The Baby Cop

“Time flies when you’re having fun, Detective,” Brian said around a cockeyed grin. “It’s been nine months since Manny strutted around the office bragging that he was going to be a first-time dad. He told us the minute the rabbit died.”

“What cave have you been living in, Fitzgerald? Rabbits no longer have to kick the bucket. Now they have this innocuous little strip of litmus paper that turns a different color if the lady’s pregnant.”

“Have a lot of experience checking those strips, do you, Knight?”

“The sum total of my experience comes from having six sisters, Fitzgerald, five of whom married. Plus, one of my brothers has a wife. So get outta here. You must have reports to write or something.”

“Always. But I actually stopped in to pass on some information. Dani asked me to tell you that her brother’s wife, Maddy Hargreaves, has been approved to take up to three foster kids.” He dug in his shirt pocket, pulled out a pink message sheet and slid it across the desk to Ethan.

“Good for Maddy. She and Greg have that great old six-bedroom house down in the central area. Their Josh needs to be around other kids. Did Maddy tell Dani what ages she’d prefer?”

Brian shook his head. “Oh, wait. Dani said something about preschool or kindergartners. Her message was a little garbled, what with all the complaints about her ogre of a boss.”

“Regan Grant?” Ethan stopped folding the message and pinned Brian with a wary look.

“One and the same. I hear you’ve met Her Royal Battle-ax. I probably don’t have to tell you that rumors say she’s gunning for Desert City’s favorite shining knight.”

Ethan flushed. If he had to have a nickname, he preferred the Baby Cop. “Word travels,” he murmured. “Guess Mitch shot off his mouth about me tangling with her, huh?”

“You duked it out with Grant?” Brian’s eyes widened. “Wow. Is that why she climbed all over Dani about making sure Maddy’s authorization for foster care goes through the proper channels?”

Ethan shook his head grimly. “Kick me for finding anything attractive about the new supervisor. I’ll take someone with Anna’s lived-in face and big heart over Regan Grant’s angel looks anyday. She’s got a rule book in place of her ticker.”

“She pretty?”

“Who?” Ethan asked idly as he tucked the message into his jeans pocket.

Fitzgerald threw up his hands. “Battle-ax Grant. Who were we just discussing?”

“Huh. She’s easy enough on the eyes.” Ethan rolled his own upward, too clearly recalling the tumble of blond curls that—more than once—he’d pictured tickling his naked chest. Ethan had resented the fantasy, since the woman had torn a strip off him. And she’d given him no reason to think she wouldn’t do it again if the opportunity presented itself.

“Hmm. From the way Dani talks about her, I figured Grant’s got fangs, claws and one beady eye, all wrapped in a package of green scales.”

“Hardly,” Ethan snorted. “If you’re just looking, she’s a babe.” His description of Regan Grant was punctuated by a huge yawn. “Babe or not,” he muttered, pushing back a sleeve to check his watch, “I can’t sit here all night discussing her. Tomorrow Taz and I are visiting the elementary schools. I’ve gotta be one of the good guys. Can’t go in with bloodshot eyes.”

“How many years have you been putting on a uniform and going into the schools? Don’t you get tired of answering the same questions over and over?”

Ethan leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his neck. “I took over the Stranger Danger program when Granddad retired. Must be ten years ago. And no, I never get tired of it. Those little kids are cute as buttons and clever as the dickens.”

Fitzgerald grunted. “So where do we go wrong? How come I’m hauling so many of their smart-asses in for B & E’s, carrying concealed and worse?”

Snapping forward in his chair, Ethan walked his computer through shutdown. Then he stood and shrugged into his leather jacket. After waking the slumbering Taz, he accompanied Brian to the door. “Somewhere between cute and clever and those smoking guns lurks a string of bad role models. How many kids see Dad drunk and disorderly or beating up on Mom? Sometimes both parents work sixty hours a week. Home gets lonely, so they find friends on the street. Sometimes it starts with empty kitchens and emptier bellies. The first thing they swipe is a piece of fruit or a can of soup. Kids don’t go bad by themselves, Brian. They have help.”

The younger policeman sighed. “Now you sound like Dani. She’s a big one for pointing out why kids go bad. Maybe I need to switch jobs. I see so much juvenile crime, I’m not sure I want to bring a kid into this world. You’ve got twice the years on me in law enforcement, Ethan. Is that why you haven’t gotten married and had kids? ’Cause you deal with so many screwed-up families?”

