Читать книгу Bending the Rules - Susan Andersen, Susan Andersen - Страница 13

Okay, I have to admit it, today was different. Usually the kids I teach want to be here.

SATURDAY MORNING, on the north side of Jerry Harvey’s shop, Poppy faced three kids who stared back at her sullenly, their postures a study of teenage defiance. She turned to give Jason a brief glance, then concentrated her full attention on the teens. “My name is Poppy Calloway,” she said genially. “You will refer to me as Ms. Calloway. This is Detective de Sanges.” She looked at the lone girl in the group. “Are you Danny or Cory?”

“Cory.” The red lipstick, the heavily mascaraed blue eyes beneath the long, black bangs of an otherwise short, spiky hairdo gave her attitude. But a wash of color upon her fair, fair skin hinted at nerves.

“You’re a surprise.” There was an understatement, but she buried her astonishment in a calm tone. “Lot of people thought you were a boy.”

“No shit,” the scrawnier of the two boys muttered.

Poppy turned to him. “And you are?”

A who-wants-to-know expression was her only answer for a long moment. But when Poppy merely looked at him and de Sanges shifted impatiently at her back, he muttered, “Henry.”

She glanced at her notes, then back up to meet his gaze with a level, carefully nonconfrontational one of her own. “Well, Mr. Close,” she said pleasantly, “as long as you’re a part of this group, you will check your language at the door.”

“Right. That’s fuckin’ gonna happen.”

She put a hand on de Sanges’s arm as he took a giant step to brush past her, aware, even through two layers of clothing, of the strength and heat beneath her fingers. He was closer to them than the fifteen feet she’d insisted upon during their last conversation. She was willing to let it go, however, as long as he let her handle matters without his less-than-sympathetic interference.

The instant he subsided, she released her grip, then moved within a foot of Henry Close herself. He was undersize even for a thirteen-year-old, but he had old eyes and she recognized a hard life when she saw one written on a child’s face.

“Oh, it will happen, Mr. Close,” she said amiably.

“M’name’s Henry.”

“If you learn nothing else while you’re under my supervision,” she said as if he hadn’t interrupted, “you will learn this—we show each other respect. That’s my number-one rule. And a large part of that is avoiding the use of inflammatory language. Another part is to address each other with courtesy. So as long as you are in my program, you are Mr. Close, who is just as valuable a member of Seattle society as Bill Gates.”

“Who, technically,” the third kid said, “is a member of Medina society—not Seattle’s.”

“Yes, who is technically a member of the snooty eastside,” Poppy agreed with an easy grin, turning to the last of her trio, a tall boy with subtly expensive clothing and razor-cut brown hair. “But we like to claim him as our own when it suits our purposes to do so. And you, by process of elimination, must be Mr. Gardo.”

“Most people call me Danny G.”

“As I explained to Mr. Close, we’re a little more formal than most people.”

“What program?” Henry demanded.

Poppy raised her eyebrows at him in inquiry.

“You said as long as we’re in your program. I thought this painting over the tagging gig was just for today.”

“Then you weren’t paying attention when I called to let you know that while you will not be going to jail for defacing the shopping district, you are mine after school and on weekends until I say otherwise.”

“That sucks!”

“Funny, that’s pretty much what the merchants said when they saw what the three of you had done to their buildings.”

“Three of us, my booty,” Cory muttered.

Poppy looked at the young girl, only to find her exchanging some heavy eye contact with Henry. “Do you have something you’d like to contribute to the conversation, Ms. Capelli?”

The girl hesitated a moment, then tore her gaze away from Henry’s, glanced at Danny and shrugged shoulders burdened with a beat-up, much-too-large leather jacket worn over a black hoodie. “No, ma’am.”

“Then let’s discuss you for a minute.”

The teen started. “Nuthin’ to discuss,” she mumbled.

“Now, there we’ll have to disagree.” Poppy smiled at Cory’s unique attire. She wore a flowery black-and-tan dress over capri-length black leggings and she’d paired them with Doc Martens. Sort of Garden Party Barbie meets Urban Warrior. “Can I safely assume you dress as a boy when you go out at night for safety reasons?” she inquired gently.

