“Regardless of where the complaint comes from, IA works in a certain way, right? Routine. The t’s need to be crossed and the paperwork filed, whether accusations were made about you, Washington or even Reickert. So obsessing about the procedure isn’t going to get you anywhere.”
“You’re right. But this just makes me sick. All the years my father….my grandfather… my record is spotless. None of us ever had a shadow of this kind hanging over us. None of us were dirty cops.” He shook his head and gave up on the coffee. He shoved the saucer to the other side of the table.
Sounds around them seemed exaggerated—the clink of silverware, the soft voices of the two women in designer shoes. Seeing how wounded he was by this, something that at least partly sat at her door, Suzanne forgave him for his earlier concern over her safety, which at the time she’d chalked up to an overstepping interest in her life, and paranoia. Apparently there was something to be paranoid about. Instead her instinct to help the underdog kicked in, big time.
Nick finally spoke first, after a sigh Suzanne thought would never end. “You better get back to the office. One of us unemployed ought to be enough. I'm sure you’re right. It’ll all shake out, in a matter of time.”
She stood and slipped an arm around him, hugging him. “I'm glad you called. I just wish there was more I could do personally.”
“I'm glad you came. I'll call Roy, I think. Just to cover my ass.” He took a deep breath. “Even if I did nothing, the fact that evidence of any kind might be out there leaves me vulnerable.”
“Exactly. Hey, I’ve got an idea. Come to dinner. Plan to stay for dessert,” she teased, hoping a light response would help push the thunderclouds from the horizon.
“Thanks, Suzanne, but I don't think so.” He threw two dollar bills on the table. “I’ll call you later. Maybe nine o’clock?”
“All right.” His attitude was coming around. Her prodding had set that sharp detective mind onto a new path, one with purpose and determination as he set out to confirm the identity of his persecutor. Once he hooked up with Roy, those sparks would begin to change to spotlights. They walked out together. He made sure she reached her car safely and that it started, as he usually did.
In her rear view mirror, Suzanne watched him taking slow, thoughtful steps toward his car and gesturing vaguely. She imagined him trying to put square pieces in the round holes before him. So many doors would be closed to him while this was going on. She hoped he’d let her help him get through it.
Chapter Twenty
That night at home, Suzanne was distracted by Nick’s situation, and she didn’t balk when Riviera asked to take her dinner up to her room so she could do homework. She and Hope ate at the table alone, without much conversation. Hope didn’t seem to mind. They finished dinner, then Suzanne stacked the dishes in the sink and began the brainless task of washing them. As she wiped and rinsed the plates and silverware, her mind explored the possibilities of who had done this to Nick.
What a horribly vicious way had been chosen to discredit him. From her years of experience with custody cases, Suzanne knew once sexual allegations were made, they stuck like glue, true or false. This would stay on the minds of his fellow officers like no other misconduct, prosecution or not. His career could be finished.
Which meant Nick would be, too.
In the months as she’d come to know him, she’d learned one thing: Being a police officer was his life. Since he’d been a small boy, he’d wanted to carry on the tradition of his other family members and protect and serve the public. If he was not cleared one hundred percent, he would consider it a stab at his personal core. He’d never be the same.
She dumped the water out and dried her hands. The house was quiet. She checked the locks on the doors, then retreated to her office. A shuffle through the folders and files on her desk showed her nothing that demanded immediate attention.
That’s just as well. Do you really think you can concentrate?
Delaying any decision about work, she assumed a position which she had done often in her younger days when she dabbled in yoga—lying on her back, with her feet propped on the back of the love seat. She alternately flexed and pointed her toes to force the blood out of her lower legs, and hopefully, back into her brain.
As she lay there, even the bright flowers on the curtains around her failed to cheer her. She got up and watered the plants lightly from the green pitcher she kept in the office, her attention returning to Nick’s problem. The biggest obstacle to sorting out this mystery would be Nick’s loss of access to crucial information, now that he was suspended.
