Читать книгу Untameable - Diana Palmer - Страница 11

THE HEAD OF the school, Mr. Morrison, and Markie’s teacher, Ms. Rawles, were very nice about it. But they were emphatic that Markie’s antics were disruptive and that he needed medication to prevent him from being a distraction to the other students.

Joceline just looked at them. She didn’t agree or disagree.

“We would like your assurance that this matter will be resolved,” Mr. Morrison said kindly. “Your pediatrician can put Markie on a medication to control his outbursts.”

She smiled blankly. “In other words, you want me to go to my doctor and order him to put my four-year-old son on drugs?”

There were shocked, indignant looks.

She stood up, still smiling. “I’ll have a long talk with my son. I’ll also speak with our family physician. We don’t have the funds to afford a pediatrician, I’m sorry to tell you. Markie’s hospital visits are expensive, and we have an allergist in addition to a family physician, but we’re rather limited in our budget. I have to have medical care for both of us, and a family practitioner is the best we can do right now.”

They were still speechless.

“I will, however, speak with my family doctor about your insistence that Markie needs to become drug dependent. And if my physician agrees with you,” she added sweetly, “then I will find another family physician.”

“Uh, Mrs., that is, Miss, I mean Ms. Perry,” Mr. Morrison stammered.

“I believe the politically correct designation is Ms.,” she said helpfully.

“We only think Markie, being so young, requires some help with his difficulty in focusing …”

“That’s right, sir, make sure that every child obeys without question so that teachers don’t have to deal with any behavioral problems.”

He glared at her. “Ms. Perry …!”

“In our defense,” Ms. Rawles said gently, “our class has thirty-five students. We’re much in the same boat as many other schools where teachers have to manage classrooms with thirty to forty students. We do the best we can. We really care about our students. But it’s so hard to teach when we have children who simply can’t pay attention. Markie is disruptive. He can’t sit still, he talks out of turn, he gets into things …”

Joceline studied her. “Do you have children, Ms. Rawles?”

“I’m not married. I certainly wouldn’t put the stigma of illegitimacy on my child,” the other woman said at once, and then flushed, because she realized that Joceline had a child out of wedlock.

Joceline smiled, but she wasn’t happy with the remark.

The principal cleared his throat. “I’m sure that whatever you and your physician decide will be fine with us.”

“Of course,” Ms. Rawles said, obviously distressed. “I’m very sorry. I never should have said such a thing to you!”

Their attitude took the edge off her temper. She could see their side of the issue, as well. “Actually Markie likes you very much, and so do I,” Joceline cut her off. “It’s all right. A lot of people have said worse things to me. His father was a very good man. We had too much to drink and did something out of character for both of us. He went missing in action overseas on duty before we could get married,” she added gently, telling the falsehood with the confidence of years of secret keeping.

The two school officials looked guilty.

“A tragedy,” Ms. Rawles spoke for both of them. “The world is changing very quickly. Sometimes new concepts are difficult.”

“I go to church, and take Markie, every Sunday,” she told them with a quiet smile. “Everybody makes mistakes. Some are more difficult to live with than others. But I love my son. I feel blessed to have him.”

They both brightened. “He’s a smart little boy.”

“That’s why he’s into everything, he’s curious,” Joceline replied. “And I have already discussed this with our doctor. He’s researching medicines, but he says that discipline might be a better choice than drugs in Markie’s case. I don’t mean hitting him with a bat to get his attention,” she added. “The doctor says that overactive children need consistency and routine and a limit to the number of toys they play with to keep them from being overstimulated. There are many new studies on both sides of the issue, but I would prefer to at least try the least drastic measure first. If it doesn’t get results, then I’ll have to consider other options. Compromise,” she added with a smile, “is the foundation of civilization.”

“It is,” Mr. Morrison agreed, rising. He seemed to relax a little.

Ms. Rawles stood up, too. She smiled. “I apologize again for my remarks.”

“It’s all right,” Joceline said again. “You’ll let me know if the situation doesn’t improve?” she asked the teacher.

Ms. Rawles nodded. “Yes, I will. And thank you for coming in to talk to us. I know your job requires long hours.”

“Your job?” Mr. Morrison asked curiously.

