Second in command, p.3
Second in Command, page 3
part #1 of Fairview Station Series
“Can’t or won’t?” Jazz’s temper rose but she tamped it down. She wouldn’t get any information if she became confrontational. “Did Shea tell you why she ran away?”
“She wasn’t very forthcoming, which is typical for her. She’s done this before when she was unhappy.”
“Unhappy? That’s all you see? An unhappy child who runs away from her father in the middle of the night for no reason?” Her temper was getting the best of her. She’d wanted to talk to Shea before she left, but more than that, she wanted to know she was all right and being cared for. Jazz had been the kid shuffled through the system, a square peg that didn’t fit into the round organizational holes, and she knew the frustration and sense of worthlessness it produced. She didn’t want to see the same thing happen to Shea.
“This kid has been in and out of the system for a while and has been nothing but trouble. She’ll be lucky to get a chance with a decent family after the revolving door with her dad.”
“Maybe it’s time to consider a more permanent placement if the dad isn’t capable.”
The woman closed her computer and started to leave. “Trying to tell me how to do my job, Officer?”
“Just suggesting a closer look based on today’s events,” Jazz said.
“You know as well as I do that family always gets the benefit of the doubt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to file some paperwork before my shift ends.”
Jazz blocked the doorway and forced the woman to make eye contact. “You better hope nothing bad happens to her, or I’ll be looking to you for answers. I need one of your business cards.” She waited until the woman reluctantly complied. She glanced at the name. “Thank you, Sheri McGuire. I’ll be seeing you.”
Chapter Two
Emory hurried to the former supply closet that now served as the social workers’ office and unlocked the door. The old desk occupied most of the space leaving barely enough room for her to squeeze past the sides. Two straight-back chairs bunched closely together in front of the desk, and a single file cabinet stopped the door from opening fully. The only nod to a tolerable work space was a single-cup coffee and tea maker on top of the cabinet.
Emory placed her briefcase in one of the side chairs and put in a fresh tea pod. Maybe she could blame her jitters with Jazz on too much caffeine or her sluggish thinking on too little. She leaned against the wall and replayed their encounter.
Jazz still intrigued her after all these years. She’d been acquainted with the Carlyle family professionally, but hadn’t met Jazz until she was eighteen, just before she went away to college. She’d been gorgeous then too, athletic, vigorous, with just a hint of lingering childhood shyness. Emory had tamped down her attraction, feeling creepy even acknowledging it because of their fourteen-year age difference, her profession, and her personal boundaries. But now they were both adults, and Jazz had asked her out, sort of. And she refused. Why? Before she could enumerate all the reasons, Sheri burst into the room waving her arms.
“I really hate when police officers try to do our jobs for us. Don’t you?” Her high-pitched voice was an octave above normal. She didn’t wait for an answer. “That Jazz Perry always has a hard-on for anything child-related. This makes the third or fourth time her name has popped up in one of my cases, but the first time I’ve encountered her face-to-face. She actually challenged my competence. Can you imagine?” She must’ve realized Emory wasn’t responding because she stopped and scrubbed her hand through thick black hair that stuck out at the ends like a frayed electrical cord. “Do you know her?”
“She’s just interested in the child’s welfare, same as us.”
“So now you’re taking their side?”
“I was under the impression we were on the same side.”
“Oh, whatever, Emory. You’re such a…a regimented idealist.” She packed her briefcase and headed for the door.
“I’m not sure that’s even a real thing. So, what happened with the girl?”
“Like I told the cop, a USAA rep picked her up. She’s probably back with her dad already. Shea Spencer is a revolving-door case, four years back and forth between her dad and foster homes. You know the type. I’m going home unless you have further questions. I’ll file my report tomorrow, if you have no objections, Ms. Stickler-for-Details.”
Emory spoke as Sheri walked away. “It would be best if you filed the report while the details are still fresh in your mind.”
“Like I could forget. Report me.”
“Which USAA counselor came for the girl?”