Cory gave a jerky nod and Poppy allowed the girl to break eye contact.

She turned back to the two boys. “Then I suggest we all keep Ms. Capelli’s identity under our hats so she may continue to be safe. Is that agreeable with you, Mr. Gardo? Mr. Close?”

“Yeah, sure,” Danny said.

Henry opened his mouth to no doubt say something smart-ass, but snapped it shut again at the half defiant, half pleading look Cory shot him. “Whatever.” Then, as if to make up for what he clearly interpreted as a momentary weakness, he gave Poppy a slow up-and-down. “You’re hot.”

“Yes, I know. It’s my burden to bear. So shall we get started?” She nodded at the assortment of painting supplies on the sidewalk to her right and held out her hand, palm up. “You each owe me thirty-seven fifty.”

Danny dug through his wallet and forked over the required amount, but both Cory and Henry looked stricken, although they struggled to hide the fact. Cory said sulkily, “I’ve only got ten-fifty.”

“And I only got twenty,” Henry admitted.

“Then we’ll put you on the payment plan,” she said easily and accepted the money they did have, making a note of it in her little notebook. “You’ll contribute each time we meet until your debt is paid off. If you don’t have a way to make money on your own, a couple of the merchants whose buildings you defaced agreed to give you some chores, which they’ll pay you minimum wage to perform.”

“Pretty damn generous of them if you ask me,” Jase muttered.

She turned to face him. “The no-cursing rule extends to you and me, Detective de Sanges,” she said levelly. “I will thank you to show us the same respect we’re requiring of Misters Gardo and Close and Ms. Capelli.”

“Yeah, Detective,” Henry said. “Show us some damn respect.”

De Sanges’s dark brows inched toward each other for a moment, and he leveled a look on Henry until the kid shifted on his huge, laces-dangling sneakers. But he merely said to Poppy, “Yes, ma’am,” and looked beyond her to the kids once more. “My apologies,” he said flatly.

When it became clear none of the teens was going to reply, she turned her attention back to the two with balances left on their accounts. “Do you both understand my conditions?”

Cory gave a clipped nod.

Henry said, “Yeah, big deal. I’ll wait until the old man climbs back in his bottle and see what the wallet yields.”

Her heart felt bruised at the picture that comment revealed, but she knew better than to display anything that Henry could construe as pity. “Let’s get started then.”

Jase stood back and watched as she handed out old lab coats for the kids to use to protect their clothing and got them organized. He eyed the girl in particular as she took off her oversize leather jacket and carefully folded it before setting it out of harm’s way. Calloway had the right of it: the kid was a surprise. He hadn’t been involved when they’d been busted, but everything he’d heard had been about three boys. Cory was tall for her age and happily not one of those starved-looking girls that so many of today’s young females strove to be. But the nape of her neck looked soft-as-a-baby’s vulnerable.

My ass. He scowled. He didn’t know where the hell that had come from, but he wasn’t cutting her any slack just because she was a girl. Do the crime, you do the time; that was his motto. Her freaking nape most likely wasn’t on display anyway when she was in the dark, dressed like a boy, roaming the city streets.

But a jittery feeling attacked the pit of his stomach on the heels of that visual…and just served to make him tenser still. Pulling his attention away from the girl, he focused it on the author of this charade.

And felt an edginess of a different sort. He shoved it aside, but ruminated over the fact that she was a bit of a revelation herself. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see in her interaction with these kids, but something a little more Lady Bountiful, he supposed.

But she was good with them. Calm but strict, which surprised him. He’d assumed she’d want to be their friend too much to be anything but ineffectual. But she hadn’t let a damn thing slide, whether it was about the money they owed or that respecting-each-other rule…which he had to admit was first-rate. She managed to do it, too, in a way that didn’t put their backs up, and God knew that was a talent not to be sneezed at.

