~ TEN ~

Her son’s room was warm and had the faint lingering odor of Jake’s aftershave when Josie checked on the boy during the early morning hours. He was sleeping on top of the blankets again, hugging his ugly toy puppy. The black poodle had been David’s favorite stuffed animal for years. He named it Max after a drug-sniffing dog he’d met at a Narcotics division picnic. Much to Nonna’s displeasure, toy Max was a broccoli-sniffing canine that saved David from the dangerous vegetable until Jake insisted dogs, even stuffed ones, didn’t belong in the dining room and declared broccoli safe to consume again.

Josie showered and slipped into bed, snuggling close to Jake. Her feet were cold, but he didn’t react when she rubbed them against his. She wanted him to wake up and hold her, so she could get warm and fall asleep, but he didn’t move, his back a silent wall between them. Josie turned onto her other side and curled up hugging her pillow. Disappointed but too tired to worry about her lover’s snub, she started to drift off when he rolled over and tucked his arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him, pressing his naked body against hers. The last thing she remembered was the warmth of his breath on her neck as she fell into a deep wonderful sleep.

They made love a few hours later at dawn leaving Josie rested and ready to begin her day, but instead of getting up, she stayed in bed another hour, talking and sharing with him in a way they hadn’t for a long time. She wasn’t eager to lose the intimacy of that moment, but Jake had a hearing in a few hours. While she dressed, he made breakfast for her and David and by the time Nonna arrived, the boy was ready for school and Josie was putting dirty breakfast plates in the dishwasher.

It was a good . . . no, a necessary morning, she thought, driving back to Hollywood. The persistent fear that her family was inching away had been silenced for yet another day.

Tomic was already in the office when she arrived. He was wearing the same shirt he’d worn the day before which told her Mrs. Tomic hadn’t slept with her husband last night and the cheerleader probably had. His bloodshot eyes and unshaven face were a good indication the evening hadn’t gone well.

A year ago, in a moment of alcoholic weakness, Tomic had revealed that Sue Ann was bipolar with borderline personality disorder, and she could instantly morph from sweetness to maniac without much provocation or warning. He insisted that if she took her meds, the cheerleader was fun and stable; however, when she didn’t, he very often became the most convenient target of her rage.

Josie’s Catholic upbringing made her wonder if the woman’s personality disorder was God’s way of punishing Tomic for cheating on his wife and kids, but she knew better. Sue Ann was what her partner needed and wanted even if his being with her was akin to playing a lovers’ version of Russian roulette.

Tomic had planned on going out early that morning to locate the building on Santa Monica Boulevard where Abby said Butch was staying, but Curtis and Donny insisted on hearing all the details about Too Tall’s arrest. Art was still MIA, but he hadn’t been named in any of the reports so there was no urgency in finding him. Dolores was the only one who seemed to be worried about the missing man. She was afraid he might harm himself rather than face the shame and possibility of losing his job and reputation.

“Don’t worry about Art,” Behan said, maneuvering around the secretary with his morning mug of coffee and bloodshot eyes. Donny jumped up from Behan’s desk chair as soon as he saw the supervisor. “You’re wasting your time, Donny. I never leave anything about you on my desk where you’d find it.”

“Art’s not hard like the rest of you guys,” Dolores whined. “I am worried.”

“I guarantee he’s got a rep, and his union lawyer has already filed for that big, fat, stress pension,” Curtis said, giving Dolores a quick hug. “It’s those quiet ones you gotta watch out for, sweet thing.”

Dolores shrugged, smiled at him, and slowly went back through the lieutenant’s office to the front lobby. She was near tears, but Curtis always treated her like his little sister and his reassurance seemed to calm her a little.

“Hollywood squad is shrinking . . . you’re leaving, boss, and now Too Tall and Art are gone. The four of us can’t work the whole division,” Donny said.

“Not the way you work,” Tomic said.

“Fuck you, Tomic. I put as many bodies in jail as you do.”

“No, that’s your partner. You’re along for the ride.”

“Knock it off,” Behan ordered, as Donny moved toward Tomic. Donny’s face was flushed, and he looked angry, but Josie and probably all of them, including Donny, knew he wouldn’t fight her partner.

She’d never seen Tomic lose a fight, but not because he was always the biggest, strongest, or best fighter. He told her losing on the streets meant dying, and he wouldn’t allow anyone to beat him, ever.