Ethan slowed his walk. “My own family isn’t screwed up. Like I said, five of my six sisters are married and so’s my brother Matt. All happily. So, no, I’m not afraid of having kids. I think I’d be a good dad.”

“Then why are you still single?”

“Good question. If you ask my mom, she’ll say it’s because I’m too busy trying to save the world.” A grin altered Ethan’s tired features.

“Yeah. Relationships take a lot of time and energy,” Brian agreed. “Sometimes I go two weeks without seeing Dani. Both of us have hectic jobs and erratic hours. I’ve started to wonder if we’re crazy to get married.”

Ethan clapped a hand on the younger man’s back. “The wedding is what—three months away? You probably have prewedding jitters. Right now Danielle’s working hard to get her master’s. Once she’s finished with that, you’ll have more time together.”

“Thanks for the encouragement, Ethan.” Brian hung back and let Ethan proceed alone through the busy central office.

Ethan couldn’t say why, but after he’d climbed into his SUV and headed home, he felt unsettled and vaguely jealous of Brian’s impending marriage. Headed home to a large empty house. A house once filled with the laughter of a boisterous family. A house always in need of cleaning because Ethan rarely spent enough daylight hours there to see how the dust had gathered.

“Why aren’t I married, Taz?” Ethan often had conversations with his dog. He could count on Taz to be a sympathetic listener and he often found it helpful to talk through his problems aloud.

Pulling his wet nose away from the front window, Taz barked. He placed a paw on Ethan’s right forearm and whined several times.

“I know, buddy. I haven’t been serious about looking for a wife. But according to Matt, I like living the life of a playboy. Playboy—ha! How many months has it been since I took a woman out? Two? Three? Maybe four?” Ethan tugged disconsolately on the big Alsatian’s left ear. The dog lay down, his chin resting on Ethan’s thigh.

“Before you know it, the best years of my life will have slipped away, Taz. Tomorrow I need to dig out my address book and see about getting back into circulation. Too bad Brooke Miller moved to Flagstaff. Her first-graders loved her. And I—ahem.” Ethan cleared his throat. “Speaking of teachers…if Becky Russell’s still at Cactus Elementary, maybe I’ll talk her into biking out to Saguaro National Park. What do you think, old boy? We could pick her up right after school and go for a burger after our ride.”

Taz raised his head and woofed happily.

“Dang. No, we can’t. I forgot all those messages about Regan Grant’s appointments. She’s going to visit Mom, a couple of my sisters and several wives of guys on the force.” He frowned. “You know something, Taz? She’s systematically checking on all my foster parents. Either she’s out to get me—or out to get them.” He paused for a moment. “What I’ll do is pick up Jeremy after school and take him to the folks’ place to shoot a few baskets. That way I’ll be there when Grant arrives. Just to see what’s got in her mind. I’m not too worried about her yanking kids from Jenny or Erica or the younger foster moms, but what if she thinks my folks are too old to deal with Jeremy? His record reads like a dictionary of juvenile crime.”

Jeremy Smith had been labeled a badass from the age of seven. Ethan’s dad had booked the kid on counts of preliminary arson, fighting and petty theft. The boy’s alcoholic mother couldn’t handle him and didn’t want to. By the age of ten he was a ward of the court. Joseph and Elaine Knight were his fifth set of foster parents. After four years, the boy turned his life around. Already he had basketball talent scouts scoping him out. Ethan and his brother Jacob had taught Jeremy his first one-on-one at the hoop. Now Jeremy could cream either one of them or both at the same time.

Ethan grinned as he parked in front of his house. If Regan Grant saw him take a drubbing at the hands of a fifteen-year-old, maybe she’d lighten up a bit.

AT FOUR O’CLOCK the next day, Ethan, sweating like a racehorse and six points behind Jeremy, was about to ask for a water break when Regan Grant arrived for her appointment with Elaine Knight.

Grant started to turn her silver Honda Accord into the driveway, apparently saw the players and backed out to park at the curb. She climbed from her vehicle, briefcase in hand, only to catch sight of Taz bounding toward her, tongue lolling out one side of his mouth.

Ethan saw how fast Regan dived back into her car. Holding up a hand to halt Jeremy’s drive to the basket, Ethan snatched the ball and held it loosely against his right side. Was it just Taz, Ethan wondered, or did the woman have a thing about all dogs? “Jeremy,” he murmured, dropping his other hand on the boy’s bony shoulder. “The new CHC supervisor is here to talk to Mom. I think Taz makes her nervous. Could you shut him in the backyard?”

