To Love a Cop

He stepped inside, his shoulder brushing her, his gaze skimming the room in what she guessed was automatic assessment.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, and closed the front door.

He hesitated momentarily, making her aware none of the furniture was built on a scale for a man his size, then chose one end of the sofa. She sat in her favorite easy chair facing him over the coffee table.

“I knew your husband,” he said abruptly. “We patrolled together for about a year early on in our careers. I’d been on the job a little longer than Matt had, but not much.”

She suddenly felt stripped bare. All she could do was hold up her chin. “So I suppose you know our whole history.”

A couple of lines deepened on his forehead. “Your whole history? No. I remember hearing about the accident, and I was sorry about what happened with Matt. I actually came to the funeral. You and I spoke briefly afterward.”

She had been mercifully numb by that time. She remembered a succession of police officers, all in uniform, one by one expressing their regrets. Some she knew, many she didn’t. She had been grateful they had come. If they hadn’t, who would have? Her own family was so small. And Matt’s—

Laura shook off that memory.

“Where did you find Jake?”

“The gun show out at the Expo Center.”

“What?” She half stood, then made herself resume her seat. Oh, dear God.

“I didn’t recognize him. I was only concerned because I thought he must have cut school.”

“He did.”

He bent his head in agreement. “He admitted he had. He says he’s eleven? I guessed him to be older than that.”

“He’s tall for his age. And...mature looking.” Jake’s looks had come from his dad. The resemblance was becoming more striking all the time. She tried to hide how that made her feel.

Detective Winter sighed and rolled his shoulders a little. “I’ll be honest. I might not have paid as much attention if he’d been looking at BB guns like you’d expect a kid to do. But he wasn’t. He seemed a little too interested in the kind of handgun I carry. I thought you needed to know that he’d cut school because he wanted real bad to finger some Sig Sauers and Berettas and the like.”

She looked pointedly at the big black gun at his hip.

“I carry a weapon because my job demands it,” he said, more mildly than she probably deserved.

After a moment, she nodded.

“Were you aware of his interest, Ms. Vennetti?”

She started to shake her head, squeezed her eyes shut and finally nodded. When she met his eyes, she knew she wasn’t hiding her desperation. But she hadn’t had anybody to talk to about this. Hadn’t wanted anyone else to know. Certainly not her sister or brother-in-law. What if they decided Jake was a danger to their kids?

“I— He was only five and a half when it happened.”

The kindness and sympathy in this man’s expression made her feel shaky. She didn’t want to be weakened, but...was it so bad, just for a minute, to feel grateful for someone who seemed to understand? “A little boy,” he said. “Too young to know the difference between a real gun and a toy gun.”

Her head bobbed. “Yes. Except... The boy who died was Jake’s first cousin, Marco. They were best friends. It was really gruesome. The bullet hit him in the head.” She hardly knew her hand had lifted and that she was lightly touching her cheek, letting him know where the bullet had entered Marco’s head. “I don’t think Jake will ever forget.”

As if she could.

“No.”

“He didn’t see his father, thank heavens. At least Matt didn’t do that to us,” she said bitterly.

“But you found him.”

She shuddered. “Yes.”

Detective Winter swore, rose to his feet and came to her, sitting on the coffee table close enough for him to take her hands. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to carry something like that with you.”

She had the oddest moment of bemusement. A man was holding her hands in a warm, comforting clasp. He leaned forward in concern, so close to her that she saw his eyes were hazel, mostly green streaked with gold, and that his lashes were short but thick. If she were to lift her hand to his hard jaw, she’d feel the rasp of his late afternoon beard growing in.

A near complete stranger was holding her hands.

She could not afford to think of him as a man. He wasn’t here because he was interested in her. He was here because he’d caught Jake at a gun show.

All her fears rushed back. Even so, she couldn’t make herself retreat from that comforting clasp. She looked down to see the way his thumbs moved gently, almost caressingly, on the backs of her hands.

“I put him in counseling, of course,” she said in a stifled voice. “He...regressed, after Matt killed himself.”

“Of course he would.”