And that little shit Henry was right about one thing: she was hot. Amazingly so, considering she didn’t try real hard. As far as he could tell she wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup except for maybe some mascara and a lip balm he’d seen her smear over naturally pink lips with a pronounced bow that pulled his gaze like magnets did metal. She had all that blond hair pulled away from her face in a high ponytail, three skinny black headbands keeping the unruly curls from escaping, the first just back from her hairline, the second an inch or so behind that and the third an equal distance behind the second.

She wore well-worn jeans, a slim red fleece top and a puffy navy down vest, over which she was currently pulling on a voluminous black smock that was paint-splotched with a good dozen colors. All those layers should have made her look like the Kraft Jet-Puffed Girl, and for about one minute it did. But then she bent down to pry the lid off a can of paint and the smock rode up and her jeans stretched tight over a world-class butt.

“Dude, why you lickin’ your chops?”

Jerking his attention away, wondering what had become of his trademark ability to stay on track no matter what distractions were going on around him, he glanced at Henry and said the first thing that popped to mind. “I was thinking about marshmallows and hot, gooey centers.”

“I love marshmallows!” Cory looked at him over her shoulder and for a moment her screw-you armor dropped and she was just a wistful-looking little girl in too much makeup. “My daddy used to make us a fire in the fireplace and we’d toast them on a stick over it.”

Henry studied him a moment, then shook his head. “You mighta been thinking of hot, gooey centers, dude, but I’m thinking it weren’t in no marshmallows.”

Jesus. Jase was disgusted with himself. What the hell’s happened to your cop face, when you can’t even fool a thirteen-year-old?

Luckily Henry didn’t have time to pursue his advantage because Poppy chose that moment to hand him a roller. The boy grimaced in distaste.

Jase shot him an evil smile. “Shut up and paint, kid.”

“That’s Mr. Close to you, dickhead.”

“Remember Ms. Calloway’s rules,” Cory said. “It’s Detective Dickhead.”

Danny G. laughed.

“That’s enough out of all of you,” Blondie said and shot him a look that said, Aren’t you supposed to be the grown-up here, Detective Dickhead? “I want to see a little less dissing and a lot more painting.”

She kept the teens on task, making them, over their vociferous protests, apply two coats of paint on the side of the shop. Not until nearly three and a half hours had passed did she step back and survey their work. “Not bad,” she said.

“It’s better than not bad,” Danny G. protested. “It’s damn—dang—good. ‘Specially considering only a small portion of it was even tagged in the first place.”

“Yes, I haven’t heard that more than a dozen times from each of you today,” she said mildly. “But that’s what happens, Mr. Gardo, when you break the law—you lose a lot of the rights you’ve always taken for granted. Sort of like the merchants around here did when they discovered you’d vandalized the businesses they’ve poured their hearts, souls and bank accounts into.”

Leaning down, she scooped up a bucket. “All of you put your rollers in this and take it around to the back door. Mr. Harvey agreed to let you clean them in the stationary tub in the back of his shop. I expect you to do that quickly and quietly. And there will be an inspection.” She looked each teen in the eye with a steely glint in her own. “I’m hungry and feeling kind of cranky. You don’t want to make me have you do it twice.”

After they finished cleaning the brushes to her satisfaction, she had them hammer the lids back on the paint cans, pack everything else in the milk crates she’d provided and cart them to her car. Then she cut them loose with instructions to be back the next day at 8:00 a.m. All three kids began to protest, but she merely gave them another of those I’m-the-Woman-of-Steel-and-not-even-Kryptonite-can-weaken-me looks and they shut up and trudged away, grumbling under their breath.

The instant they disappeared from sight, she grinned and pumped a fist in the air. “Yessss!” She undulated over to him, hips swinging, arms swaying overhead and head bopping. “Am I good, or what?” she crowed, dancing in place as she beamed up at him. “Those three were a tougher room than I’m used to playing, but I think they’re gonna come along just fine. And kudos to you, too, Detective D. You weren’t nearly the pain in the ass I thought you’d be with them.”

He raised his eyebrows at her and took an involuntary step closer. “What happened to the inflammatory language lecture?”

“Pfffft. It’s just you and me now, bud—and I don’t need to be a good influence on you.”