A sullen frown marred Jeremy’s sweat-sheened brown forehead. “What’s she want here? Let’s sic Taz on her so she’ll go back where she belongs.”

“Easy, kid. It’s a routine visit. Remember, Anna died before she could petition the court to let you change your name to Knight—after your birth mom nixed the folk’s adoption request. Maybe Ms. Grant will carry on where Anna left off.”

Jeremy had a wonderfully sunny smile when he turned up the wattage. It broke free now as he hurried to take Taz as Ethan requested.

Regan had leaned over the passenger seat and rolled the window down an inch. “I don’t know why you’re here, Detective Knight, but please restrain your dog. I have a four-o’clock appointment at this home, and I’m already late.” She fumbled in her briefcase and pulled out a card. “My appointment is with Elaine Knight. Oh.” She leveled her gaze on Ethan. “Is Elaine your wife?”

Ethan laughed wickedly while blotting sweat from his brow. “Elaine is my mother. I’m not married,” he said, slanting her a glance to see if the news of his single status affected her. If it did, she covered well. He was almost disappointed. “Have you always been so skittish around dogs?” he asked bluntly.

“Dog is man’s best friend. Not woman’s.” Regan peered up the driveway and in both directions along the street. “Is he gone or merely lying in wait somewhere?”

Swiveling, Ethan saw Jeremy close the side gate and head toward them again. “Taz is confined, Ms. Grant.” Jogging across the driveway, Ethan assisted Regan from her car. “I’m no psychologist,” he murmured, feeling her arm tremble. “But you seem beyond skittish. More like phobic, I’d say.” He had a niggling urge to bedevil her. Bending close to her ear, he whispered, “Well, Ms. Grant, oh, great master of sociology and psychology, have you ever sought counseling for your problem?”

She jerked from his hold so fast Ethan didn’t know exactly what he’d done wrong. But he felt bad for razzing her.

“If you’re hoping to divert my attention and keep me from examining this foster placement, I assure you it won’t work. I found Jeremy Smith’s case history most interesting.” Squaring her shoulders, she started up the walkway.

Curious, Ethan followed. “Interesting how?” he challenged. “Because of the way he’s done a one hundred percent turnaround in the time he’s lived with my parents?”

Her hand raised to knock on the door, Regan glanced back, giving Ethan a cool look. “Interesting in that I watched students in this neighborhood get off the school bus a while ago. It made me wonder why you would place an African-American child in an all-white neighborhood.”

Ethan, who’d just leaned forward for a better whiff of Regan Grant’s spicy exotic perfume, stopped dead. “What exactly are you trying to say? It doesn’t take an Einstein to note the marked decrease in Jeremy’s encounters with the law since he came here.” He glowered at Regan, then spun to see that Jeremy hadn’t heard her statement. Fortunately the kid had found another basketball and was practicing free throws.

“You mean it never occurred to you that the boy might be intimidated at being ripped from his ethnic roots?”

Ethan’s arm tightened on the ball he still held. Of all the things she might have taken him to task for—like the flouting of procedures or the nepotism angle—the battle she actually chose floored Ethan. Almost as suddenly as he’d tensed, he felt an urge to laugh. He couldn’t wait to see how she’d react when Jeremy set her straight.

“Well, nothing to say for yourself, I see.” Regan again raised a fist to knock. “Those are the types of considerations trained social workers know to look for when deciding on placement. We take the whole child into account.”

Ethan blocked her knock by reaching over her shoulder to shove open the unlocked door. “Mom,” he yelled. “I’m showing Ms. Grant into the living room. She’s here for your Family Assistance appointment.”

“I like the foster families I work with to call me Regan,” she said while attempting to shut Ethan outside. “I’ll wait right here in the entry until Elaine comes,” she told him.

Her obvious efforts to get rid of him didn’t deter Ethan. “In this house, Family Assistance appointments involve everyone, Regan. I see my dad has driven in. He’ll bring Jeremy.” Ethan’s smile was charming if not slightly provocative. “I’m so glad you want to use first names. Calling you Ms. Grant sounds so stuffy. And now you’ll call me Ethan, of course.” Taking her arm, he propelled her into a homey room that held two leather couches, each with a matching chair. A large beehive fireplace took up all of one corner next to an arched north-facing window, which let in the afternoon sunlight. Family pictures covered the largest wall and spilled over onto every available surface in the room. School photos, mixed with graduations, weddings and christenings. At least four school pictures of Jeremy hung among the others.