“Do the best you can with what you got,” Behan said. “And I’ll try to find some loaners to help out until the captain brings in new detectives.”

“Get Vern Fisher,” Tomic said.

“He’s that uniform P-III across the street,” Curtis added, and, grinning at his partner, said, “He makes more dope cases than you do, Donny.”

“Asshole,” Donny said. “All of you are fucking assholes . . . including you, Corsino.” He left the squad room, kicking at the nearest chair on his way out.

“Me? I didn’t say anything,” Josie protested.

“He knows what you were thinking, hard not to notice he never leaves that table except to piss or help Curtis,” Behan said and added as an afterthought, “Probably have to take Vern’s probationer too, but it might be good having another woman in the squad,” Behan said. “Maybe this one will listen to me.”

“But you belong to Hollywood homicide,” Josie said, smirking at the obvious dig.

“I’m still splitting my valuable time, Corsino. I’ll try to have Vern and his partner here tomorrow.”

Tomic was done talking and motioned for her to meet him out back. He locked the shotgun in the trunk of his car, pulled up to the gas pumps, and by the time he’d filled the tank, Josie had finished her second donut and was ready to go.

The production building on Santa Monica was two stories with a brick facade. From the outside, it looked well-maintained as if it might still be functional. Josie rang the buzzer and waited before knocking on the front glass door. No one answered. It was difficult to see through the tinted windows but there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. Tomic went around to the rear and after a few minutes he shouted for her to join him.

He was standing in front of an open loading dock of what looked to be a vacant warehouse, on the alley side of the building. The heavy metal door had been rolled up. A man who appeared to be in his thirties or early forties, dressed in Levi’s, cowboy boots, and a long-sleeved dress shirt, was sitting on a folding chair behind a card table, drinking Corona from a bottle. There were two empty beer bottles on the table and a guitar on his lap.

“What can I do for you?” the man asked with a hint of a Texas drawl.

Tomic made the introductions and the man invited them to join him, pointing to narrow stairs at the end of the dock.

“We’re looking for Butch . . . Brian Thomas,” Josie said. “Abby Morrison told us he was staying here.”

“Gone,” the man said, looking at a stack of chairs against the wall. “Grab a seat, take a load off, and we’ll talk.” He slid the guitar off his lap onto the floor, resting it against his leg.

He said his name was Lance McCray from San Antonio, Texas. He was tall, thin, and sickly pale with long stringy blond hair tied back with a rubber band into a ponytail.

“Do you know where he went?” Josie asked.

“Nope,” Lance said, finishing his beer. “Woke up this morning . . . him and all his smelly belongings were cleaned out. Can’t say I’m sorry.”

“Is this your building?” Tomic asked.

“Was, till I smoked it away. Now it’s the property of the Testa family.”

“What do you mean smoked it away . . . crack cocaine?”

“I figure Butch is lucky. Heroin’s his drug of choice. He steals to feed his habit because the needle keeps him from getting sick.”

“How’s that lucky?” Tomic asked, setting his chair near the table.

“My crack pipe was my lover and best friend . . . kept going back for more, wanting her to make me feel like the first time we did it . . . she never did. By the time I realized what was happening, I was broke, sick, and didn’t have a friend I hadn’t borrowed or stolen from . . . house gone . . . life’s work gone,” Lance said as if he were reciting the lines from a sad song. “I’m flat broke an’ lonesome, like when I drifted into this godforsaken town five years ago.”

“What kind of work did you do?” Josie asked.

“Music producer . . . before I sold or pawned all my equipment and furniture, this was a recording studio and stage . . . made millions, but I smoked or snorted it away. I loved this business . . .” He stopped and shook his head as if it was too painful to talk about.

“You seem pretty clean now,” Tomic said.

Lance laughed and said, “Can’t afford it anymore. I already scraped off every speck of the white lady from inside my base pipe, licked clean every straw or mirror I ever cut lines on. I’m mostly sober now and sadly I do understand how much I lost.” He stopped, looked up at Tomic, and with a wry smile added, “Truth is, friend, if you put a loaded crack pipe on this table right now, I’d start smoking again without a second thought or regret.”

No one spoke for a few seconds. Despite her strong negative feelings about drug users, Josie felt sorry for him. His life was ruined, and he knew that but was helpless to turn it around. She also knew Lance was right about heroin. It was addicting but nowhere near as debilitating as smoking crack.

