Fugitive Mom

“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.