She nodded. “But he’s done really well. He makes friends. He’s close to a straight-A student. I thought...I thought we were through any danger period.”

Detective Winter waited with seemingly limitless patience. Ethan, that was his first name, she thought, finding it fit the man.

“Only, recently I’ve caught him watching TV shows he knows I don’t allow. All he seems to want to watch are police shows. There’s that reality one.” He nodded. “And he’s slipped a few times and said things, so I know he’s seeing some pretty violent stuff at friends’ houses. Movies I’d never let him go to or rent. And when the news is dominated by some awful crime, he’ll stay glued to CNN or whatever channel follows it.”

“He’s a teenage boy. His father was a police officer. His interest might be natural.”

“Why would he admire that, given what happened because his father carried a gun?” she said sharply.

Detective Winter’s eyebrows twitched, but he didn’t say anything. He straightened a little, though, and his clasp on her hands loosened.

“And then I was changing the sheets on Jake’s bed,” she went on, her voice slowing. “I found some gun catalogs under the mattress.” She gave a sad excuse for a laugh. “Playboy magazine wouldn’t have shocked me. These...seemed way more obscene.”

“Understandably.”

“And now this.” She searched his face, as if she’d find any answers.

“Matt must have had friends Jake could talk to about some of this.”

“Friends?” She huffed. “You mean from the department? No, they all did a disappearing act. He was probably their worst nightmare come true. Why hang around to watch the epilogue?”

The detective’s dark eyebrows snapped together. “None of his friends on the job stuck around to be sure you and Jake were all right?”

“No. I quit hearing from the wives right away, too. I definitely embodied their worst nightmares.” She didn’t admit that, as angry as she’d been, Matt’s cop friends and their wives were the last people she’d have wanted to hear from or see. She might have ignored their calls.

Had ignored some.

But there hadn’t been all that many, and they’d tailed off within a couple of weeks. Nobody had been persistent enough to come by when she couldn’t be reached by phone. Out of sight, out of mind.

“You have family?” he asked.

“My sister and her husband and kids. They’re the only reason I didn’t move away. Sometimes I think I should have.”

Those eyes, clear as they were, had somehow softened now. “Fewer reminders.”

“For Jake,” she said briskly, sitting straighter and sliding her hands from his. She watched as he flattened them on his chino-clad thighs, long, taut muscles outlined beneath the cotton fabric. “I could move to Beijing and I wouldn’t forget a thing.”

He saw deeper than she liked. “Matt had a big family.”

“Yes, he did.”

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember seeing them at his funeral.”

“That’s because they weren’t there.”

“His parents didn’t come to his funeral.”

“Nope.” Anger had long since buried any pain at that loss. She lived with a whole lot of anger. “Neither did a single one of his three brothers and two sisters.”

“They ditched you?” he said incredulously. “Because of a tragic accident?”

“Marco’s father, Rinaldo, is the brother Matt was closest to. They had...a really horrible scene and never spoke again. I thought...after Matt died...” She grimaced. “But no. Either they held Jake responsible even if he was only five years old, or they blamed me.” For good reason.

“What did you say?” This man, this stranger, was glowering at her.

She gaped at him.

“You think it was your fault?”

Oh, no. She’d said that aloud.

But it was the truth.

“I went outside to water the annuals in pots and left two five-year-old boys alone in the house.” For five or ten minutes. That’s all. But it had been long enough. “I should have checked first to be sure Matt locked up his gun. I’d gotten so I usually did, because he was so careless with it. But that one time...that one time...” Her voice wobbled. She couldn’t finish.

He gripped one of her hands again. “Laura. It is Laura, right?”

“How did you know?”

He shook his head. “It stuck in my mind. The gun was Matt’s. Not yours.” His jaw muscles flexed, and his gaze bored into hers. “He’d carried it for years. He was a professional. He knew better. Him leaving that damn gun where his little boy could get his hands on it was not your responsibility.”

There was so much grit in those last words, she quailed. Then she squared her shoulders. “I did a couple of things wrong that, coupled with what Matt did wrong, led to something horrible. I will not forget my part.”

