The Man Behind the Cop. Janice Kay Johnson

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СКАЧАТЬ Since Bruce had known them, MaryBeth had worked as a waitress, but she was constantly changing jobs. Not by choice, Trevor had admitted. She didn’t feel good sometimes, he said, and had to miss work. Bosses weren’t understanding. Still, she’d managed to bring in something approaching a living wage, and had food stamps, as well.

      Often Bruce didn’t see her when he picked up and dropped off Trevor. The last time he had, two weeks ago, she’d looked so bad he’d been shocked. She’d always been thin, but now she was so skinny, pasty and jittery he’d immediately thought, Crack. He’d been worrying ever since.

      “Your mom—how is she?” he asked now, a few blocks from Trevor’s apartment building.

      The boy’s shoulders jerked. “She’s gone a lot. You know?” Trev was trying hard not to sound worried, but his anxiety bled into his voice. His instincts were good. He might not know why he was losing his mother, but he was smart enough to be scared. “She says she’s looking for work. Sometimes Mrs. Porter checks on me.”

      Sometimes? Bruce’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. A kid Trevor’s age shouldn’t habitually be home alone at night, especially not in this neighborhood. But he was twelve, and leaving him without adult supervision wasn’t a crime.

      Bruce pulled into the apartment parking lot, and noticed that MaryBeth’s slot was empty. “Doesn’t look like she’s home right now,” he observed. Although it seemed possible to him that her piece-of-crap car had finally gone to the great wrecking yard in the sky.

      Trevor shrugged and reached for the door handle. “I have a key.”

      “If you get scared, you call me, okay?”

      “Yeah. Thanks. I’m okay, though.”

      Bruce reached out and ruffled Trevor’s brown hair. “You’re a great kid. But you are a kid. So call me if you need me.”

      He was usually in a good mood after a day spent with Trevor, but this time his eyebrows drew together as he walked back to his car after leaving Trevor at the door and waiting to hear the lock click home.

      I should have asked if the kitchen was decently stocked, he thought repentantly. MaryBeth sure as hell wasn’t eating these days. If she was hardly ever home, would she remember to grocery-shop? Assuming she hadn’t traded her food stamps for crack.

      He’d call tomorrow, Bruce decided. Check to see if she’d reappeared, satisfy himself that Trev was okay. Frustrating as it was for him, a man used to taking charge, there wasn’t much else he could do for the boy.

      It bothered him how much he wished there was.

      BRUCE HAD PREVIOUSLY driven by A Woman’s Hand, the mental health clinic where he was to conduct the self-defense workshop that night. It was in a modern but plain brick building off Madison, the simple sign out front not indicative of the services offered within. He supposed that was because of the clientele, the majority of whom were victims of abuse. A woman cop in the sexual assault unit told him she referred every victim she encountered to A Woman’s Hand.

      “The counselors there are the best,” she’d said simply.

      When he arrived, it was already dark, but the building and parking lot were well lit. The small lot was full. Amid all the cars, he noticed the two plain vans, which he guessed were from battered women’s shelters. He had to drive a couple of blocks before he found a spot on a residential street to park his car.

      When he got back to the clinic, he found the front door locked. Smart. He knocked, and through the glass he saw a woman hurrying to open the door. He allowed himself a brief moment of appreciation. Tall and long-legged, she had a fluid walk that was both athletic and unmistakably feminine. Hair the rich gold of drying cornstalks was bundled up carelessly, escaping strands softening the businesslike effect.

      Her expression was suspicious when she unlocked and pushed the door open a scant foot. He took a mental snapshot: great cheekbones, sensual mouth, bump on the bridge of her nose. Around thirty, he guessed. No wedding ring, a surreptitious glance determined.

      “May I help you?” she asked.

      “I’m Detective Bruce Walker,” he said, unclipping his shield from his belt and holding it out for her to see. “I was invited to lead this self-defense workshop.”

      A tentative smile warmed her face, but she also peered past him in apparent puzzlement. “Welcome. But weren’t you to have a partner?”

      “Detective Beckstead will be joining us next week. She’s the labor coach for her pregnant sister, whose water broke this afternoon.”

      He’d been hearing about the birthing classes from Molly Beckstead for the past two months. She was unmarried, hadn’t yet contemplated having a baby herself, and when she was a rookie had been scarred for life, she claimed, by having to assist a woman giving birth in the back seat of a taxicab. All spring, she’d provided weekly reports on the horrors of childbirth, half tongue-in-cheek, half serious, but he’d noticed she sounded more excited than terrified when she’d called to tell him she was meeting her sister at the hospital.

      “Ah.” The woman relaxed. “That’s an excuse if I’ve ever heard one.” She pushed the door farther open to allow him in. “I’m sorry to seem less than welcoming. Some of the women participating tonight are from battered women’s shelters, and we always keep in mind the possibility that the men in their lives might be following them.”

      “I understand. And you are…?”

      “Karin Jorgensen. I’m a counselor here at A Woman’s Hand.”

      “You’re the one who set this up. Good to meet you.” He held out his hand, and they shook. He liked her grip, firm and confident, and the feel of her fine-boned hand in his. In fact, he let go of it reluctantly.

      “This way,” she said, leading him down the hall. “The women are all here. I hope our space is big enough for the purpose. It’s the first time we’ve done anything like this, and if this venue doesn’t work well tonight, we could plan to use a weight room or gym at a school the next time. We’re just more comfortable with the security here.”

      He nodded. “I’m sure it will be fine. For the most part, we won’t be doing many throws. With only the four sessions, we can’t turn the women into martial artists. We’ll focus more on attitude and on how they can talk their way out of situations.”

      She stopped at a door, from behind which he heard voices. She lowered her own. “You are aware that most of these women have already been beaten or raped?”

      He held her gaze, surprised that her eyes were brown, although her hair was blond. Was it blond from a bottle? His lightning-quick evaluation concluded no. She was the unusual natural blonde who had warm, chocolate-brown eyes.

      “I’ll be careful not to say anything to make the women feel they’ve failed in any way.”

      The smile he got was soft and beautiful. “Thank you.” The next moment, she opened the door and gestured for him to precede her into the room.

      Heads turned, and Bruce found himself being inspected. Not every woman appeared alarmed, but enough did that Bruce wondered if they’d expected only a woman cop. Ages ranged from late teens to mid fifties or older, their clothing style, from street kid to moneyed chic. But what these women had in common mattered СКАЧАТЬ