Bending the Rules (14 page)

So that was…good. Or at least it should be good. But, man, oh, man. Her stomach twisted as she shot Jase another glance. Because she wasn’t all that certain a mellower de Sanges was a good thing.

It was bad enough she had the hots for the guy when he was being his usual I-do-not-smile-therefore-I-am gloomy Gus. This damn itchy got-you-under-my-skin attraction she felt for him made no sense, but at least his thorny personality helped her keep her distance.

Oh, yeah? How’s that working for you? Blowing out a disgusted breath, she pulled a foot-long piece of an old Venetian blind out of her tote and crossed to where Henry was avoiding painting up to the corner to show him how to use the pliable length of aluminum to avoid slopping color onto the adjoining wall while he finished his section.

But her mind returned to her rat-in-a-maze musings the instant she no longer had something to distract her. Because Jason’s less-than-jovial persona had been such a consideration, hadn’t it, when he’d given her that peck on the lips and she’d wanted to swallow him whole?

Oh, yeah. Big turnoff. As if it was you who pulled away.

Damn. She so didn’t get this. Because the way she felt around him? Probably the most libidinous of her life. She’d always had a pretty healthy sex drive, but never had she taken just one look at a guy and thought, Want that.

She swallowed a snort. Giving yourself way too much credit here if you actually believe there’s been any thinking involved. She was all nerve endings and awareness around him. Take last fall when she’d believed he was blowing off the break-in scare they’d experienced at the mansion. She’d been furious with him, yet it hadn’t stopped her from wanting to rub herself all over him like a cat in heat.

She had no idea where all these urges, past and present, were coming from. She’d always imagined the kind of guy who’d have this visceral an impact on her would be…well, worlds different from Jason de Sanges, that’s for sure. She’d envisioned someone artistic and socially conscious—a guy who was maybe a little bit like her dad, in that he’d love to laugh and think that her desire to change the world one kid at a time was actually a good thing, not some giant pain in his ass.

She found her gaze drawn to that portion of his anatomy, then staying to study it in loving detail. In his usual tailored slacks his butt was round and muscular and studly enough. But in the worn jeans he had on today? Lord have mercy. Those showcased precisely what a world-class—

For God’s sake, Poppy! It was all she could do not to smack her palm off her forehead. Because, for the love of Pete, what was she, a high-school girl mooning over the football captain? She hadn’t done that when she was a teen!

She had a bad, bad feeling, though, that things weren’t going to get better. Because it was tough enough keeping her eyes to herself and her thoughts off his ass when he was Robocop. How was she supposed to deal if he turned all Mr. New Age Sensitive Guy on her?

By taking a big step back, that’s how. She blew out a quiet breath. Squared her shoulders.

Okay, she could do that. She could—and would—act professionally from now on and keep all personal inclinations under lock and key. No letting her hormones be in charge. No more checking out his butt. And except for those situations when it couldn’t be helped as they worked with the kids, she was keeping lots and lots of space between them. Physically and emotionally.

She moved between her teenage taggers, checking their work and giving them words of encouragement. Her cell phone rang as she was praising the neat, efficient job Danny was doing and she rounded the end of the building to answer it. Turning her back to the traffic whizzing by in the street, she stuck a finger in her free ear to block out the road noises. “Hello?”

“Ms. Calloway? This is Barb Jackson—Darnell’s grandmother?”

She beamed at the thought of her star student in the Central District project. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Jackson. How are you?”

Her smile faded as Mrs. Jackson’s voice grew frantic and frightened the more the older woman talked. Twice Poppy had to exhort her to slow down as well as asking her more than once to repeat something in order to fully understand the situation that had the woman so distraught.

Finally, she said, “Mrs. Jackson, I’m with another group of kids at the moment, but we should be finished in about an hour. Could I come by your house? Yes? Good, hang on a moment while I grab something to write on.” She raced back to her tote and pulled out her tablet and pen. “Okay, I’m ready. Let me have your address and telephone number.”