“She works for the FBI,” Ms. Rawles said with a grin, glancing at Mr. Morrison’s shocked face.

“My goodness!” he blurted out. “I had no idea.”

“I’m not involved in enforcement of federal laws,” she said. “I only do the paperwork that helps get criminals convicted. I keep the gears oiled.”

He chuckled. “How interesting! We’re having a Career Day here in November. Perhaps you might like to speak about your duties?”

“I would,” she said, “but my boss is very strict. He might not like it.”

“We wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with him,” he replied. “But think about it.”

“I will. Thank you both for being so understanding.”

“I have two daughters in high school,” Mr. Morrison said. “I do know how children can be.” He was very quiet. “One of my daughters took Ritalin for ADD,” he added, referring to attention deficit disorder.

Joceline wanted to ask, very badly, how that had turned out. But there was something in the man’s face that deterred her. She thanked them again, said her goodbyes and went to pick up Markie at day care.

The next day she mentioned the principal’s remark in passing to Agent Blackhawk.

“Morrison. Yes, the school principal. Sad story.”

“Sir?”

“His eldest daughter is a senior in high school. She was arrested for possession of a Class I controlled substance and convicted of intent to distribute. She’s on probation as a first offender. Her mother died of an overdose.” Joceline was shocked.

“You didn’t hear that from me,” he added. “We don’t discuss cases brought by other agencies. In this case, San Antonio P.D.”

“Yes, sir.”

He cocked his head. “She was placed on drugs in grammar school for ADD.”

“That would have been my next question until you said you wouldn’t discuss it,” she said demurely. She sighed. “They wanted me to get my doctor to put Markie on those drugs.” She looked up quickly and grimaced. “That was uncalled for. I’m very sorry, sir. Personal matters should remain personal, especially on the job.”

His black eyes were steady and quiet. “Are you going to do it?”

She moved uncomfortably. She didn’t answer.

He moved closer. So close, in fact, that she could feel the heat of his powerful body and smell the spicy cologne he wore. She looked up at him and felt her heart jump.

“Are you going to do it?” he repeated, in a softer tone.

She swallowed. “I told them I’d talk to my family physician about giving Markie drugs for behavioral modification and that, if my family physician agreed, I’d get another family physician,” she murmured dryly. “I didn’t really mean it. I want to do what’s best for Markie.”

A chuckle escaped him. “I imagine that’s not all you said.”

Her blue eyes twinkled. “Well, Markie’s teacher made a remark that hit me on the raw but I kept my cool. I can’t help that everything I think appears on my face, though …”

He shook his head. “Ms. Perry, you are an anachronism.”

“Sir?”

“It would take longer than I’ve got to explain,” he replied, checking his watch. “I’m overdue for a meeting in the SAC’s office.”

“And I have work to do.”

He pursed his lips. “Some people would consider making coffee ‘work.’”

She smiled what he’d come to think of as her trademark expression. “Some people would consider a tomato a fruit.”

“A tomato is a fruit.”

She made a face and went back to her desk.

MARKIE wanted to play his video game. He grimaced when his mother started talking about his acting out in class and his inability to sit still.

“Nobody likes me,” he muttered.

“Yes, they do. But when you won’t stay at your desk, you make a lot of problems for your teacher. You aren’t the only student she has.”

He sighed. “It’s so boring in there,” he told her. “I already know all that stuff. But I’m younger than the other kids, and they make fun of me when I can’t run like they can, on account of my lungs.”

She felt that pain all the way to her shoes, but she knew from long and hard experience that bullies were a fact of life at any age. Unless the bullying was taking a dangerous toll, she found it best to let Markie handle those problems himself. Which he did. Once, when an older child tried to force him to give up his pocket money, he yelled “Thief!” at the top of his lungs until the owner came. He was reprimanded, but the bully got in trouble, too. He never tried to extort money again. For a sickly little boy, Joceline thought proudly, Markie had a stout and brave spirit. He wasn’t afraid of anything.

“Why are you smiling?” he asked.

“I’m very proud of you,” she said. “Your father would be proud of you, too, for the way you handle yourself when people try to pick on you.”

“My dad was brave, wasn’t he?”

“Very brave,” she replied.

“Don’t we have any pictures of him?” he asked.

