home.

But all the jobs Courtney had once intended to squeeze into long weekends had been forgotten—the flower bed around her new shed, wallpapering the tiny interior of her niece’s dollhouse, tiling the wall behind the sink in the kitchen. Somehow she had managed to be more productive during those weekends that passed in the blink of an eye than she did now with day after endless day free.

Two eternal weeks as the FBI launched an investigation with all the deliberation of a law enforcement agency that had no hope of finding Araceli alive. Courtney had been obedient, even patient, but as each day passed with a lot of wasted time and no discernible progress, she had grown frustrated and frightened.

After learning from Giselle that the FBI had been searching for the fake Araceli and hadn’t yet begun a search for the real one, Courtney could no longer wait for others to sort out the situation.

So here she was at Mama DiLeo’s house, two hours before Sunday dinner, armed with the beginnings of a plan.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Courtney opened the car door, finally ready. She had to knock only once before a lilting voice called, “Coming.”

The door swung wide, and Mama DiLeo was there, smiling as she recognized her guest. “Good to see you, honey. Come in.”

Courtney couldn’t quite manage a smile, but Mama smiled for both of them, a smile that made Courtney feel as if she mattered more than anyone in the world.

Mama DiLeo’s unique gift.

She always dressed to the nines, and had rocked a pixie cut for as long as Courtney had known her. While she didn’t stand much more than five feet two, including the heels, this widowed mother of six—five of whom were sons who reeked of testosterone—was a force to reckon with.

“Size doesn’t matter when you have superhero strength,” her oldest son, Nic, always said. “Mama has it in spades.”

Courtney had seen this woman stop arguments with a glare. She could break up a physical tussle between her sons with one sharp command.

Those superpowers and the smile were already smoothing the edges of Courtney’s mood.

“I’m really early,” she said. “But I wanted to talk with you before the house fills up.”

“Perfect. We have lots of catching up to do. I haven’t seen you for weeks.”

Since the bottom had fallen out of her world.

The house was unusually quiet today. During Sunday dinners, conversation swirled from the kitchen to the dining room to the family room down this hallway....

Everyone included. Everyone welcome.

The boundaries that constituted family were fluid with the DiLeos. There was always room for one more at the table. The front door was always open to anyone who needed a meal, a place to stay or some laughter. All that gracious hospitality was due to the enormous heart beating inside this one tiny woman. Mama DiLeo believed family was a function not defined by blood but by love.

Her heels tapped over the tile as she went to the stove and lifted the lid on a simmering pot, stirring the contents with a long-handled spoon. Steam rose, sending up a burst of garlic.

“Hope you’re hungry.” Mama set aside the spoon. “You’re my angel today. I could use help cutting these vegetables. My assistants are running late.”

“I should work since I forgot to bring anything. Not even flowers for your table.” Which only served to emphasize her deteriorating mental state. She never came to Sunday dinner without swinging by the bakery, the florist or the wine shop.

“The only thing you ever need to bring is yourself, honey.”

“That’s all you’re getting today, Mama. Good thing I know my way around a cutting board.”

With a smile, Mama went to the sink and washed her hands. “We need to make a pit stop before we get started. Grab that basket from the baker’s rack, will you please?”

Courtney did as requested and waited while Mama rooted through a drawer to locate a pair of clippers. Then Courtney followed her out the back door.

The scene from the porch was breathtaking. Mama was an inspired gardener, not in the traditional New Orleans sense of manicured lawns. She favored a more natural setting, with slate walkways lined with wildflowers, and benches beneath sprawling oak trees. Geraniums, hosta and butterfly bushes dotted the yard with splashes of color.

Courtney followed Mama to the herb garden, tried to absorb the peaceful setting to calm frayed nerves.

“So, what’s on your mind that you don’t want to discuss in front of everyone?” Mama asked as she knelt beside the garden to sort through a fragrant tangle of parsley and basil plants.

“I wanted to bounce something off you. I need some help, but I’m not sure I should ask for it. I trust you to advise me.”

Mama snipped some leaves and motioned Courtney to bring the basket closer. “What’s up?”

New Orleans might be the thirty-seventh-largest city in the nation, but Mama considered all the inhabitants related.

Family by blood. Family by love. Family by proximity. Family by work. Family by church. Family by krewe. A category for everyone she welcomed into her world. Courtney was one of the elite few with an official family connection. Sort of. Her brother Mac had married Mama’s unofficial daughter, Harley, who had become attached to the family at a young age.

There was no possible way Mama didn’t already know how life had blown up in Courtney’s face.

“I’d like to talk with Marc about my work situation, Mama. He tracks down people, and I need his opinion.”

Mama sank back on her haunches and glanced up. “That wasn’t what I was expecting. Not Nic?”

“We both work for state agencies, and I would never put him in a position of conflict.”

Mama frowned but conceded the point with a nod. “I already know why you don’t want to ask Harley and your brother.”

