Bending the Rules (13 page)

Rolling her eyes, Cory curled her lip to show that no one was gonna guilt her into anything. Dammit, she hadn’t even done the crime!

In this neighborhood, anyway.

But she couldn’t quite hold Mrs. Stories’s gaze when the older woman turned soft brown eyes on her, giving her a level look. “Sorry, ma’am,” she heard herself muttering to the pavement in front of her—then was furious with herself for caving. The only saving grace was that she wasn’t the only one. Danny G. and Henry apologized, too.

She scowled at Ms. Calloway when the woman handed her a pair of rubber gloves.

Ms. C. merely smiled. “I’m not sure how harsh the remover is. You’ll probably want to wear those when you use it.”

“You’re exposing kids to toxic chemicals?” Henry demanded. “Putting us in a situation where we can inhale them into our still-developing lungs?”

“Seems only fair to me,” she said mildly, raising an elegant eyebrow at him. “Better you than Marlene, who suffers from asthma. And who—forgive me for beating this to death, but you seem to be missing the basic premise here—is not the person who decorated her stylish business with these chicken scratches.” Not until Henry started to squirm did she release his gaze and turn to include Danny and Cory. “Any more questions? No? Good. One of you help me grab the buckets and we’ll review the instructions. Then we can get started.”

Reacting to the authority in Ms. Calloway’s voice, Cory stepped forward before she thought it through, then was stuck. Making a face to show the guys she wasn’t one of those teacher’s-pet nerds or anything, she crossed to where Ms. C. stooped next to a couple of plastic containers. She dropped onto her heels next to her.

They each picked up a sealed tub and had just risen to their feet when the cop snapped, “Look out!”

Simultaneously Danny leaped across the space and shoved them hard. The bucket in Cory’s hands went flying and she barely kept her footing.

“Hey!” she snarled at the same time something hit the pavement with a horrendous clamor right where they’d just been standing. She stared without comprehension at a hugegantic wrench sporting a wicked gouge in its silvery surface.

“Sonuva—!” A man’s head appeared over the edge of Mrs. Stories’s roof. “Is everyone okay down there? Sorry, dudes—I accidentally kicked it off the ledge.”

Her heart still pounding out a rhythm like a rapper on speed, she watched Ms. C. grab de Sanges’s arm when he took a hot step toward the building.

He looked down at her all tenselike, listened as she murmured something, then with a curt nod walked away. Ms. Calloway inhaled and exhaled a couple of times, then straightened her shoulders and shook out her hands. “Thank you, Danny. Cory, are you okay?”

“Yeah. I think. That was spooky.”

“No kidding.” Ms. C. bent to pick up a white plastic tub that she, too, had dropped. After reading the instructions on its side, she shot Henry a sly smile.

“Hmm. No methylene chloride, MEK or toluene. No fumes or flammable solvents. That kinda kicks the slats out from under your wrecking-your-delicate-lungs theory, doesn’t it? It is caustic, though, so wear your gloves. We wouldn’t want to incur any damage to your still-developing fingers.”

Cory didn’t want to find anything about the situation amusing, but her lips curled up in spite of herself. Ms. C. was like no adult she’d ever met before. She was pretty as a model, but not at all snooty. She acted as if she actually liked them, talking to them in that easy way the good teachers did. And she’d just shrugged off a very near-miss accident. She was…cool.

The smile dropped from her face, however, when Detective de Sanges strode up to her.

“I’m partnering with you,” he said in his nonsmiling, just-the-facts-ma’am way. “Poppy—er, that is, Ms. Calloway assigned us to this section of brick over here.” He walked over to it and raised dark, slashing eyebrows at her when she didn’t immediately follow. “She says after we clean it, you’re to paint on the remover and I’m to apply this laminated cloth on top of it.” He hefted a small plastic-wrapped bundle for her to see.

Panic scratched at the back of Cory’s throat, but she raised her chin in an attempt to refute it. “Forget it. I don’t want to partner with you.”

Those eyebrows gathered over the strong thrust of his nose, but he merely said, “I didn’t make the assignment, kid—I’m just following the general’s orders.”