Sheri spun around and squared off with Emory. “What’s your problem with USAA? Every time we have a chance to shift some of our workload to them, you have a meltdown.”
Emory refused to back down from Sheri’s bullying or from her beliefs. “I have concerns about a company that profits by using children as a commodity.”
“There you go with your idealism again. Go home. You’re off, and I’m out.”
“Any more news about the contract bids?” Emory called to her as she left.
Sheri slammed the door without answering, and Emory sat on the edge of the desk and sipped her tea. She started to call Jazz but didn’t have her number. She’d already told Jazz she couldn’t interfere with a coworker’s case. CPS had rules for a reason, and if she violated one, she’d be on a slippery slope. Besides, she wouldn’t be able to reassure Jazz that Shea would be fine as a cog in the USAA wheel when she doubted it herself. She wasn’t a very good liar.
* * *
On her way home from night shift, Jazz located the phone number of the US Adoption Agency and called to check on Shea. Whoever picked her up and transported her home should still be awake, but the call went to voice mail. After the greeting, she left her name and contact details, asking for a face-to-face, but feeling no better about Shea’s situation than when she’d picked her up on the street several hours ago.
Jazz parked in front of the Carlyle home in Fisher Park, looked up at the two-story dwelling with a wraparound porch, and warmth spread through her. This was the only home she remembered, having lost her real mother to a stroke when Jazz was four. Most of the things she knew about herself, life, and how to treat others she’d learned in this place.
She bounded up the creaky stairs of the traditional home two at a time, past the childhood photos of Simon, Bennett, Dylan, and Jazz lining the walls. She, G-ma, and Mama occupied only three of the five upstairs bedrooms now that Bennett had relocated with Kerstin down the street and Dylan had taken Ben’s place in the cottage out back. Jazz remained in the family home, passing her turn in the cottage to Dylan, who needed “room to grow.”
She shucked her uniform while the shower temperature regulated, eager to be clean, fed, and asleep after getting little rest the day before. She considered skipping the customary Sunday brunch, but needed to feel reconnected with family after finding Shea.
As she showered, she thought about Emory—her wavy auburn hair that Jazz itched to run her fingers through and her green eyes that threatened to divine Jazz’s deepest secrets. After years of being chased by more assertive women, the slow seduction of shy Emory Blake surprisingly appealed to her.
“Hey, you eating with us?” Bennett stood outside the shower tapping on the steamy glass.
“What the hell, Ben?”
“I knocked on your bedroom door. You must’ve been seriously gone. Wait. Were you thinking about a woman? You weren’t giving yourself a hand—”
“No!”
“Good, because I don’t want that image in my head over breakfast. Get downstairs before we all starve to death.” Bennett turned to leave but called back over her shoulder. “And I want details about the woman who has you so distracted that you forget about food.” The sound of her laughter followed her down the stairs.
She couldn’t hide anything from Bennett. They were the same age and had grown up together since she was eight. Papa and Mama Carlyle and Bennett had given her the first opportunities to make choices in her life—a bedroom of her own or sharing with Bennett; public school with the rest of the Carlyle kids or a year of private tutoring to catch up on courses; adoption or not; assuming the Carlyle surname or keeping her own. They’d given her a voice, a life, and made her the successful woman she was today. She couldn’t hide anything from them, anything except her nagging desire for more.
She pulled a pair of sweats from her dresser, and a doubled envelope fell to the floor. Her breath caught as she bent to pick it up. She carefully unfolded the paper and stared at the Celtic love knot necklace and handwritten note which read: Two hearts united are stronger than steel. She skimmed her fingers over the smooth interlaced swirls as if she could pull some feeling or memory from them. The necklace had belonged to her mother, and Jazz kept it safely tucked away, afraid she’d lose it at work. The words returned to her often, and she wondered if she’d ever feel that connected to another person. She refolded the envelope and pushed it to the back of the drawer under her clothes before heading downstairs. When she reached the bottom, her cell vibrated in her pocket. “Hello?”