Ethan Winter just shook his head.

“Would you take advice from me?”

She eyed him warily. “It depends what that advice is.”

“I saw Jake’s expression when he looked at those guns today. Whatever is going on in his head is powerful. You’re not going to be able to stamp it out by making guns taboo. I’d strongly suggest you consider enrolling him in a gun safety class—”

This time, she jerked back, pulling her hand from his and curling both hands into fists. “You think I should put a gun in his hands? No! No, no, no. I swore I would never allow one in my house again.” She glared at his holstered weapon. “I shouldn’t have let you in. Not carrying that.”

His eyebrows drew together. The silence bristled with too much said. After a moment he nodded and pushed himself to his feet.

“I’ll leave, then. I think you’re wrong, but you have a right to make the decision.”

Her “thank you” rang of sarcasm.

He took a business card from a pocket. “My cell phone number is on the back. If there’s anything I can do for you or Jake, call.”

She was careful not to let her fingers touch his as she took the card, then looked down at it. Detective Ethan Winter. What did he mean by anything? Would he show up if she needed wood split next winter? A ride to work when her car was in the shop?

“May I say goodbye to Jake?” he asked.

He’d been...nice. She hadn’t. Taking a deep breath, she nodded.

She stayed where he was when he went down the hall. Heard him rap on the door, then the bass rumble of his voice, but couldn’t make out words or hear anything Jake said.

A minute later, the detective came back down the hall. She stood to see him out. He nodded politely as he passed her and crossed the porch, his expression cop-guarded.

“Detective,” she said to his back.

He paused at the foot of the stairs.

She made herself say it. “Thank you. For bringing Jake home, and for listening to me.”

He turned at that, searching her face. “I meant it,” he said. “If he does anything that worries you, or you need to talk, call me.”

Why did he care? The fact that he so obviously did caused a lump to swell in her throat. Around it, Laura said again, “Thank you.”

He dipped his head one more time, acknowledging her words, then crossed her small front yard with his long, fluid stride, got into his SUV and drove away without, as far as she could see, so much as looking back.

CHAPTER TWO

THE WAITRESS SLID the plate with his food in front of Ethan, and he glanced up from his phone. “Thanks.”

Damn, had her breast brushed his shoulder, or had he imagined it?

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked, her voice just a little sultry.

Maybe she couldn’t help sounding that way.

“Not right now. Thanks.”

The hamburger and French fries smelled really good. He set aside the phone, on which he’d been checking email. A day off didn’t mean he didn’t want to know what he was missing. Along with several other active cases, he had been working a disturbing series of residential vandalisms. Four so far. All the owners had last names that sounded Jewish. Most of the shit he dealt with these days was anti-gay, with some anti-Muslim and anti-black thrown in for variety. Anti-Semitic, that was more unusual, in this part of the country anyway.

The ironic thing was, only two of the families were actually practicing Jews. The husband and father whose home had been hit most recently had shaken his head in bewilderment. “I’m Lutheran. The family has intermarried so much since my great-great-whatever came through Ellis Island, calling me Jewish is like calling some mutt at the animal shelter a golden retriever when he’s short-haired, has stubby legs and stand-up ears but just happens to be yellow.” His face had hardened. “My last name is Finkel, but until now that didn’t mean anything.”

The swastika spray painted in red on his driveway had been blurred by water shooting from the firefighters’ hoses, but he hadn’t been able to look away from it. Ethan didn’t blame him. He’d asked and learned that the Finkel coming through Ellis Island had emigrated in late 1937 from Austria. Just in time.

This was the first fire that had been set. The punk or punks doing this had used spray paint, thrown eggs and pitched rocks through the windows of the first couple houses. The third had included a mannequin left sprawled on her back on the lawn with her legs splayed, her head bald and her teeth removed. She’d worn a yellow armband with the Star of David. The implications and the threat were clear. These vandals had done their research.

Ethan still had that mannequin on his mind. No stores had reported a break-in or a display mannequin stolen, but he kept thinking that wasn’t an easy thing to get your hands on, especially if you were a teenager. Order one online? What if Mom is the one home when it arrives? No. In pockets of time, he’d made calls to stores, asking whether they’d had one disappear. If he could find out, it would give him a string to pull.

