Saturday’s Child by JT Hume 05 - TUESDAY MORNING Make-up sex is great. I mean, it’s really great. Events leading up to it suck, but a good hard roll in the sheets at two o’clock in the morning will pretty much cure every pain, mental and physical, even if you wake the neighbors with a scream or five. It wasn’t all porn movies. We talked things out during breaks and fluids replenishment. I promised never to use sex as a barrier to getting closer to him (“female logic,” as Daddy would say), and Devon swore he’d be patient with my bad moods. I’m not sure who got the better deal, but I’m winning the jackpot with him in my bed. Well, his bed. Whatever. I sleep in because I’m on the noon-to-nine shift, catching up on the missed Health-andWelfare checks. Devon is a day worker and must roll into the office like normal people. He kisses me before he goes and misses my face by half a foot, ending up in the middle of my chest. I grab the back of his head and push him down, and… He’s late for work today. We’ll have to behave from now on, I realize after he leaves and before I fade away. Devon must be the paragon of police professionalism and efficiency, not that it was a problem before his dad got promoted. He said Trevor talked to him last week and said he was being considered for the interim position. Like it or not, the chief will make big-picture decisions that will affect more than a million citizens and a thousand-plus officers. His surviving son is one of them. Given his druthers, Trevor admitted to Devon he’d rather be Metro’s head of detectives, an impossible scenario with Devon in the office as a homicide investigator. I roll over and bury my face in his pillow, thinking as I fall asleep that this is a life I could get used to. I’m asleep for two minutes, when someone is licking my cheek and drooling down my collarbone.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume Dammit, Devon forgot to close the bedroom door, and his furry roommate wants some attention. “Good morning, Bruno,” I kind of groan. My boyfriend’s pit bull mix is the friendliest dog in the world. You break into Detective Walsh’s apartment, and you’re at risk of being slobbered to death versus being bitten. The bed is shaking from his tail wagging at light speed. He wants to play, and I don’t have the heart to push him away, which is funny because I don’t like dogs. My sisters were certain I would grow up to be a crazy cat lady. “Okay, okay. I’m up, you big doofus.” He drops his favorite sock on my bare skin, and I pick it up. He grabs an end, and we have a tug-of-war, this gregarious pit bull and his owner’s near-naked blond chick. At the end, I’m laughing and hugging him while fighting off his wet kisses. Yeah, I could get used to this. I give him one last shove and get in the shower, washing off all sorts of interesting stains (lots of dog slobber), and I put on Devon’s robe to fix breakfast. My gear is on the table with a sweet note on top from him that I fold and stick in my backpack. A second note on the fridge says my car is downstairs in the complex’s underground garage, and both my cell phones are off to save power. I turn them on, and my personal cell displays two texts from my mother, both wondering if I’m going to respond to her messages. I’ll have to deal with her sometime. I’m feeling the buzz from Devon, and I want to hold onto it as long as possible. The work cell makes a noise like an angry droid from Star Wars when I power it on. A half-dozen texts and two calls from Barb, and she wants me to call her right the hell now. “Hey, Barb…” She cuts me off. “Where the hell are you, Sarah Lawrence, and why was your phone turned off?”
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume Wow. I am rocked by her angry tone and have no idea how to answer. A couple of words come out of my mouth before my teeth come together with a click. What do I say? I think she figures it on her own. “Don’t answer. Get the Caddy from the MSU, and get your ass to the WSU. Now.” Click. I do as I’m told, fast, dressing and getting downstairs in ten minutes flat (a quick nuzzle for Bruno first, though). My car is in the basement as Devon said, and I take the direct route to my unit. I don’t go inside, throwing my bag into the Caddy and peeling leather out of the courtyard. I might take a wrong turn or two along the way on a normal day. Not a problem now as I cross the bridge and speed through the suburbs by the most direct route. Panic is a great motivator. I pull into the Caddy’s parking spot with a squeal of the brakes, and I’m running before the engine dies. Up the stairs, past the receptionist’s desk, and down the hall. I skid to a stop as Barb is emerging from her office. “Took your sweet time, Parks. Come on. I’m driving.” As I run to keep pace, the panic I was feeling before is near terror. It’s the first time Barb’s addressed me by my last name. A big, bad thing is going down, and she thinks it’s my fault. We take her car, and as is her habit, I sit down as she hits the gas. As I struggle with the seat belt, her first question blows me out of the water. “What did you and Staci Baker discuss yesterday?” “What?” I gather my thoughts. “Nothing. It was a normal Health-and-Welfare visit.” “She said nothing?” “Yeah, I put it all in the case notes.” “Then why did you ask Randall to pull her file from Special Archives?” Why? Good question. It seems ridiculous in the light of a new day. “I can’t tell you, Barb. I didn’t see any danger signs, and Staci appeared happy and healthy…” “And…”
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume I sighed. “It was a gut feeling, okay? She’s been in a long-term foster placement for years, with no supporting documentation in DACS explaining her placement there in the first place. It felt wrong.” As Barb takes a corner hard, I study her face and watch her chew her lip. “Yeah, okay. You went with your instincts.” The knot in my stomach relaxes, and I breathe easier. “What’s going on?” She shakes her head. “Don’t talk until we get to her house. You’ll understand in a minute.” She’s right. A half-dozen cars are parked in the street in front of the McCann house and the mayor’s mansion, and while two are black-and-whites, the rest scream law enforcement. The knot in my stomach returns with a vengeance and grows to the size of a boulder. Barb parks and goose steps me up the walk to the McCann house. The front door is wide open, and the living room is full of very official-looking men and women. Inga and Mickey are sitting on the couch, holding hands. The expressions on their faces look as if this could be the worst day of their lives. I recognize the two men in power suits walking up to us. One is Metro Chief Trevor Walsh, and the other is David Montgomery, the director of Health Services and my boss far up the chain of command. They bracket me and guide me outside, leaving Barb in the living room. Trevor goes first. “Emma, we don’t have a lot of time. The FBI’s on the way. What happened yesterday?” “FBI?” I repeat. David puts his hand on my upper arm. “Listen, when the McCanns woke up this morning, their daughter was gone. The note by her cell phone said Staci had been abducted and her parents are to wait for instructions.” He pauses to let me grasp what he’s saying. It doesn’t help. My mind is a blank, and I can feel my mouth talking, repeating what I said to Barb in the car, word for word.