This question was disturbing. She knew it would only get more difficult as time went by. “No, I don’t,” she said honestly. “I’m really sorry, Markie.”

“Did he look like me?”

She studied him with a sad smile. “Only a little,” she said, and hid her relief.

“Most of the other kids have daddies to take them places. I wish I knew him,” he told her.

She picked him up and hugged him close. “I wish you did, too.”

“You like your boss, don’t you?” he asked when she put him down.

She felt flushed. “He’s very nice.”

“He plays video games just like us,” he said.

“His brother plays them, too.”

“You don’t play much,” he accused.

She bent and kissed his forehead. “I have housework to do. Mothers are busy people. But I play with you on the weekends, don’t I?”

“Yeah. You do.” He grinned at her. “And I beat you.”

“Every time,” she agreed with a laugh.

“I might let you win next time,” he said thoughtfully.

“You might?”

He started to answer her playful reply when the phone rang.

Joceline picked up the receiver, still laughing from Markie’s teasing. “Hello?”

There was a pause. It was cold and unnerving.

“Hello?” she asked again.

“Your boss is first,” a gruff voice said. “Then you.”

“What?” she exclaimed.

A dial tone was the only response she got. She wanted to think it was a mistake, a wrong number. But she knew it wasn’t. She felt cold chills at the threatening words.

“Who was it, Mommy?”

“Just a wrong number, baby,” she said, and forced a smile. “I have to get your clothes ready for school tomorrow. I’ll be in the laundry room.”

“Okay,” he said absently, already lost in his video game.

Joceline closed the door of the playroom and leaned back against the wall with her eyes closed. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so afraid.

She almost called her boss to tell him about the threat, but she thought she’d involved him too much already in her private life. It wasn’t a good policy, to bring domestic problems to work. She didn’t want to jeopardize his job, or her own. She didn’t want him around Markie, either.

On the other hand, she had a sneaking hunch about the identity of her caller. She couldn’t prove it. She’d only heard Harold Monroe’s voice once, when he’d called brazenly to tell her boss he was out of jail. Strange, though, the voice seemed deeper than Monroe’s. But he could be disguising it.

THE CALL BOTHERED HER. So after she reminded Mr. Blackhawk about his day’s schedule and noted that he had ten minutes free before he was due in federal court to testify on a case, she walked into his office and closed the door.

He gave her a surprised look.

She sat down in front of the desk. “I’m sorry, but I had a phone call last night, and although I can’t swear to the identity of the caller, I think it might have been Harold Monroe.”

He sat up straighter. His black eyes narrowed. “What did he say?”

“That you were first, and I was next.”

His expression was hard to read. “Do you have an answering machine on your phone?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, sir, and a ham radio and a plasma TV, a couple of sports cars …!”

“Ms. Perry,” he said curtly.

“Sorry, sir. I forgot myself. Won’t happen again.” She crossed her heart.

He shook his head. “It’s not a laughing matter.”

“I wasn’t laughing. It’s just that I don’t have the budget for that type of equipment,” she said with a straight face.

“I should have known that.”

Probably so, but, then, he and his brother—not to mention his seethingly rabid mother—were worth millions, if the gossip was true. She didn’t doubt that he could walk into the nearest electronics store and purchase the highest-ticket item it contained without blinking an eye. Joceline was on a much stricter budget.

“You live in an unsecured apartment house,” he said, thinking aloud.

“We have locks on the doors and a telephone.”

He glared at her. “Locks keep honest people out. That’s all they do.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “Over the years that I’ve worked here,” she began, “I’ve heard a lot of people make threats. I don’t know of a single one that actually turned into an incident.”

“Yes, well I do,” he said curtly. “I won’t take chances with your life, or your son’s.”

“It was your life I was thinking about,” she said quietly. “He has a reason for wanting to harm you.”

His eyebrows arched. “Are you actually expressing concern for my welfare, Ms. Perry?” he asked with mock astonishment.

“Yes, sir,” she said calmly. “It’s very difficult to train a boss not to expect impossible menial tasks,” she added with a gleam in her blue eyes. “I’m not anxious to break in somebody new.”

He laughed faintly. “Touché.” He glanced at his watch and got to his feet. “I’ll talk to a few people and see what sort of arrangements I can make for someone to keep an eye on you after work.”