“Jazz, it’s Shea, Shea Spencer from this morning.”
“Yeah, how could I forget. You gave me quite a workout.” She raised a finger at Dylan and sat on the bottom step, determined to give Shea all the time she needed. She was reaching out, and Jazz wouldn’t turn away. Too many people had done that to her. “Sorry I didn’t see you before you left. When I went back, you were already gone. Are you all right?”
“I’m in a group home again.”
Jazz scrubbed her fist through her hair. Damn it. “Did they say why?”
“Because I ran, I guess, and they couldn’t find my dad.”
Under the guise of discipline, the system often punished children who didn’t play by the rules. “I’m so sorry, Shea.”
“At least it’s not juvie, right?”
“You haven’t done anything wrong.” Jazz’s heart ached at Shea’s cynical response. She’d apparently been through a lot in her young life and needed encouragement not more punishment. “Where’s your dad?”
“Like I told you earlier, don’t remember where we were before I took off.”
She hesitated, but finally asked, “Why did you run, Shea?”
“Same old, same old. Bunch of guys drinking and…” Her voice trailed off, and Jazz thought she heard a stifled sob.
“Do they ever hurt you, anything like that? Be honest with me.”
“Nah, nothing like that. They just get high and act stupid, send me out for food, make me wait on them. You know, the usual stuff, but nothing freaky.”
Jazz believed Shea and breathed a little easier. “What are you doing now?”
“Hiding in a closet with a cell I borrowed. My counselor is meeting with the home people about what to do with me next.” Shea covered the phone, and Jazz heard a strained whisper. “I’m coming in a sec. Guess I better go. Can I call again?”
“Of course, you can. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can help.” What could she do? The guidelines for placing children in foster and group homes were exact and strictly followed, and usually a last resort if a family member was an option. She had no idea what kind of situation Shea was running from, but the system’s one size fits all method was also less than ideal. It lacked flexibility and rarely worked for everyone, and she wasn’t giving up. She slid her phone back into her pocket as Simon stuck his head around the corner and glared.
When she entered the sunroom at the back of the house that served as their huge dining space, the family stood around the long refectory table behind their usual chairs with Jazz’s place on G-ma’s left vacant. Chafing dishes rested in hollows worn into the dark walnut wood of the table keeping the food warm. A sideboard held beverages and a few desserts.
“Good, everybody’s here. Let’s eat,” G-ma said, taking her place at one end of the table and Simon, the eldest child, at the other. Everybody else filled in.
Mama sat across from Jazz with Dylan, the youngest, to her right, followed by Bennett and now Kerstin. To Simon’s right was his son, Ryan; wife, Stephanie; and twin daughter Riley, next to Jazz. She found comfort in visually placing each member of the family in his or her place around the table. It made her feel that everything in her world was right, at least for one meal.
“So, what’s going on with everybody?” Mama started the meal with the usual question, and everybody was expected to participate, even the kids.
“We’re starting pre-algebra this year in school,” Ryan said. “Who thought twelve-year-olds needed algebra and geometry, but it’s kind of cool.”
Riley wrinkled her nose. “Yuck. We’re studying the human body. I’m going to be a doctor like Aunt Dylan.”
“Yes.” Dylan pumped her fist in the air. “That’s my girl. Hope you don’t change your mind in your third year of residency. It’s challenging.”
Mama gave her a sideways glance. “She’s allowed to change her mind any time she wants. Last week, she wanted to be a police officer like Ben and Jazz, and the week before a firefighter like her dad, so don’t get your hopes up. Everything okay at the hospital?”
Dylan, the spitting image of a young Bennett, looked more weary than usual and slipped a piece of bacon in her mouth before answering. “Just long days without much off time, exactly what I signed on for.” She shrugged.
Bennett gave Dylan a concerned look, always in tune to her younger sister’s moods. “You sure?”
“Medical residency is always demanding, and I don’t get to spend as much time with all of you as I’d like. That’s all, really. Over to you.”