The few witnesses thought, as he did, that the perpetrators were young. Late teens, maybe early twenties, losers who were desperate for a cause to give meaning to their lives. They were getting bolder, escalating with each exhilarating outing.

Ethan really wanted to get his hands on them before someone was injured or killed.

The fire had been minor and put out quick enough to avoid significant structural damage. A second detective from his unit had been assigned to work with him, Sam Clayton. He’d also now acquired an additional, temporary partner, Lieutenant David Pomeroy of PF & R—Portland Fire & Rescue—a fire investigator.

Right now, they were all in waiting mode, which he particularly disliked. There were a lot of names in the Portland, Oregon, telephone directory that might be construed as Jewish. How the particular victims had been targeted was one of the mysteries, although he suspected the phone book since all four home owners thus far still had landlines and none had unlisted numbers.

The part that had him most uneasy was that all four families hit had last names beginning with the letters E and F. What’s more, the attacks had taken place in alphabetical order. Which meant the assailant/s could spell, too.

He’d scoured police reports and community newspapers in search of any hint that there’d been earlier instances of vandalism. Maybe more minor. Otherwise, damn it, why start with Eckstein? Why not Abrams? There had to be a reason.

He picked up the burger and began eating. His thoughts reverted immediately to Laura and Jake Vennetti, as they’d tended to do since he left their house earlier. He had a bad feeling he’d called up email in a deliberate attempt to distract himself.

What he’d been evading was the knowledge that he’d been instantly and powerfully attracted to Matt Vennetti’s widow. The rational part of him knew he had nothing to be ashamed of; Matt had killed himself over five years ago. Given her looks, he had to wonder why she hadn’t remarried.

Frowning, Ethan took a long swallow of beer. No, she wasn’t a beauty, not exactly—he doubted guys trailed her around with their tongues hanging out, although given half a chance he might do just that. Shoulder-length hair was somewhere in that dark blond, light brown range that meant she’d definitely been blonde as a kid, and probably still would be if she spent any time out in the sun come summer. Sun-streaked or not, her hair was thick, straight and shiny. His fingers had itched to discover the texture. A few freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, giving her that girl-next-door look, belied by blue eyes darkened by pain and anger and fear. He wondered if they’d once been brighter.

She was taller than her son when she’d swept him behind her, which meant she was at least five foot eight or nine, no more than an inch or two shorter than Matt had been. Given that Jake was only eleven, it looked as though he’d gained his tall genes from his mother.

She had some serious curves, too, the kind men loved and women fought with never-ending diets. When she turned her back on him, he’d been riveted by a firm, generous ass and tiny waist. Face-to-face...

He grunted unhappily and took another swig of beer, his hamburger in his other hand.

Face-to-face...well, it wasn’t her face he wanted to look at. Her breasts wouldn’t tickle his palms, they’d fill his hands.

And it wasn’t happening. His mouth twisted as he remembered the scathing way she said, I shouldn’t have let you in. Yeah, safe to say he wasn’t her dream man.

Clearly, he didn’t need to do battle with his qualms about lusting after a—well, not a friend’s—a fellow officer’s widow. She’d made clear she would prefer he not come knocking on her door again. Which was fine; he’d been married to a woman who came to abhor his job. Once around was enough for him.

For the boy’s sake, though, he hoped Laura changed her mind, or at least thought about what he’d said. Ethan couldn’t see Jake as likely to go on a shooting rampage, but if he didn’t untangle his feelings, who knew what would happen? Hormones hadn’t hit yet. Ethan hadn’t liked the dark look on his face in that single moment before he raced for his bedroom.

She might not want a gun in the house, and Ethan could even sympathize. But Jake wanted, real bad, to get his hands on one, and where there was a will, there was a way.

Right now, Ethan doubted even Jake knew what he wanted to do with that gun once he had it. Why would he admire that, she’d asked, given what happened because his father carried a gun?