Then neither did he, and he moved closer yet until he could see the specks of topaz in her dark brown irises. The color reminded him of the stones he’d tried to steal when he’d thought he might as well go into the family business alongside his brother, dad and Pops—the ones that had brought him to Murphy’s attention. “I wouldn’t get too full of myself just yet if I were you,” he advised dryly. “It went okay today, but this is still a lousy idea. There are a thousand things that can go wrong and trust me, Blondie, they will. Probably the minute the newness wears off the so-called program for your minithugs.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, de Sanges.” She looked up at him, all passionate eyes and glowing cheeks. “There’s nothing ‘so-called’ about it—my programs have been forged in fire. And the longer I have these kids, the better. Or so my previous two groups and the current program I’ve got running in the CD have led me to believe. In my experience most teens just want someone to show a little interest in them and give them something to do that ideally engages their attention in a fun way. I admit that for this particular group, part one of my agenda isn’t what most teens consider fun. But if art is their thing, and they stick with me for the work segment, part two will be. And that’s when I get ‘em firmly on the hook and start reeling them in.”

Looking at the wild, soft curls erupting from the rubber band at her crown, he had a sudden urge to wrap them around his hands and do some reeling in of his own. He took a sharp step back, rubbing his itchy palms against his thighs. Christ, de Sanges, he thought in disgust. You aren’t Dad or Joe out on parole and on the hunt for the nearest willing babe.

Those fucking family genes were going to be the death of him yet.

He shook the thought aside to tune back in on Poppy’s conversation.

“We have to assume that tagging is these kids’ equivalent of a creative outlet,” she said. “I can supply them that in a way more socially acceptable and demonstrate a genuine interest in them as well. I like teenagers.” The corner of her mouth quirked up. “Which I’m sure you’d say is because I still have the mentality of one.”

Jase wasn’t sure what the hell he would say. He looked at the conviction on her face and felt all his preconceived notions about her shift.

He tried to ignore it, because he didn’t like being wrong. Hell, if you followed the rules, you usually weren’t—and he’d been doing that since he was fourteen years old and Murph had caught him with his bad-seed fingers all over those topazes. But Poppy had acted a lot like Murphy with those kids today and she was telling him stuff now that made him question what he thought he knew about her. Then there was the memory of that not-exactly-high-rent-and-definitely-security-free building she lived in. Abruptly he demanded, “Who are you?”

“Well, not the rich girl you’ve got me pegged for, that’s for sure.”

He’d been so certain…but every piece of evidence except one said he’d been dead wrong.

Shit.

Still. He rubbed the back of his neck. “That mansion…”

She blew out a gusty, put-upon sigh, but said levelly, “Ava and Jane and I met Agnes Wolcott when we were twelve. She was a fascinating lady and we started hanging out with her when she attended the soirees Ava’s parents threw. Then one day she invited us to the Wolcott mansion for high tea.”

“What’s that, something you drink on a ladder?”

“Very droll, Detective de Sanges. Ridiculous, but droll. Actually, it’s laced with LSD.”

His mouth dropped open.

“That woman had been all over the world and she knew where alllll the best drugs were.” Then she gave him a jab. “And here I thought cops were supposed to be so impervious to lies and prevarications.” She gave him a look similar to the ones she’d bent on the kids. “Do you actually want to hear this or just waste my time with your smart-ass remarks?”

Fascinated by her against all good sense, he gave her a by-all-means-proceed sweep of his hand.

“All right, then. At that first tea, she gave us our first diaries and talked to us like we were interesting people, not a bunch of kids too stupid to understand words of more than two syllables. And our friendship with her simply grew from there. She had no family of her own, so she left us her estate when she died.”

She aimed a stern look on him. “But you’ve seen the mansion. It needs work and we’re having it fixed up, which takes both time and a lot of money. Most of the latter is coming from the collections she also left us, but Jane is still working on getting the last of those cataloged and until we finish the renovations, actually sell the place and reconcile the debit column with the credit side, we aren’t exactly rolling in dough. And even then—well, while it will certainly be more money than I’ve ever seen in my life, it’s not exactly going to be untold wealth.”