“Butch didn’t give you any idea where he might’ve gone?” she asked, as he reached into a Styrofoam cooler under the table for another beer.

“He’s a street boy. I’m guessing he’s out there hustling to make enough money to get as far as he can from ol’ Lady Macbeth.”

“You mean Abby,” Josie said, and he nodded. “She bailed him out of jail. Why would he want to get away from Abby?” Josie asked.

“The boy isn’t book educated but he’s got plenty of street smarts. He figures the only reason she bailed him out was to keep him close to her because she thinks he’s hiding that dead guy’s stash.”

“Is he?” Tomic asked.

“He says no.”

“Did you buy from Kent?” Josie asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Did he give you a code name?”

“Nightingale,” Lance said, touching the neck of his guitar. “I had a pretty nice sound once.”

“Got any idea who killed him?” Tomic asked.

“No, but I know he had plenty of enemies . . . made no secret about being a snitch. He bragged he could get anybody arrested . . . made it sound like he had more than one dirty cop in his pocket,” Lance said, picking up the guitar and fingering a few chords.

Josie noticed Tomic’s right fist tighten. He was pissed because he knew what Lance was saying about Kent was probably true. Like all informants, Superman lied and tried to look more important than he was. Tomic had been good to him but wouldn’t want anyone believing he did Clark Kent’s bidding.

After a few minutes of playing bits and pieces from different songs Josie didn’t recognize, Lance stopped and let the guitar slide to the floor again. He got up and walked into the warehouse. She was sorry he stopped. It was obvious the man had talent, and she enjoyed listening to him. Music was always a big part of her life. Her Sicilian dad had bookcases full of records and would sing along with Italian operas. She was happy when her son showed an interest in playing the piano.

“Gotta piss. Let yourselves out,” Lance shouted over his shoulder and disappeared behind a row of shelves.

Tomic wasn’t willing to rely on the man’s word that Butch wasn’t there. He and Josie walked through all the first-floor rooms and the living quarters upstairs, but nothing of value was found—no Butch and no contraband.

All the faucets from sinks and other hardware had been removed and probably sold. A few cheap rugs and old curtains remained but the master bedroom was bare except for one open sleeping bag in the middle of the room and an old-fashioned lantern sitting on a suitcase. The only sign that Butch had ever been there was a used syringe she found in the corner of the room.

They finished their search and left without seeing Lance again. The table, beer cooler, and his guitar were still there when they climbed down off the loading dock. Tomic drove directly to the chicken shack where Josie and Marge Bailey had located Butch a few days ago, but he wasn’t there or anywhere they looked on Santa Monica Boulevard. No one had seen him at the halfway house on Western where most of the Santa Monica young men hung out when they weren’t hustling.

After nearly two hours of searching, Tomic went back to the chicken shack and they picked up a late lunch to bring back to the narcotics office where they could eat and think about their next move.

Josie knew Too Tall was a hype, but she couldn’t think of any logical reason he’d have to kill Superman. She doubted he was the same dirty cop Kent had mentioned since IA had searched Too Tall’s locker, home, and car and found no indication he ever used, sold, or attempted to sell cocaine. Kent had made it clear that his dirty cop was selling crack. She was certain it had to be somebody else.

The office was empty, even Dolores had gone to lunch. Josie put the bag of greasy chicken on her desk and looked at Art and Gilbert’s empty chairs. She went around to the other side of the table and tried to open their personal desk drawers. Gilbert’s was unlocked, and it was obvious the Internal Affairs sergeants had dumped out the contents, searched, and just thrown everything back in. She sat in his chair and began going through the paperwork.

“What are you doing, Corsino?” Tomic asked when he returned with two cups of freshly brewed coffee.

“I know IA already searched but odds are they didn’t know what they were looking for.”

“Let’s eat and I’ll help you. Is Art’s drawer open?”

“No, but I can pick these locks.”

“I’ve taught you well.”

“Taught her what?” Behan asked from the hallway. “Never mind, stupid question. Did you find Butch?”

Josie described the meeting with the music producer Lance McCray and their efforts to locate the street hustler.

“Want a piece?” she asked, holding up a chicken breast covered in a thick greasy layer of fried batter. “I’ve almost reached my maximum Valvoline tolerance.”

Behan took the offering and covered it with a generous amount of hot sauce to mask the oily taste. “So, what’s next?” he asked, using several paper towels to clean his hands and face when he finished.