The panic pushed harder. “Well, I’m not.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got that. Except it’s not your choice. Still, why don’t we talk to—”

“I don’t want to talk to you!” Taking several steps back, she crossed her arms militantly over her breasts, hoping it would divert his sharp gaze from the sudden tremble in her lips. “You’re a cop. I don’t like cops.”

“Okay,” he said calmly. “Basically we’re just people like everyone else, and if you don’t break the law you’ve got nothing to worry about. But let me just talk to Ms. Ca—”

“That’s bullshit!” Her voice came out too loud and she hugged herself against the sick tremors suddenly shaking her from head to foot. But she stood by her words: it was bullshit.

“Language, Ms. Capelli,” Ms. C. said.

Cory wasn’t listening. She glared at the detective. “That’s a big, fat lie. My daddy didn’t break no law! My daddy did the right thing—least that’s what he thought he was doing by going to the police in my old neighborhood when he recognized the gunman in a drive-by shooting. And you know what your precious cops did in return? Nuthin’! They were happy enough to get the information and make an arrest, but they didn’t bother to keep him safe from the shooter’s gang.”

Salty liquid trickled in the corner of her mouth and angrily she swiped her forearm against her cheek to wipe away tears she hadn’t even realized she was crying. “Almost two years my daddy’s been dead,” she snapped with extra force to negate the weakness implied by her weeping. But she couldn’t keep her voice steady and she ended up sobbing, “And my mom’s been working two jobs just to make ends meet. So don’t tell me how goddamn wonderful cops—”

“Shh, shh, shh, shh, shh.” Warm hands closed around her upper arms and she was pulled against a softly scented female breast and wrapped in warm arms. “Shh, now,” Ms. Calloway’s voice crooned and one hand lifted to stroke the back of Cory’s hair. “It’s okay. It’s okay, baby.”

“No, it’s not!” she wailed.

The hand stilled for a second, then resumed its stroking. “No, you’re right. There’s nothing okay about your father being killed for trying to do the right thing. Detective,” she said in a calm voice over Cory’s head, “why don’t you take the boys to the coffee shop down the street and get them something to drink. Take your time. But bring us back a couple of mocha frappuccinos when you’re done, will you? My wallet’s in my tote over there.”

“Keep your money,” he said gruffly. “Come on, guys.”

Stupid tears kept trickling from Cory’s eyes and her nose was getting so stuffy she could barely breathe. Panting noisily through her mouth, she rested her cheek against the soft cushion of Ms. C.’s breast, feeling the paint-splotched cotton beneath it growing damp and hoping to heck she wasn’t getting snot all over Poppy.

Wouldn’t that just be the sprinkles on her cupcake.

Yet, she felt…better somehow. Still sad, but not so gut-wrenchingly lonesome.

“How long have you been keeping this in?” Ms. Calloway inquired gently, her hands still soothing the back of Cory’s head and her neck.

“I dunno. Year and a half?”

“Ever since your father died? Haven’t you talked to your mother about it?”

“Nuh-uh. Mom misses Daddy so much, and she’s got loads on her plate, y’know? I don’t wanna burden her.”

“Honey, she’s your mom. She’d want to know. What do you do when it hits you out of the blue, cry alone?”

She shrugged. “Mostly.” And she hadn’t realized how good it could feel to be held while she grieved. But the thought made her feel disloyal to her mother, so she disengaged herself and stepped back, knuckling her nose. Which only spread the snot across her cheek.

Jeezus.

Ms. C. produced a little pack of Kleenex and passed it to her. Cory mopped up her face and blew her nose.

“Here.” Stepping close, Ms. C. pulled a tissue out of the pack in Cory’s hand and dabbed under her eyes with it. Tipping her chin in, she inspected her for a silent moment. “You actually look prettier without all that makeup,” she said with a soft smile as she balled up the mascara and eyeliner-smeared tissue.

Cory sniffed. “That’s what my mom says.”

“Talk to her. If your mother’s anything like mine, she’d die if she knew how much you were holding in for her sake.”

It was a seductive thought, but she merely said, “I’ll think about it.”

