The Baby Cop

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.”

There was a collective gasp from Terry’s co-workers. She was first to express her shock in words. “It would be a horrible mistake to trash Ethan’s efforts to save Desert City’s abused kids.”

“Is that so?” Regan’s light eyes darkened. “Pardon me, but I labor under the impression that saving this city’s abused kids is our responsibility.” Stretching across the counter, Regan tapped a fingernail on the title stamped above Terry Mickelson’s name badge. “Child Help Center. That’s us, correct?”

A once-retired caseworker, Odella Price, materialized from the records room along with Abby, the clerk who’d gone to help Regan. Odella had left the department six years previously but had returned part-time at Anna Murphy’s request. For more than a year now, Odella’s part-time load had totaled fifty hours a week. There were employees like Terry Mickelson and others who thought Odella should have been given Anna’s job, even though she had no administrative experience. A fair share of the staff let it be known in unsubtle ways.

Odella Price had grown up the daughter of parents who ministered to the poor. She was intelligent and well-educated. Empathy oozed from her pores. Around the office, she assumed a role of unofficial negotiator.

A tall woman, Odella stood five foot ten inches without shoes. She carried no spare ounce of flesh beneath her smooth mocha-colored skin. Outside of tiny laugh wrinkles fanning from rich brown eyes, few who met her believed she was sixty years old, as she claimed to be.

Moving fluidly, she glided between Regan and Terry. A gregarious smile displayed even white teeth, only close friends knew they’d been crooked until Odella turned twenty-four, when she got her MSSW and subsequently her first paycheck in a field she loved. Now she spoke through that dazzling smile. “Abby tells me you inquired about the status of Jeremy Smith’s request to change his last name, Regan.” Odella was probably the only staff member, other than Piggott, who dared call Regan by her first name. Nathaniel liberally used given names, but he allowed only a chosen few to call him anything besides, Director or sir. Since Odella’s return to the workforce, she’d placed herself on Piggot’s short list. More to annoy the man than to align herself with him.

Switching her focus from Terry Mickelson to Odella, Regan concurred with a slight nod. “I was told Jeremy desired adoption, but his birth mother refused. They believe she agreed that he could legally take the Knight name.”

“That was six months ago. Shontelle’s status changed just this week. I pulled off a fax yesterday informing us that she’s being held in a Utah prison pending murder charges. She’s alleged to have knifed her current boyfriend.”

“Excuse me? Who knifed whom?”

“Shontelle Waters. Jeremy’s birth mom. In the time he’s lived with the Knights, she’s been married and divorced twice. At last report, she’d left the state with a new man—the one she reportedly murdered. I’ve considered contacting her court-appointed attorneys in Utah. It occurred to me they could attach a clause in a plea bargain that’ll free Jeremy up for adoption.”

Regan stared into the guileless brown eyes, feeling a muscle jump in her jaw. She’d heard a rumor to the effect that Odella’s mission in life was to see all children in the foster-care program adopted into good homes. An impossibility, of course, for any number of reasons. But a worthy endeavor. One to which Regan subscribed—the operative word being good. She might add loving and nurturing to that. “Hmm, Nathaniel mentioned how successful you’ve been, Odella, in acquiring adoption permission for formerly unadoptable foster kids. Do you have a minute to step into my office to discuss that in general and, more specifically, Jeremy’s case?”

“I’d love to.” The older woman gave Regan time to collect her briefcase, and the two strolled out leaving the other caseworkers grumbling over Regan’s proposed lecture on Monday.

Once they’d entered Regan’s office, Odella asked her a personal question—something no staff member had done since Regan assumed her post. “I used to see you jogging in Riker Park each morning. Have you stopped or are you going there earlier? I hope you’re not going before daylight. Riker isn’t the safest park in the city.”

Regan bit her lower lip. “I’ve switched to the track at the high school. It’s closer to my apartment. Plus, there are fewer people to contend with. I’m sorry, I don’t recall seeing you in the park.” Regan felt bad about not recognizing Odella, although she rarely noticed people when jogging, unless they had dogs. It seemed the majority of joggers in Riker Park did have them. Big ones. Now that Odella mentioned it, her decision to change locations probably had to do with the safety issue.

Odella laughed heartily. “The morning-me in no way resembles the workplace-me. When I’m running, I wear baggy sweats and have my hair tucked under one of my husband’s old army caps. Add to that a set of earphones and dark glasses the size of saucers. You, on the other hand, could pass for Barbie’s sister in your matched pink baseball cap, spandex bike shorts and T-shirt.”

Regan flushed at the apt description.

“That was meant as a compliment, Regan,” Odella said as they each claimed a chair and sat. “You looked fashionable, and I envied you. I’m such a mess in the mornings. Oh, and you have a great jogging pace. You don’t run like I’m almost sure Barbie—or any member of her family—would run.”

That garnered a laugh from Regan. “My former fiancé ran five miles every morning before he went to the gym. He couldn’t stand the thought of me sleeping in while he went out to sweat. I learned to keep up. It was either that or forever after listen to how weak women are.”