Josie wiped her hands and pulled out the desk drawer again. “I’m going to search Too Tall’s and Art’s desks because Abby Morrison told us they’d been looking for Butch . . . after that, don’t have a clue.”

“Kinda strange nobody’s heard from Art yet,” Tomic said.

“He seems to have disappeared. IA tried his apartment a couple of times to interview him and he’s not answering his phone,” Behan said. “Too Tall wasn’t really his friend . . . I don’t know if he had any real friends. I’m carrying him AWOL on the books.”

“Odd duck,” Tomic said, sitting beside Josie and quickly unlocking Art’s desk drawer with a paper clip.

She removed and examined every piece of paper in Gilbert’s messy drawer. There were copies of old search warrants, department orders and directives, pictures from surveillances, court subpoenas, and a stack of notes with clues he’d jotted down and kept for future reference. Most of the notes were months old and the information wasn’t relevant any longer, but she found a couple that were written within the last week. One was from the day Too Tall and Art had captured Billie and made her work for them. “AM lost kilos—find street competition” was all the note said with the date scribbled in the corner.

“Mean anything to you?” Josie asked, showing the note to Tomic.

He took the piece of paper from her and after staring at it for a minute said, “AM is probably Abby Morrison. Don’t know who the street competition would be.”

“Doesn’t help much. You find anything?” she asked, glancing into Art’s organized desk drawer.

“I’ve confiscated the Howdy Doody tape to create embarrassing moments in the future, but there’s a dry-cleaning bill from a place in Venice with a contact address that’s nowhere near the apartment address he’s got on file. We can check it out tomorrow. I’ve got something to do tonight,” Tomic said, not looking at her as he closed the desk drawer.

Josie knew “something to do” was most likely meeting with the cheerleader, but she didn’t care. It would be nice to get home early again. The thought had barely flickered in her mind when Marge Bailey walked into the office and sat on the corner of Behan’s desk.

“I’m about to harass the Godfather’s spawn at The Carnival, Red. Thought you guys might like to participate.”

“Take Corsino. I’ve gotta do my other job. Homicide team picked up a suspicious death off Melrose this morning,” Behan said.

“Better yet,” Marge said, grinning at Josie.

“Try not to do anything that causes me paperwork or headaches,” Behan said.

“Don’t worry, boss. The Testas don’t make complaints,” Josie said.

“I’d rather not fish your bodies out of Hansen Dam either,” he said. “Why don’t you go with them, Larry. You’re the only one who can handle that Morrison woman.”

“Not anymore. Her affections belong to Corsino . . . can’t keep her eyes or pudgy hands off Josie,” Tomic said.

“She hates my fuckin’ guts,” Marge said with a grin and asked Josie, “Can you leave now? I’ve got some stuff to go over with you before we start.”

Josie figured there was no good reason to stay. She’d finished searching Too Tall’s desk; Tomic was done for the day; Behan was leaving, and she had no idea what Curtis and Donny were doing.

“What do you need to show me?” Josie asked as she was crossing the street with Marge walking in the general direction of the Vice office at Hollywood station.

“Nora’s bar, I’m starving,” Marge said, making a slight turn through the division’s parking lot in the direction of the restaurant.

“I just downed a pint of grease from the chicken place.”

“Good, then you can drink and watch me eat.”

It was still a little early, so the bar and restaurant weren’t crowded. They found a table in the bar and Marge ordered their biggest hamburger, fries, and two glasses of Cabernet. Josie knew she and Marge had the same metabolism and could eat or drink practically anything without gaining weight. That’s what she told herself when she got a large order of garlic fries.

“Thought you just ate,” Marge said, sipping the wine.

“Need to have something to mix with the alcohol. What are we doing at The Carnival?”

“Selective enforcement . . . with a touch of harassment. My guys have been collecting violations in that place all week, but we have time to catch up first.”

“You married?” Josie asked.

“Not anymore. I know you are. How old’s your kid now?”

“Seven.”

“Is Behan married?”

“So much for catching up. No, but he’s looking for wife number four if you’re game.”

They finished the wine and food but stayed and talked. Josie unloaded everything she knew about Behan because that’s what interested Marge, but they had stories to tell too. They could laugh now about some male cops who’d decided women didn’t belong on the street, and about their feeble attempts designed to make women quit, the subtle slights, and outright threats, but they also talked about those stronger men who helped and gave them a chance.