Regan, who’d grown up in a divorced family, estranged from her mother all these years, found the Knights’ gallery fascinating. Her dad, who’d had custody of her, was a busy executive. Regan had spent her formative years in boarding schools. Summers she lived with Great-aunt Roberta, a terribly allergic soul who kept a pristine dust-free house. Possibly why Regan herself maintained an orderly apartment.

Elaine Knight and her husband, Joseph, walked in together. Short and plump, yet still youthful-looking at fifty-eight and after bearing nine children, Elaine immediately noticed Regan’s interest in the photographs. She passed the coffeepot and plate of cookies she was carrying to her husband, who hadn’t changed out of his county sheriff’s uniform. Hooking an arm through Regan’s, Ethan’s mother proudly walked her through a family rundown.

“Hey, cool, Mom. You made my favorite cookies,” Jeremy announced, lumbering across the living room in his untied size-thirteen sneakers.

Elaine glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “There’s milk and juice in the fridge, Jeremy. I also left an entire plateful of cookies on the kitchen counter just for you.” Turning back to Regan, she said, “Otherwise the rest of us wouldn’t get any. My three older boys could take or leave raisin-filled cookies. Jeremy would have me make them three times a week.”

Turning from the wall of photos, Regan set her briefcase on the coffee table. “I only see three boys in your family portrait, Elaine. Have you lost a son?” she asked softly, her eyes filled with sympathy.

Elaine’s brow crinkled in consternation. “Why, no. We’ve been exceptionally blessed in that way.” Her husband, too, appeared puzzled.

Ethan, busily pouring coffee into the mugs his dad had set on the table, smiled as he handed Regan her cup. “I think Mom meant three boys older than Jeremy.”

Lips pursed, Regan accepted the cup and sat. “Jeremy isn’t your son.”

Joseph Knight, a big man who wore his uniform well, ran a hand through his full head of still-black hair. “He’s been our son for the last five years. And we’re as proud of him as we are of Matthew, Jacob and Ethan,” he said, reaching out a hand to catch Jeremy’s wrist. The gangly boy tumbled down on the couch beside him.

“The folks wanted to adopt Jeremy,” Ethan said, passing Regan the plate of golden-brown cookies.

“Really? I didn’t see mention of that in the file.” She bit into the cookie as she removed a folder from her briefcase and flipped through it.

Ethan studied Jeremy a moment. The boy had begun to crack his knuckles. “Maybe Jeremy ought to supply the particulars.”

“My mom…my real mom, she threw a royal fit. She don’t want me, but she don’t want nobody…uh…anybody else to adopt me. Mom and Dad Knight made me understand how she might not want to turn loose of me. And Anna…uh…Mrs. Murphy talked to her about me legally changing my last name to Knight. As kind of a compromise, she said. Anna was gonna file the papers, but then she died.”

“You want to change your name?” Regan scribbled on the file. “I take it you’d like to live here permanently despite the racial incompatibility in the neighborhood?”

“What racial incompatibility?” Elaine, Joseph and Jeremy said simultaneously.

They looked so genuinely stupefied by her question that Regan, who choked on her cookie, turned to Ethan for clarification. He, in turn, deferred to Jeremy.

“But…but all my friends are welcome here,” Jeremy blustered. “Besides, Tony Garcia lives three houses away. And Bill Washington’s on the next block.”

Joseph Knight leaned thick wrists on his knees. “Either Ethan or I take Jeremy to the Boys’ Club once a week to mingle and play basketball. The school he attends is nicely integrated. And our daughter Erica has an adopted Vietnamese daughter.”

Regan held up a staying palm. Yet it was to Ethan that she looked when she stammered out an apology. “I’m sorry. But…but…such issues matter in some placements. Jeremy is obviously happy here and quite well-adjusted.” She closed the file, tucked it into her briefcase and snapped the locks. Rising, she thrust a hand toward Joe and then Elaine. “Those cookies were the best I’ve ever tasted. I don’t blame Jeremy for wanting them three times a week.” Regan extracted a business card from her purse and passed it to Elaine. “If you share recipes, I’d love a copy.”

Ethan’s mother beamed and so did he. His dark eyes roamed over Regan’s face and settled on her lips, where a cookie crumb still clung. He tucked the fingers of both hands into his pants pockets to keep from dusting off the crumbs. “Before I leave today,” he blurted, “I’ll write the recipe out. I’ll drop it by your office tomorrow.”