“She’s the adult in your family, Cory. I doubt she’d like the idea of you protecting her at the cost of your own peace of mind.” Then she waved her hand. “But I’m not going to nag. So let’s discuss Detective de Sanges instead.”

Her heart immediately began to pound. “He’s mean!”

“No,” Ms. C. disagreed without heat. “He’s stingy with his smiles and pretty darn single-minded, but I don’t believe he’s mean. He’s dedicated to the job to an almost ridiculous point. I imagine if he’d been on the team assigned to your father’s case, he would have turned himself inside out to assure there’d be a very different outcome.”

Oh, if only! But her daddy was gone and nothing was gonna bring him back. “Maybe,” she said grudgingly, unwilling to give any cop the benefit of the doubt. Still, maybe he wasn’t all bad. Because now that she wasn’t so panicked, she kind of remembered him trying to tell her he’d get Ms. C. when she’d flipped out on him about being partnered up.

At least that wasn’t bound to happen now. So, as embarrassing as crying like a baby in front of everyone was, it had one upside.

“I’m sorry,” Ms. Calloway said. “That was hardly helpful in the face of a situation that can’t be changed. But as you get to know Detective de Sanges a little better I’m confident you’ll discover he’s not so bad.”

Uh-oh, that didn’t sound good. “Huh? As I get to know—”

“Him better,” Ms. C. finished. “Because you do realize, don’t you, that he’s still your partner? At least until this chore is complete.”

CHAPTER NINE

Well, damn. Just when I’m getting comfy in my preconceptions, Jason has to go and throw a spanner in the works. I hate it when the facts get in the way of my prejudices!

W
HEN
B
RUNO
A
RTURO
spotted a teen toting spray-paint cans, he reversed his course, backtracking with long strides in the youth’s direction. Sure, Schultz had said to leave the tagger situation be, but this was Kismet, man. Why else would a graffiti freak that he’d seen hanging around the streets before show up just as he was thinking how whack it was that he couldn’t find his tagger? “Hey, kid!”

The boy glanced over his shoulder but kept shuffling along in his oversize hoodie, baggy pants that showed a good eight inches of boxer shorts where they hung off his skinny ass and huge, untied sneakers.

“You! I’m talking to you.” Jesus, what the hell were these kids thinking when they pulled on rags like that in the morning? Smoothing his palm along the lapel of his own sharp gray suit, Arturo watched the kid’s head turn back around and snapped, “Don’t you walk away from me, punk!”

“Whaddup, dude?” The boy turned back, but his upper body angled back and his arms crossed over his chest, copping an attitude. “Whatchu want?”

“You, answering some questions about one of your species.”

The teen’s eyes narrowed. “What species you talkin’ about, ass-can? One that be black?”

“No, idiot. I’m trying to locate a tagger. A white tagger,” he added pointedly.

“Don’t know me none a’ them.”

“Bullshit. I see you kids hanging out together all the time. Only color you graffiti types seem to see says Krylon on the can. So tell me where I can find this one.” He described the boy who’d been on the roof in as much detail as he could recall.

But the kid merely shrugged and Bruno had a feeling he hadn’t even been listening. “Like I said, dude, don’t know him. I can’t help you.”

“Well, if you can’t, I guess you can’t,” he said affably—then grabbed the youth by the throat and waltzed him backward into a nearby alley.

“Now,” he said calmly as the kid’s fingers scrabbled at his hand and his dark eyes bugged out. “Whataya say we try this one more time?”

P
OPPY FOUND HERSELF
sneaking peeks at Jason as the group worked at painting over the black spray-paint on yet another storefront the following Tuesday afternoon. He’d been…mellower since Cory’s meltdown, not nearly as standoffish and serious.

Not that he’d suddenly turned into a smiling fool or the kids’ best friend. But Poppy had noted his gentleness with Cory when he’d rejoined the girl that day, and the quiet way in which he’d allowed her to maintain her distance. So although he’d still made cracks to Poppy about her minithugs, he’d obviously done something right while he’d had the boys over at the coffee shop. She didn’t know what he’d said to them, but both kids had managed to act pretty natural around Cory when they’d come back. After the girl’s revelation concerning her father—and boys being boys—Poppy doubted they could have pulled that off if he hadn’t said something to them.