“Remember that asshole on morning watch at Rampart that put live rats in my locker trying to scare me?” Marge asked, when they were getting ready to pay the bill.

Josie laughed and said, “I remember the next day you put a five-foot gopher snake in the back seat of his car, and the moron wet his pants. Best part was the note you taped to the steering wheel.”

“Meet the female reptile that ate your dickless rodents, shithead,” Marge said, as if she were reading from an imaginary note, then sighed and added, “Those were fucking Hallmark moments.”

When they got to the Vice office, Marge’s detectives and undercover officers had already gathered for roll call. She briefed them on the objective for the night, making it clear Abby Morrison’s Carnival would be their only target. The plan was to allow the UCs an hour inside the club before Marge would enter with Josie and her detectives to cite Abby for dozens of violations and make arrests. They’d been scouting the club for several days, documenting code violations, offers of sex, and drug use. Even before tonight, Gaetano’s daughter had accumulated civil and criminal violations that would cost her thousands of dollars in fines and bail money for several of her employees.

Josie read the case file while she and Marge sat in the car waiting for the UCs to complete their work for the night.

“The Queen of Hearts is not going to be pleased with your excellent work,” Josie said, closing the file and giving it to Marge. “Is there any law or municipal code section the woman doesn’t ignore?”

“Fuckers don’t park in the handicap spaces . . . otherwise no,” Marge said, glancing at her watch. “Showtime, Corsino.”

She keyed her radio and told her detectives to enter The Carnival and block the exits. They would keep patrons contained inside the building until all the suspects had been rounded up. The noise, lights, and strong odor of marijuana, tobacco, and sweaty bodies enveloped Josie as she walked through the main entrance of the club. Most patrons were oblivious to the police presence and kept dancing and drinking. The floor manager passed them in the lobby and immediately used the wall phone to call Abby Morrison.

Josie watched as the vice officers escorted a dozen handcuffed arrestees out the front door. Marge cornered the manager, and ten minutes later, Abby appeared from somewhere inside the club. Her office was on the second floor, adjacent to the apartment. It had a large window that looked down onto the club’s main dance floor and stairs that gave her access to the kitchen and rear door. Josie remembered the layout from an arrest she’d made before Abby owned the club.

“Sergeant Bailey, what are we up to this evening?” Abby asked with a frozen smile that was anything but sincere.

“We’re assisting with your criminal infestation,” Marge said. “Pest control, a free LAPD service.”

“I had no idea. Whatever have they done?” Abby was suppressing a yawn.

Marge detailed the employees’ criminal charges, handed Abby a stack of citations for the club’s code violations, and said, “And these are yours, Mrs. Morrison, with dates for compliance and appearances before the state and city licensing boards . . . any questions?”

“Yes,” she answered, her eyes narrowing. “But this is obvious harassment. My lawyers will have a lot more to say in the morning to people who matter.” She turned away from Marge and seemed to notice Josie for the first time. “Detective Corsino, I didn’t realize you worked with the vice department.”

“I don’t,” Josie said. “I was hoping to find Butch here since you were kind enough to buy his way out of jail.”

“Apparently, my generosity wasn’t appreciated. He’s vanished without a word,” Abby said with a smirk.

“Do you know where he might’ve gone?” Josie asked.

“Not yet,” Abby answered, stuffing the citations into the pockets of her black caftan. “Is there anything else, Sergeant?” she asked, turning toward Marge again.

“The Carnival is closed for tonight and will stay closed until you appear at the citation hearings. As soon as you get everybody out of here, we’ll leave, and you can start contacting all those people that matter,” Marge said.

Abby didn’t respond. She gave Josie a sideways glance and left.

“I’d say that woman really hates you a lot,” Josie said, watching Abby waddle across the nearly empty dance floor toward the stairs to her office.

“What a shame. I’m fucking crazy about her. She just improved my arrest stats a couple hundred percent tonight.”

“Don’t open any suspicious packages. I have a feeling Miss Abby holds a grudge,” Josie said. She was joking, but if Tomic was right, the Testa progeny didn’t have a sense of humor when it came to her business interests.

“As do I,” Marge said with a slightly raised right eyebrow, then added, “But on a weirder note, Tomic was right. That woman has got a thing for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She can’t take her fucking eyes off you, Corsino. You didn’t notice?” Marge asked as they got into her car.