Bennett nodded. “Thanks to Jazz and my beautiful wife, our house is almost fully furnished. We were out most of yesterday store hopping for the final bits and pieces. The only thing missing is a pool table for the basement.” She glanced at Kerstin.
“Don’t you mean a home theater and wet bar?”
Ben laughed. “Yeah, that too. Who says we can’t have it all, babe?”
“Is that everything then?” Simon asked.
G-ma cleared her throat. “I call on the newest member of the family, Kerstin Anthony-Carlyle.” She waved her hand toward Kerstin. “Sorry, I just wanted to say that again.”
“I love it. Thanks, G-ma.” Kerstin turned to answer Simon’s question. “Except for the attached garage which will eventually be converted into my office. Ben has graciously agreed that I need workspace more than she needs a place to store her toys.”
Bennett leaned over and kissed Kerstin on the cheek. “Relocation is a priority, before she grows too attached to our guest bedroom. We might want it for something else one day.”
“I sure hope it’s a nursery,” G-ma said. “I’m not getting any younger, you know.”
“And Riley and Ryan would be great babysitters,” Stephanie added, tousling the strawberry-blond hair of her children on either side.
“Uh-uh. Hard pass,” Ryan said.
“Count me in, Aunt Kerstin,” Riley said. “It would be great training for my future career in pediatrics.” She gave Dylan an adoring smile, and Dylan winked back.
Kerstin cupped Bennett’s hand on top of the table and gave her a smile. “We both want children, but I’d like to establish my business first. We’re thinking a couple of years at the most.”
“The sooner the better, but since you’ll be carrying her…or him, I’ll let you decide.”
Jazz’s skin tingled as she watched the exchange between Bennett and Kerstin. That was what she wanted—to love someone and raise children with her. Maybe the desire had always existed but was masked by her past and the whole dating and building a career thing.
“How’s Ma Rolls doing, G-ma?” Simon asked, pouring everybody seconds of their beverages.
“The food truck business is booming in Greensboro. Gayle and I could become a franchise.”
Ma shook her head vigorously. “Not in this lifetime, Norma Carlyle. We’ve got our hands full, but everything is good. We feed the hungry during the week and the homeless on the weekends.”
“Giving back,” Simon said almost wistfully. “Like the Carlyles before us.”
Stephanie squeezed Simon’s hand and then passed the breadbasket to Jazz. “What’s up in your world, Jasmine?”
Her face heated. Stephanie caught her daydreaming about her future with a wife and children. She took a drink of water to stall. How could she talk about the memorable events of her week without mentioning Emory?
“Yes, do tell, Jasmine,” Bennett teased her.
“Well, this morning I found an eleven-year-old wandering downtown alone after three o’clock. She didn’t remember the last place she’d spent the night with her father.”
“Poor child.” Mama placed her hand over her heart. “Will she be okay?” To the Carlyles, family, children, and service to the community meant everything. Papa and Mama had served as foster parents for years until Papa died in the line of duty. Mama often said she was out of balance without him, no more yin for her yang.
“I hope so. She’s in the system and back in a group home. I’ll follow up.”
“Anything else you need to tell us, Jazz?” Bennett prodded, and Kerstin nudged her.
“Leave the woman be, Ben. She’ll tell us when she’s ready.”
The adults turned their attention to her. She was shier than Bennett and Dylan and preferred to keep her private life private until she had real news to share, but the targeted stares ended any hope of that today. They wanted her to find someone special and settle down. Could they somehow sense the emptiness she carried inside despite her attempts to conceal it and theirs to fill it with love?
G-ma covered Jazz’s right hand with hers. “Have you met someone, honey?”
Jazz couldn’t meet her eyes. “Maybe. It’s too soon to know, but I like her.”
Everybody offered words of encouragement before quickly returning to their food. They knew she didn’t like unnecessary attention. No one asked who the woman was, and Jazz was grateful. She wasn’t ready to say Emory’s name aloud or to share that she’d felt something a little different with her for fear of jinxing things.