“All my family wants to help, of course, but everyone is so worried about Harley and Mac that I intentionally downplayed the situation so they wouldn’t start worrying about me, too.”

With Harley on bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy, the whole family was in an uproar already. Mac was wrapping up their cases at their investigative agency and keeping up with their daughter’s schedule, which was another full-time job. That had been the only positive to this situation—all the free time had allowed Courtney to help by chauffeuring her niece around.

“They won’t be happy when they find out.”

That was an understatement. “They’re going to kill me. But I’ll deal with them when I have to.”

Mama pulled a face, and for a long moment, she just knelt there, clippers dangling from idle hands, clearly waiting. “Marc, hmm?”

“I would never dream of bothering him right now, but there’s a lot riding on the outcome.”

Children’s lives.

Then there was Courtney’s career. Giselle’s reputation. Nanette’s legacy. Nanette above all provided a convenient scapegoat for the FBI. Her heartbroken family, still struggling with grief, faced a media storm that would trash a woman who couldn’t defend herself. Courtney didn’t know what had happened to Araceli, but she knew Nanette would not have been negligent.

Courtney would not stand by and watch people she cared for take the fall any more than she would take the fall herself. She would not stand by while the FBI took their sweet time covering their butts while there were children missing.

“That’s what I want your opinion about. I know how difficult Marc’s recovery has been. If you don’t think it’s a good idea to bring up work, I will not open my mouth.”

For a moment, they considered each other. Then Mama’s eyes fluttered shut, and she inhaled deeply. She remained that way so long that Courtney felt compelled to look away, as if she had distressed a woman who didn’t need any more of a burden than to worry about the son she had almost lost.

Courtney would be left to accept that she was back to square one, all alone with the responsibility for a child’s life, whether or not she was on administrative leave. Where Courtney was didn’t matter.

Where Araceli was did.

But none of this was Mama’s problem, and Courtney had no right to put this on her. While she trusted Mama to be honest with her opinion about Marc, Courtney also knew that saying no wasn’t so simple for a nurturing woman who cared about people as much as she did. Mama was already worried about Marc. Now she’d start worrying about Courtney, too.

As the seconds ticked by, undisturbed except by the bees buzzing from flower to flower and squirrels scampering overhead, Courtney convinced herself that this was the stupidest, most selfish idea she’d ever come up with. She was being totally unfair.

Mama slowly rose to her feet.

Courtney offered a hand. “I am so sorry. I know you’re worried about Marc, and the last thing I should do is give you something else to worry about. Please forget I said anything at all, and you have to promise me you won’t start worrying about me.”

Mama chuckled. Dropping sprigs of parsley into the basket, she lifted her gaze to Courtney’s, eyes alight with laughter.

“Why are you apologizing, honey?” she asked. “You’re an answer to a prayer.”

* * *

MARC WINCED AS he put his weight on his leg, the pain that screamed through him literally stealing his breath. Why had he bothered getting out of bed?

Stupid question. If he stayed in bed too long his leg would stiffen and he wouldn’t be able to walk all day.

Making his way down the stairs carefully, clumsily, he clung to the banister for support while trying not to drop his cane, his leg making each step dangerous. With his luck, he’d fall and land on his damned head, and Vince would finally convince their mother to turn the downstairs office into an invalid’s bedroom complete with hospital bed. Of course, if Marc had any real luck, the fall might kill him. He would have been okay with that, too.

By the time he made his way to the last step, he was forced to stop and give his leg a break. The house was quiet, which was a good thing because another hour and everyone and their brother would show up for dinner. He needed caffeine before he could decide whether to contend with a shower and civilized company, or be uncivilized and hide in his room.

Either one meant tackling the stairs again.

From the hallway, he saw his mother in front of the sink. She must have heard him because she turned. For a split second, her expression told him that watching him hurt. Even placing his body weight on one side didn’t do a thing to minimize the pain of the leg he nearly dragged along. Throw in the fact that he was still half-drugged, and he must look like hell.

She quickly masked her reaction with a smile. “Good morning, sunshine.” Grabbing a mug from the drain board, she headed toward the coffeepot. “We have company.”

“There’s a surprise,” he shot back, deadpan.

Moving into the kitchen, he found their guest standing over the table chopping vegetables on a cutting board.

She met his gaze with gray eyes so clear they were almost startling. Or maybe it was the onions she was chopping that made her eyes seem so bright. He could smell them from here.

“Hola, Mac’s sister.”

“Hi, Marc,” was all she said, her smile forced.

“You remember Courtney,” his mother prompted, narrowing her gaze so he knew she didn’t like his rudeness.

Courtney Gerard was more than one of his mother’s strays. Courtney had a family connection—not blood but close enough that he should have known her name.

He remembered a lot more than her name.

Courtney was Marc’s Bathsheba. The exact type of woman who managed to catch his eye whether he was interested in her or not. Everything about her was long, from her willowy body and shapely legs to the glossy hair that flowed in an inky wave down her back. He remembered her all right, and it annoyed the hell out of him every time he saw her.