“I know she and Gaetano act like we ought to be paisanos as if we all belong to some Sicilian brotherhood.”

Marge made a U-turn and drove back toward Hollywood station.

“Nah, this is personal. She’s got a thing for you.”

Josie didn’t respond. She knew Abby was treating her differently than other cops, but figured it was their shared Italian heritage. If being Sicilian gave her leverage with the Testas, that was fine. She’d use it to her advantage. Abby and her father might believe they’d get special treatment from her, but they’d be seriously mistaken.

SHE WAS hoping Jake would be awake when she got home, and he was. He and his mother were in the kitchen drinking coffee and talking. Nonna looked embarrassed when Josie opened the side door as if she’d been caught stealing the silverware. She got up slowly, groaning, nodded at Josie and put her cup in the sink.

“I’m going to bed. You two talk,” Mrs. Corsino ordered, exiting the kitchen.

“What’s wrong with your mother?” Josie asked when they were alone.

“She’s worried about David.”

“Is he sick?”

“No, nothing like that,” Jake said, getting up and giving her a quick hug and peck on the cheek. “Want some brandy?” he asked, getting two glasses and filling them a little more than usual. He gave one to her and they touched the rims before she took a sip. Jake waited a few seconds before sitting at the table again and gesturing for her to take the seat his mother had just vacated.

“Let me put my stuff in the den and take off my gun first,” she said, putting her glass on the table. She left her purse, jacket, and gun belt on the chair in the next room and out of habit put the semiauto on the fireplace mantel where David couldn’t reach it.

Jake handed her the glass when she sat next to him.

“What’s up?” she asked, thinking something was about to happen she wasn’t going to like.

“The school wants to put David in a special class.”

“Good ‘special’ or something we should worry about ‘special’?”

“The class would emphasize the arts and he’d be with kids who had musical or artistic talent. I think it’s a bad idea. Mom thinks I’m right, but she’s worried you won’t agree.”

“Your mom’s right this time. I don’t agree. That’s good ‘special.’ ”

“He’s already shy and awkward around other kids. He needs to be in with the herd.”

“I’d agree if he were a palomino but he’s a very talented kid who needs to be encouraged. He’d be with other kids like himself, make friends, and not have to compete with the stallions,” she said, thinking it was a stupid analogy but kept things simple.

Jake sighed and asked, “Don’t you want him to be a normal boy, play baseball and basketball . . . date girls?”

“He’s better than normal, Jake. He can do those other things, but his talent should be encouraged,” she said.

“He’s seven, plenty of time to develop his talent. Now he should be a kid.”

Josie finished her brandy and said, “Do we have to decide tonight? I’m really tired.”

“This isn’t something you can put off, Josie. He’s your son too. Mom shouldn’t have to be concerned.”

“I agree. This has nothing to do with your mother. I’ve given you my opinion. I think we should put him in the class . . . I’ll sign the permission slip now if you like. Give it to me,” she said, holding out her hand. Jake stared at her empty palm for several seconds but didn’t say anything. She suppressed a laugh and added, “Right, that’s what I figured.” She gathered her belongings from the den and went upstairs to their bedroom.

Why bother to discuss something if you’ve already made up your mind, she mumbled to herself as she reached the third-floor landing. Josie guessed Jake had most likely told the school he didn’t want their son in a special class. They’d been married long enough for her to know when he wasn’t asking for her input but actually trying to get her to agree to something he’d decided on his own.

She knew David was talented, and he’d do well with or without that class. Winning this argument wasn’t worth days of pouting and hurt expressions by Jake and his mother. She wouldn’t bring the subject up again and knew her husband and his mother would silently celebrate their victory thinking she was preoccupied with work and had forgotten about it or had once again relented.

Her willingness to relinquish authority in matters concerning her son was becoming a sore spot for Josie. She knew David needed her involvement in those decisions that might affect the rest of his life, but not asserting her motherly rights occasionally made it easier to keep her family together. It was a fact, if she allowed Jake and his mother to have their way, there was less scrutiny and criticism from them about all those hours she wasn’t at home being a loving mother to her boy.

A nagging guilt was always the result of not fighting for her maternal principles, but she knew her addiction to police work was consuming and would prevail. What really bothered her was that her preference for chasing bad guys over spending more time with her son didn’t concern her enough to do something about it.