Surprised and flustered by his generosity, Regan stammered her thanks. Then she remembered he didn’t travel anywhere without that huge dog. “Uh, don’t put yourself out,” she said in a changed voice. “I prefer my staff not deal with personal business on company time. I need to set a good example. Jeremy,” she said abruptly, careful not to glance toward Ethan. “I’m also giving you one of my cards. I’ll follow up on your name-change request. But should you ever need me for any reason, I want you to feel free to call. My home number is the second one.”

Almost before Ethan got over the sting of her obvious rebuke, she’d gone. All that lingered in the room where he stood alone, the others having trailed her to the door, was a cloud of her perfume. He sniffed the air, telling himself he didn’t give a damn what made Regan Grant run hot and cold. Only, the heightened beat of his pulse told a different story.

“Too bad she doesn’t conduct personal business at the office,” Ethan muttered under his breath as he made his way to the kitchen, determined to copy his mom’s raisin-filled cookie recipe. He found a pencil, then dug the recipe out of a gaily flowered box and sat on one of the counter stools. As he painstakingly listed ingredients, Ethan groaned. He could well imagine what rumors would fly if the guys at the station ever got wind of this. A detective trading recipes. He’d never hear the end of it.

CHAPTER THREE

OFFICE MACHINES hummed and staff chattered around Regan as she unloaded file folders from her briefcase and stacked them on the counter.

“Are you completely finished with these, Ms. Grant?” a young clerk asked. “I can tag them for holding if you think you’ll be using them again.”

“I’ve dictated follow-up reports on this batch. I can’t see any reason to keep them out. Oh, wait.” Regan thumbed through the stack and removed the file on Jeremy Smith. “The foster family for this young man said Anna planned to petition the court for a change of Jeremy’s last name. Is there a second file or some other record of how far along his request has gone?”

“I’ll check. I shouldn’t be long.” The clerk—Abby, according to her name tag—took the file and disappeared into the record room.

A caseworker who’d been talking with two colleagues broke away from the group and approached Regan. “Last night I received calls from two of our foster parents. Both felt unprepared for your impromptu visits yesterday.”

Regan tapped her fingers on the counter. “I gave everyone the standard two-hour notice. Some families actually had more than two hours, because I phoned everyone before I left the office. Nothing was out of order. Why would they feel a need to complain, I wonder?”

Terry Mickelson leaned on the counter and lowered her voice. “I didn’t mean to imply they’d complained. More like they…sounded curious. Perhaps you weren’t aware that Jennifer Layton and Erica Barnard aren’t run-of-the-mill foster moms.”

“No?” Regan began to feel she’d stepped on a tread-mill somewhere that had no off switch. “What are they, then?”

“They only accept kids through a temporary urgent-care safe-home section of the program instituted by Anna and Ethan, you know.” She smiled and gave a dainty shrug.

Regan crossed her arms. “I’m afraid I don’t know. Enlighten me, please. By Anna and Ethan, I assume you mean my predecessor and Detective Knight of the Desert City PD.”

“Uh…yes.” Terry glanced worriedly across the room at her friends who’d stopped talking to listen. The office fell silent enough to hear the tick of the wall clock. “Our records probably don’t indicate that Jennifer and Erica are Ethan’s sisters. Jen is a commercial artist who works out of her home. As does Erica. Work from home, I mean. She’s a CAD engineer. Computer aided design,” Terry supplied when Regan lifted one eyebrow.

“Detective Knight’s sisters? I don’t believe that came up in our conversations. We briefly discussed their occupations. Relative to how they combine full-time careers with providing state-supported child care. Like I said, they passed admirably.” Regan allowed a smile for the first time. “In fact, I wish there was a way to videotape one of their average days to use as a training film for prospective foster parents. It’s a shame they only provide temporary urgent care for us.”

Terry relaxed a body grown tense. “Erica and Jenny are great, aren’t they? Mostly I think their concerns stemmed from the fact that you seemed to single out their family for review. Elaine Knight is their mother. Lexie Knight’s a sister-in-law, and Jessica Talbot is a first cousin. I believe that today you’re scheduled to see Melissa Fogerty and Elizabeth St. George, two more of Ethan’s sisters.”

“As they all seem to be related, I suppose it does appear I’ve chosen to pick on the Knights.” Regan raised her voice enough so that the staff straining to hear could do so without effort. “I’m planning to review all families who came into our program unconventionally. The people you named and some whose files I still have in my office skipped the application process—an aberration we’ll avoid in the future. I’m quite sure our caseworkers know proper procedure, but it never hurts to have refreshers. To that end, I’ll be addressing the topic on Monday at our regular meeting, and the people under review may be asked to make proper application.”