Who said admiration was what Jake felt? He’d been abandoned by his father in the most devastating way possible, shunned by his father’s family. Self-loathing struck Ethan as a likelier possibility. And teenage suicide was all too common.

Ethan finished his hamburger and started in on the French fries, hardly tasting them. He was frustrated by his inability to get through to Laura, yet painfully aware he had no moral high ground here.

When he’d expressed anger at Matt’s buddies on the job, she’d been polite enough not to say, So where were you? Ethan had almost opened his mouth to defend himself anyway, to say, We weren’t really friends. Damn it, he had friends. But the truth is, at the funeral Ethan had looked at Matt’s widow and small, bewildered son, and resolved to check up on them, be sure they were all right. Half the officers there had probably thought the same thing. He’d also vaguely assumed Matt Vennetti’s closer friends would step in to help her out, but that was no excuse.

She’d have been right to paint him with the same brush.

Pushing his empty plate away, Ethan pictured her face. Not when she blazed with anger, but when she had looked at him with such vulnerability and bewilderment. The expression wasn’t so different from the one he’d seen on her boy’s face when he said with such despair, “Mom is going to be so mad.”

Ethan sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face, then reached for his wallet when he saw the waitress bearing down on his table with his tab, a flirtatious smile on her face and a swing to her hips. Okay, he hadn’t misread the tone of voice. She had plenty of curves, and he felt...nothing.

He was pleasant as he signed his credit card slip, then slid out of the booth and walked from the restaurant, noting faces, aware of people in the parking lot, passing vehicles.

Behind the wheel of his Yukon, he inserted the key but, still brooding, didn’t immediately turn it.

He hoped Laura would think twice and call him—but if she didn’t, he’d call her. Just to make sure she and Jake were okay. To let her know he’d meant it. And then he’d let a couple of weeks go by and call again.

This time, he wouldn’t forget. She might not like it, but she needed someone, and he had a feeling there wasn’t anyone else.

And damned if he was going to worry about the subterranean reasons behind the determination he felt to look out for this woman and boy.

* * *

“I’LL PROBABLY GET DETENTION,” Jake grumbled.

Laura poured pancake batter onto the griddle. “You probably will.” She refrained from adding, And you deserve to.

After she woke him up, he’d dragged himself into the kitchen this morning wearing pajama bottoms that hung low on his hips and carrying a T-shirt he pulled over his head as she watched. His chest and rib cage were ridiculously pale and skinny. Anyone looking at him would think she was starving him.

“Get the juice out of the fridge, will you?” she asked.

His bare feet were silent on the vinyl floor. Not until she turned her head did she see he had the orange juice carton tipped up and was drinking right out of it.

“Jacob Vennetti!” With her free hand, she grabbed a dish towel and snapped it at him.

He dodged it effortlessly. His grin made her heart hurt. He couldn’t smile like that if he was really troubled, could he?

She flipped pancakes. “Grab the margarine and syrup, too.”

He complied. He was enthusiastic about meals.

And guns.

How could that be?

She plopped a plate holding the first stack in front of him before turning back to make more.

Behind her, he whined, “If I have to stay home this weekend, what am I supposed to do?”

“I’m sure I can think of something.” They’d been talking about scraping the several coats of peeling paint off the back deck and repainting. This was day three of dry weather, and they ought to take advantage of it, she reflected. April was a rainy month in Portland. As were...well, most months. Even in July, you took a chance planning something like an outdoor wedding around here.

Unfortunately, she was working today, as she did one or two Saturdays a month, and didn’t have time to find what he’d need to start and give him instructions.

He stuffed his mouth full as she set down a platter with more pancakes in the middle of the table and pulled out a chair herself.

“I wish I was playing Little League,” he grumbled.

“In February, you didn’t want to sign up.”

He shrugged discontentedly. She’d supported his decision, mostly because neither of them liked his coach last year and he’d have been on the same team this year. Maybe that was part of his problem, she thought, buttering her pancakes and adding a dollop of maple syrup. Maybe he had too much time on his hands. A couple of his better friends were playing baseball, which ate up a lot of their spare time.