Terminating the call a moment later, she tapped the tablet against her palm as she shot Jase a considering look. She really, really didn’t want to take this to him. But he had resources she could only dream of.

Tossing the notebook and pen back in her tote, she strode over to where he was taping the corner where Henry worked.

He gave her a don’t-mess-with-me look as she approached. “That piece of blind is fine for small areas,” he said. “But I’m taping this. I want to get done here before we’re all old and gray.”

“Fine,” she agreed. “I’m all over whatever works. But that’s not why I’m here. I need—” The words stuck in her throat, because asking directly contradicted her vow to keep her distance. Still, it had to be said. Resources, she reminded herself. This isn’t about you, it’s about Darnell, and de Sanges has the resources. She swallowed hard.

“I need your help.”

A
FTER THE KIDS
had taken off for the day, Jase stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and walked beside Poppy to her car, wondering what the hell was going on. They hadn’t had time to really talk and he wasn’t sure why he had automatically agreed to help just because she’d asked.

It sure wasn’t his usual way. He liked to have his i’s dotted and his t’s crossed before he committed to anything. But had he even once asked, Need my help to do what? Hell, no. The late afternoon spring sun had been casting a nimbus around Poppy’s hair, weaving lacy shadows through the thick lashes fringing those deep brown eyes with their clear, clear whites, and he’d said, yeah, all right. Sure.

Almost immediately, his uncharacteristic acquiescence had brought him up short. Yet before he could retract it and demand details, Henry had climbed all over his case about finishing the tape job. Then it seemed as if one kid or another had a question or opinion they wanted Poppy to hear. Between all that, there’d been no time for conversation.

That wasn’t the case now, however, and he opened his mouth to demand details of what he’d blindly signed on for. But Poppy stopped in front of her car and, taking one look at it, all other considerations momentarily fled.

Jesus, the thing must be fifteen years old and looked as if it was held together by baling wire and gum. Had he laid eyes on the ramshackle wreck at any time since that day he’d been dragged from the Lewis case to take Poppy and her friends’ burglary report, it would’ve eliminated a world of misunderstanding regarding her financial situation. “We’ll take my car.”

Clearly unoffended, she shot him a lopsided smile as she stroked the car’s oxidized front fender. “Why does everyone always assume Maybelline here is on the verge of a breakdown? She may not be pretty, but she runs a lot better than she looks.”

“I hope to hell, since it’s a rust bucket.” Then he stared at her. “You named your car?”

“Well, sure. We’ve been together a long time—I could hardly just call her it.” She gave him a droll look. “I take it you didn’t name yours.”

“Not in this lifetime,” he muttered. But he could easily visualize her doing so. He’d discovered a…lightness to Poppy Calloway over the past several days, a sort of built-in joy that all but glowed from her.

Damned, however, if he intended to cop to that. “C’mon,” he said gruffly. “I’m parked around the corner.”

He ushered her to his SUV, settled her in the passenger seat, then strode around the hood. Climbing in, he slid his key into the ignition, but turned his head to look at her instead of starting it up. “All right, just what the hell do you need my help doing?”

“It’s nothing illegal, I assure you,” she said dryly and made a little shooing gesture with her fingertips. “Do you think you could head for the Central District while we talk?”

“No.”

She sighed. “Barb Jackson, the grandmother of one of my students in the Central District program, called me. Darnell’s gone missing, and she’s scared sick.”

He stared at her. “Contrary to what this assignment with the kids might suggest, Blondie, I’m not your personal cop. Not to mention I’m a Robbery detective, not Missing Persons.”

“Which is actually a bonus at the moment, since they basically told Mrs. Jackson not to worry her pretty little head, that that was kids for you and Darnell has to be missing twenty-four hours before they’ll start looking for him.”

“There’s a reason they wait that long. Nine times out of ten that is kids for you.”

“He’s a good kid, Jason, and what if he’s that tenth out of ten? I know you have a demanding job that our cleanup project is taking you away from, and I honest to God don’t expect you to drop everything else you’re doing. But you’ve got resources Mrs. Jackson and I do not. Won’t you at least talk to her?”