“On our budget, sir, we can probably afford a ten-year-old boy in a trench coat with one of those Junior Spy kits.”

He really glared at her then. “My brother has all sorts of shadowy contacts that we don’t talk about. I’m sure at least one of them owes him a favor. Rourke comes to mind.”

“No,” she said at once. “No, absolutely not. I will not have that one-eyed lunatic anywhere near me!”

His eyebrows arched. She’d rarely been so outspoken about any of the people who came through the office. “He’s very good at private security.”

Her jaw set so tightly that it bulged.

“Out with it,” he ordered.

She shifted restlessly. “He said I should be gagged and locked in a closet.”

He had to stifle a laugh. “May I ask what prompted him to make such a remark?”

Her eyes avoided his. “He was making fun of my shoes.”

He looked down. She was wearing the ballet slippers she usually wore to work, bad for the instep but extremely comfortable—and affordable.

“Some of us can’t manage Neiman Marcus even on a good government salary,” she said, still ruffled months after the remark was made.

“Rourke pops off and thinks he’s being amusing.”

“He’ll get popped off if he makes another such remark to me,” she said curtly.

He chuckled. “I’ll see if anybody else owes Mac a favor.”

“It sounded like Harold Monroe, but I couldn’t prove it. He was probably just fishing, to see if he could frighten me. And he knew I’d tell you what he said,” she added. She hesitated. “Sir, you really could use someone to watch your back. Monroe may be a certifiable idiot, but he has family connections who aren’t.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Don’t get insulted,” she added when he looked annoyed. “You FBI types always think you’re the biggest, meanest dogs on the block and usually you’re right. I don’t like funerals,” she added firmly.

“Or breaking in new bosses.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Exactly.”

“I’ll do my best to stay alive.” He started out the door and hesitated. “If my brother calls, tell him I want to talk to him. I’ll be back after two.”

“I did notice that, sir,” she added pleasantly, “having noted it on your calendar.”

His jaw clenched.

“Won’t you be late for court?” she asked. “It’s Judge Cummings sitting today, too, isn’t it, and he doesn’t like the FBI.” She smiled angelically. “Do be polite, sir.”

He muttered something under his breath.

“Sir!” she exclaimed. “This is a government office …!”

He was out the door before she could finish the sentence.

BETTY RIMES was constantly amused by Joceline’s ongoing verbal attacks on her boss.

“He could just fire you,” Betty pointed out.

“He wouldn’t dare. There are very few paralegals working outside the judicial system, where would he ever find someone to replace me?” Joceline asked, amused.

“We have a part-time administrative assistant,” she was reminded grimly. “And Phyllis Hicks does offer to make coffee for the boss.”

“I don’t do menial chores,” Joceline reiterated. “It isn’t in my job description.”

Betty sipped her coffee. “Yes, but, dear, she’d work for half what they pay you,” she added worriedly. “It’s a flat economy. So many people are out of work.”

Joceline didn’t let her uneasiness show. She just smiled. “Mr. Blackhawk is used to me and he doesn’t like strangers.”

“That’s true. It’s just that he doesn’t make the major budgetary decisions.”

Joceline stared at her. “What do you know that you’re not telling me?”

Betty bit her lip. “It’s probably nothing …”

“Tell me.”

“I overheard one of the senior agents discussing something Mr. Grier said at lunch.” Garon Grier was now the Special Agent in Charge for the Jacobsville satellite office, and he frequently showed up at the San Antonio office to have lunch with the San Antonio SAC. “Mr. Grier was disturbed at talk that they were going to reduce his office staff, and our own SAC apparently wondered out loud if we could make do with one administrative assistant for the Violent Crimes Squad here, with a part-time assistant.”

Joceline didn’t move. She stared at the other woman with dawning horror. Betty had been with the Bureau for a long time, over ten years, and she had seniority.

“I said it was probably just talk. He might have even been joking. Please don’t worry,” Betty said gently. “Probably they’ll come up with some other idea for saving money by cutting our travel budget. I just didn’t want it to come at you out of the blue. You’re a great paralegal. I know Judge Cummings would snap you up in a second for his office, or the assistant D.A. would for hers.”