So the key would be finding someone with information, someone who trusted her. She hadn’t met many at the banquet who seemed the trusting kind. Particularly Washington. But there was always Hank Ferguson. Maybe he could—
The phone rang before she could finish her thought. As she scrambled up, she glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty. Nick. She grabbed the receiver and held it to her ear as though she could hold him close to her as well. Just like any other mother, she wished she could “make it all better.” “I'm so glad you called.”
“I knew you'd be waiting,” Nick replied softly. His voice had lost that taut sound.
She visualized him sitting on the old brown sofa in his living room, or maybe already tucked in bed. “How are you?”
“Better. Not as shocked. Still can't believe it.”
“It’s ridiculous. How far do you think it will go?”
“Who knows? No sense in worrying, I guess. The investigation will run its course, then everything will blow over.”
Hearing him paraphrase her words reassured her. He’d listened. First step on the path to being all right. “Exactly.”
Several breaths came and went. Nick cleared his throat. “Of course, the fact that someone tried something this outrageous means they felt pretty secure in their ability to pull it off.”
With Morgan’s backing, it would be easy enough. Suzanne’s sense of right burned thinking about how she’d like to deal with the crooked councilman. “We’re not going to think like that. When will you be able to confirm that it was the same girl you picked up? Would Hank check for you? Anyone else?” Suzanne had to assume that Nick’s co-workers would be as shocked as Nick himself. Many might be wondering about their own safety, if someone so obviously clean could become a target.
“Hank probably would. I'll have to see when the dust settles. In the meantime, I have plenty of yellow pads. I'll just start putting down everything till I can see a pattern.”
“Did you talk to Roy?”
“He was in court this afternoon. I left my home number for him to call me in the morning.”
“Hopefully, he’ll knock this thing down before any criminal charges. God, I hope it doesn't come to that.” Frustration at the injustice of the whole scenario crept up on her, tears suddenly constricting her throat.
“Try not to worry about it,” he said in a voice which was forced with its effort to be light. “I'll be fine. Hell, I need a few days off after that budget haul. This is my problem. I’ll handle it.”
“I worry about you, Nick. If you need me later, no matter when, call me.”
“Thanks, love. I appreciate your support. Good night.”
The line closed with an abrupt click. She was alone with her whirling mind, many questions, few answers. She looked at the pile on her desk and realized she wouldn't do much good if she began any work there. What then?
She didn’t have to decide. A tap came on her door and Hope peeked around the edge. “Mom, can I come in?”
“Sure, honey.” Suzanne cleared off the small love seat so she and Hope could sit together. She wondered as she stacked files whether Hope had overheard her conversation with Nick. Hope and Riviera both liked Nick, a lot. She hadn’t intended to burden them with this just yet. “What’s on your mind?”
“Mom.” Hope sat, shoulders hunched, hands holding each other, tight, in her lap. “Mom…”
Troubled her usually ebullient daughter wouldn’t even look her in the eye, Suzanne wondered what new hell had descended on them. “Hope, just tell me. If it’s bad, just tell me fast. We can handle it.”
Hope opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She tried again. Suzanne’s heart sank. It was bad, whatever she wanted to say, bad enough that Hope didn’t want to tell her.
Damn.
Finally Hope looked up. Suzanne tried to look as encouraging as possible. “Is it something at school?”
Hope shook her head. “It’s Riv.”
She couldn’t help a glance up at the ceiling, knowing her child sat nearly above her. The reluctance with which Hope proceeded was starting to rattle Suzanne. “What about her?”
Hope took a deep breath. “You know we stick together, Riv and I. We try to take care of each other, so you don’t have to worry.”
Holy mother, what could she be going on about?
She tried
to keep her reply free of the dread that threatened to overtake her.
“I’ve suspected that.”
“I can’t keep this to myself. I’m so worried about her.” Hope’s voice broke and a tear ran down her cheek.
Suzanne swept the girl into her arms, holding her close. Her daughter clung to her, sobs obscuring any opportunity to speak. Once she’d calmed down, she gradually let go. Suzanne found her own face damp. She got them a tissue box from the desk and sat down again.
“What about Riv?”
“You know that boy she’s been seeing?”