He should say no. He intended to say no. Instead, grumbling, he fired up the engine. And headed for the CD.

Twenty minutes later he pulled up in front of a neat, mid-nineteenth-century bungalow. For a brief moment after he turned off the ignition, he simply sat there staring up the walk. Then on a resigned breath, he turned to Poppy. “I don’t suppose you want to change your mind about this?”

“She needs our help, Jason.”

He swore under his breath and—ignoring the fact that hearing her call him by his given name did something funny to his gut—climbed from the car and strode around the hood to open Poppy’s door. She beat him to it, however, and moodily eyeing the swing of her hips, he all but tromped on her heels as she strode up the short walk. Finding himself breathing down her neck as she stopped to push the doorbell, he took a healthy step backward. Jesus. The woman was making him seriously crazy.

The door opened and the author of his insanity said, “Mrs. Jackson? I’m Poppy Calloway and this is Detective de Sanges.”

“Thank you so much for coming.” A plump, tidily attired African-American woman who looked to be in her late fifties stepped back, opening the door wider. “Please, come in.” She shot him a glance, then looked back at Poppy. “I didn’t know a police officer would be accompanying you.”

“I’m not with Missing Persons, Mrs. Jackson, but Ms. Calloway asked if I’d help look into your grandson’s disappearance. I don’t have any authority in another department’s case, but—”

“It’s nobody’s case, Detective. When I called Darnell’s school and found out he hadn’t been there I went to Missing Persons. But they said he hadn’t been gone long enough to create a file.”

“In most instances the waiting period turns out to be valid. But I’ll do what I can.”

Mrs. Jackson led them into a living room that was inexpensively furnished, but clean and freshly painted in a cheerful spring green. “Please, have a seat.”

He and Poppy sat on the couch, and he automatically reached for what should have been the inside pocket of his suit jacket—only to pull up short at the reminder he’d dressed casually today. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jackson, I don’t have my notebook with me. Would you have a piece of paper and something to write with?”

She fetched him a tablet and a pen.

“Thanks.” Flipping back the tablet cover, he looked at the older woman and clicked the pen to extend its point. “When’s the last time you saw your grandson?”

“Last night before I went to bed.” She turned to Poppy. “He was still talking about your last class, and I thought at first, when he didn’t come home from school, he’d maybe met up with that South American girl he likes or had gone to a friend’s house. But when he still hadn’t called or shown up come suppertime, I started calling his friends.” For a moment her face crumpled, then she regained control. “Nobody knew anything.”

“Or weren’t willing to say,” he said.

The older woman shifted in protest. “He’s a good boy! And so are ninety-nine percent of his friends.”

“I’m not implying otherwise, ma’am. But even the best of teens are still teens. They do things they don’t think through very well. They all seem to believe that if there were an Eleventh Commandment it would be Thou Shalt Cover For Thy Friends No Matter What. And sometimes they lie simply because they know you won’t like the truth and they just don’t want the responsibility of living up to your expectations. I don’t know Darnell so I’m not saying he’s done any of those things. But it is something to keep in mind. Does he have a car?”

“No, sir.”

He rose to his feet. “Why don’t you show me his room. Then perhaps you can get me a picture to show around and a list of his friends’ addresses and phone numbers while I take a look at it.”

“All right.” She led them to a room off the kitchen.

When the older woman left them at the door and turned back into the kitchen, Poppy turned back to watch Jason paw through the teen’s possessions.

And found herself needing to reassess.

She’d been quick to pass judgment on de Sanges last year when he’d told her things she hadn’t wanted to hear, but she realized now that he simply laid out matters as he saw them, based on his professional expertise. Contrary to what she’d first assumed, he didn’t do so to discourage or to hurt, but rather to impart information as truthfully as he could. And God knew his assessment of teens correlated pretty damn spot-on with her own experience working with them.