That was true. But no matter how good the working conditions, or how great the pay, those offices wouldn’t contain Jon Blackhawk. While that might be a good thing, in some respects, it was devastating in another.

“Joceline, you’re not going to lose your job,” Betty said, her tone reassuring. “The SAC and Mr. Blackhawk would both fight for you.”

They would. She knew that. Despite her insistence on the parameters of her duties, she was good at what she did, and she never slacked or avoided work. There were those unavoidable times when she was late for work …

She looked up at Betty worriedly. “I’ve been late sometimes.”

The older woman was sympathetic. “Everybody knows why,” she said surprisingly.

“What?”

“We know your son has medical problems,” the older woman replied with a smile.

“But I never told anyone,” she stammered. “I mean, Mr. Blackhawk came by when I had to bring Markie to the hospital,” she began.

“And he told all of us,” she said. “He didn’t want anyone assuming that you missed work for some frivolous reason. He’s quite fond of you, in his way. Although watching him react to you is funny. You do put his back up, as they say.”

“Keeps him on his toes.” Joceline laughed. “He really does tend to brood.”

“Oh, coffee!” Phyllis said, smiling. “Can I have some, too?”

“Sure, sit down,” Joceline invited. She noted the younger woman’s clothing; it looked like the sort of thing Cammy Blackhawk would wear. But Phyllis had said her father worked as a police detective and Phyllis was in college part-time. Where would she get the money for expensive clothes? Maybe Joceline was just tired and getting irritated over minor matters.

“We were talking about our workload,” Betty commented.

“It’s so boring,” Phyllis said. “I wish I could be a detective, like my dad, and get to go to crime scenes.”

“You watch too many crime television shows, Phyllis.” Betty chuckled.

Phyllis gave her a blank stare.

“You know, those forensic programs that deal with trace evidence solving big cases,” Joceline said helpfully. “They call it fiction.”

“So many people don’t know the difference.” Betty sighed. “Now juries are so clued up that they argue with attorneys about trace evidence in murder trials. They watch a television show a few times and think they’re qualified to rule on pathological evidence.”

“Yes, it’s nothing like what they show on television,” Phyllis said. “Bodies are so clean and tidy. In real life, the blood is everywhere. It splashes around like paint …” She stopped because they were staring at her silently. “Oh, my dad lets me look at file photos sometimes,” she said quickly. “To teach me how evidence is really gathered.”

“I see,” Betty said, but she was visibly uncomfortable.

“Some of those shows are just a little too graphic for me, especially when my son might walk in and see something that would give him nightmares,” Joceline said with a smile.

“I was never squeamish, even when I was little,” Phyllis scoffed. “That murder case we worked on with Mr. Blackhawk was really fascinating, the one that Jay Copper got arrested for,” she added suddenly. “Aren’t you working with a file about that Hancock man? Digging out information about his past?”

“I’m trying to run down stuff. I got some rap sheets from San Antonio P.D. this morning. They’re on my desk. I haven’t had time to input the information. I may have to sign them out and do it at home.”

“I guess it’s a long rap sheet,” Phyllis said.

“Very.”

“Such a sad case, the Kilraven murders,” Betty said. “Imagine, someone killing a child like that.”

“Kids, adults, a life is a life.” Phyllis shrugged. “They all die the same.”

“You have a different outlook when you have a child,” Joceline said tautly.

Phyllis assumed a smile. “Well, of course you do.”

Betty sipped more coffee. “I worry about Monroe’s threats,” she said somberly. “Mr. Blackhawk seems to think it’s a joke, but the man is dangerous. His wife’s uncle taught him how to be a monster, and his brother-in-law is a terror.”

Joceline nodded. “Jay Copper is going to do some very hard time, if he manages to avoid the needle,” she added meaningfully. “Imagine ordering the death of a woman and a small child!”

“And I’m sure that he did order it, despite all his denials,” Betty said grimly. “Dan Jones may have done the actual killing, but Jay Copper was behind it. If they can just convict him, is the thing. I hope they do.”

“Mr. Blackhawk is supposed to meet an informant tonight at seven,” Joceline said heavily. “He refuses to have a bodyguard. He doesn’t think Monroe is a threat.”

“That’s foolhardy,” Betty said. “Look what happened to Detective Marquez when he went to meet some shadowy informant.”