A hot fear ribboned through Suzanne’s midsection. “Joss?”
Hope nodded. “They had a fight this afternoon.”
A fight? Sure, Riv went to her room for dinner, but what’s the problem? Is she just sulking because she had an argument with her “first love”?
Suzanne frowned. She’d expected something more than this. “So, they had a fight. And?”
“And he beat her, Mom. She’s all bruised and—”
Suzanne was out of the chair and through the door before Hope could finish her sentence. She marched up to Riviera’s room, her heart racing, her temper dangerously hovering on the out-of-control mark.
Riviera lay curled up on the bed, holding a pillow in her arms. The laptop lay conspicuously not in use on her desk.
“Let me see,” Suzanne said.
Riviera didn’t even protest, though she shot a look of betrayal at her sister, who waited, anxious, in the doorway. She sat up and set the pillow down, revealing purple bruises on both her forearms. Her cheek near her left eye was swollen and starting to darken, too.
Unable to help herself, Suzanne gasped. “What the hell is going on here?”
“Don’t get all that way, Mom.” She picked up the pillow again, cradling it to her chest like a shield against her mother’s anger. “It’s my fault. I picked the fight.”
Hearing the same minimizing and self-blaming phrases come from her own child that she heard so often from her clients, Suzanne lost it. “No! No, it’s not justified for a boy to hit you under any circumstances. What’s this boy’s name? I’m calling his parents right now.”
She took the pillow out of her daughter’s arms and examined the bruises on her arms. Those were definitely thumbmarks. The boy must have grabbed her with pronounced force to leave these marks—Riviera had been a tomboy from the early days. She didn’t bruise easily. Biting back a strong of obscenities that rushed through her mind, she leaned closer to see the marks on her cheek. The eye was probably safe, but she wasn’t sure. They were making a trip to the emergency room. Riviera hadn’t answered. “What’s his name?”
“Mom, please, don’t call. We’ll work this out. I—I won’t see him for awhile till he cools down—”
Suzanne growled, “His
name.
Now.” She started rummaging in her daughter’s dresser for an outfit to wear to the hospital.
Riviera stared at her, a deer-caught-in-the-headlights look.
“Now!”
“Joss Morgan.”
The words hit Suzanne like a punch to the stomach. “Joss?”
“His name’s Joshua, but his dad calls him Joss.”
No.
It couldn’t be true.
Forcing words out of a throat that had suddenly dried up, Suzanne turned to her daughter. “Joshua Morgan? The councilman’s son?”
“Yeah.” Tears welling up in her eyes, Riviera fidgeted on the edge of the bed. “I thought you’d be happy that he wasn’t the kid of some homeless guy, you know. His dad’s Somebody.”
“His dad’s somebody, all right.”
So many emotions rushing through her, she could hardly think of a direction to move. She sublimated her first instinct, to go after Greg Morgan with a sharp instrument.
Maybe later.
How had this happened? She prided herself on her confidentiality, trying very hard not to discuss or involve her family with her cases in any way. She might have mentioned that she was handling cases with a domestic violence focus, but she wouldn’t have said who. Or suggested that her daughters stay away from those children. Or even realized that those children could be dangerous.
How had this happened?
Morgan’s son had met her daughter and they’d begun a relationship. They didn’t go to the same school; they’d met at the skating rink, she’d said.
A dark suspicion came to her, and she rejected it the first time.
No. Not possible that Greg Morgan had sent his son out to do his dirty work. His own son?
But as she recalled Maddie’s desperate calls Thanksgiving week about Joshua’s defection back to his father’s house, it didn’t seem so far-fetched.
“Get dressed,” she snapped. “We’re going to the emergency room.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning, a Friday, Suzanne called the office to tell Donna she wasn’t coming in, and she kept Riviera and Hope home from school. They’d been up much too late, dealing with the hospital and the police. The woman doctor confirmed that no permanent damage had been done, commiserated with Suzanne, and had been stern with Riviera about the boundaries of a healthy relationship.
The police officer who came to the ER had been less stern and more skeptical. “How old’s this kid?” he asked.