Marquez had been blindsided and hospitalized. Joceline was uneasy about the meeting tonight. “Mr. Blackhawk takes chances.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be all right,” Phyllis said airily. She glanced at her watch—a very expensive one. “Gosh, I have to get back to work. Thanks for the coffee.”

She left without putting change in the kitty that helped pay for renewing the canteen supplies. Without a word, Betty took a bill out of her pocket and placed it in the container.

“Young people.” She sighed.

Joceline smiled. “You’re nice.”

“Thanks. So are you.”

“I do hope they can convict Jay Copper of little Melly Kilraven’s murder,” Joceline said quietly. “Kilraven still isn’t over it,” she added gently, “although he and his wife, Winnie, are expecting around the new year.” She smiled. “What a Christmas present they’re going to have this year if she goes into labor early!”

“Christmas!” Betty exclaimed. “I haven’t even started shopping!”

“It isn’t even Thanksgiving yet,” she was reminded.

“Yes, but I usually have everything bought by August.” She laughed. “I’m efficient on the job. I wish I could be that efficient off it.”

Joceline laughed, too. “Well, we all do what we can.”

The phone rang. Joceline got to her feet. “Back to work. Thanks for the heads-up,” she added in a soft tone. “At least if I get the ax, I’ll be somewhat prepared. Perhaps I should start working up a résumé.”

“Wait,” Betty advised. “A lot of this is all talk. I don’t think the office can operate with just me taking a workload from the squad, and only a part-timer for Mr. Blackhawk all at once. I’d have a nervous breakdown. And I can’t persuade people to talk to me like you can. You’re marvelous at digging out information.”

Joceline pursed her lips. “I can do that,” she agreed. “Maybe there’s work for a skip tracer,” she added, indicating a line of work that involved digging out information for detectives. “I might look good in a trench coat.”

Betty laughed again.

JUST BEFORE quitting time, the phone rang as Joceline was gathering things into her bag to take home, including the long file on Bart Hancock.

Joceline picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“My love! It’s been so long!”

She knew that voice. Its South African accent was unmistakable. She pictured a rugged, tanned face with an eye patch and blond hair in a long ponytail. “Rourke,” she muttered.

“You know you’re happy to have me around again,” he drawled. “Guess what? I’m going to be your shadow for a few weeks. Until the would-be perp stops making threats, at least.”

“I can’t wait,” she replied. “Do you have body armor?”

He hesitated. “Excuse me?”

“Body armor,” she emphasized. “Riot gear.”

“No. But I can borrow some. Why will I need it?”

“If you attempt to shadow me, I’ll rub bear grease all over you and open the lion cage at the zoo,” she said sweetly.

There was a slow, deep chuckle. “Joceline, my love, I have two tame lions who live with me back home in South Africa. I’m not intimidated by big cats. However, if you’d like to rub me all over with bear grease,” he added in a deep, velvety tone, “I can be in your office in two minutes flat. I’ll even run red lights!”

She slammed the receiver down, her lips making a thin line. She muttered under her breath.

A minute later, the phone rang again. She jerked it up and, without thinking, said, “If you call here one more time, Rourke, I’ll have you up for harassment!”

There was a faint pause, as if she’d shocked the listener. Then Kilraven’s voice came over the line, deep and very somber.

“Joceline, I’ve got some bad news.”

“Winnie …?” she began worriedly, because she was fond of his wife. They often went shopping together.

He swallowed. “Not Winnie. My brother …”

“Jon? Something’s happened to Jon?” She sounded almost hysterical and she didn’t care. Harold Monroe’s phone call came back to her in a flash of anguish. She gripped the phone, hard. “What happened?”

“He’s been shot. Critically. He’s at the Hal Marshall Memorial Medical Center … Hello? Joceline?”

He was talking to himself. Joceline had her purse over her shoulder. She ran to Betty’s small office and told her what had happened.

“I’m on my way to the hospital. I’ll call you the minute I know something!”

Betty started to mention that Jon’s family was certainly gathered around him, and would relay any news. But the look on Joceline’s face stopped the words in her mouth. She wondered if Joceline was even aware of her feelings for Jon Blackhawk, which were blatant on her drawn, worried face.