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume The two men exchange looks, and David asks the same question as Barb. “Why did you request her file from Special Archives?” If I felt stupid earlier, I feel like a flaming idiot in front of them. “DACS didn’t have a lot of information, and I had a funny feeling. I mean, it’s not my case, but it felt wrong, and I wanted information. I can’t put it any clearer.” I’m blabbering and put a hand on my mouth to shut me up. Both men nod, and Trevor puts his hand on my other arm. “It’s okay, Emma. I understand. Barb says you have the right kind of instincts and you’re a good judge of character.” This is a subtle acknowledgement of my relation with his son. He approves of us. “Listen, I want you to find a quiet place and read your visitation notes. I want you to add the details. Nothing is too small. What she was wearing. The style of her hair. What she was doing. Everything.” “Okay…Chief.” I cough, covering myself. I almost called him by his name. “I don’t know if it’s important…” “Let me be the judge, Emma.” “Staci was at the barbeque last night, Chief. She was with friends.” I explain what I saw in the corner of the backyard, including how she and the boy were not part of the party. I don’t mention how they were staring at the mayor. He pulls out a small notepad to take notes. “You’re right. I remember seeing them leave. We’ll track them all down. Good. That’s what I mean.” He looks over my shoulder to the street, and I turn to see another official car pull up. “Great. The Feds.” “Do they have to take over?” David asks. “Yep. The law’s pretty clear, with the state line within driving distance. And they’ve got more resources and a bigger budget.” He looks at me. “They’re going to want to talk to you. You do what I asked first.” “Where do I go?”
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume “I have an idea. David, could you take her to the mayor’s house? Laurel called me and asked if she can help. This will kill two birds with one stone.” He pats my arm and turns to greet the Feds. It’s clear from the opening that they’ve worked together for years. David and I walk across the lawn, and his body language prevents questions in the short trip. The front door is cracked open, and we enter without knocking. Laurel is in the center of the living room, cell to ear, and she’s waving us in. She’s talking to her husband, and I try to keep a neutral look on my face. She tells him we’re in the room, listens, and clicks off after a minute. “Horrid, just horrid. Edgar says to tell you and Trevor this is his top priority. Do what you feel needs to be done.” “Thanks, Laurel,” David says. “Have you got a quiet place for Emma to work? She needs to make some case notes.” “Of course.” She points me down the hall. “My office. Take a kitchen chair with you. I want to talk to David before he goes back.” I do as I’m told and get situated behind Laurel’s desk. Instead of opening DACS, I start a word processor on my tablet and begin organizing facts and my observations from the last two days. What were Staci and Inga doing? What were they wearing? Their tones of voice? The exact words? As I’m working, my gut instinct is talking to me and giving me questions instead of answers. What was on Staci’s mind? Was she calling for help? Why were she and Inga fighting? What’s with all the suits, including the chief of Metro and the director of DHS? The mayor’s involved. Is it because the McCanns are his neighbors? How did David and Barb learn I asked for Staci’s file from the archives? And why was Barb pretty much freaking out? She’s the calm in the center of our storm at the MSU. David must be winding her up. Why? The file is the trigger, I decide. I feel I’d be getting the same scrutiny from David and Barb if Staci were safe.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume I don’t have much to add to my notes. I do mention seeing Inga getting coffee at the strip mall with an approximate time, but I don’t mention the teenagers looking at the mayor. It feels right to hold onto the information. If something changes, I can confess later. After a minute of Internet searching, I find David’s and Trevor’s email addresses. I paste the document into an email, put Barb’s address with theirs in the recipient box, and send it off. I go back to the living room to find David and Laurel talking in hushed tones. He’s pulling out his cell as he talks and scans the screen. It’s my email. Laurel waves me over again as he reads through. “Okay, this is good stuff, and I’m glad you emailed it to us.” He turns back. “Laurel, could we have a minute?” “Of course.” She goes to her office, and David waits until we hear the door close. He gestures at the chair beside him. “Trevor is sharing your email with the Feds, and they’ll need to talk to you, Emma. Maybe not right away. They need to get organized. I’ve made a decision you’re not going to agree with. I want you to hear me out.” My heart skips a beat, and I wonder if I’m fired. He smiles as he looks at me. “No, no, you’re not in trouble. You do need to be removed from this situation. I told Barb and Marsha I’m sending you back to the MSU.” He raises his voice when I open my mouth, cutting me off. “It’s not a reflection on your actions. Staci Baker is not your case, and her kidnapping does not fall under CPS jurisdiction. The FBI takes over, and we get out of their way.” I start to protest anyway, but I stop when he lifts his hands. “You see? This is what I am talking about. You and me and Barb need to let the professionals handle this. I’m asking you to go back to the MSU, okay?” The hint is clear: the next time I push back, he’ll tell me what to do. I nod without speaking—fuming, for what it’s worth. Besides, he’s the director and gets fifty-one percent of the vote in any DHS debate. I haven’t lost, but I won’t win.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume His phone pings, and he takes a quick look. “Okay, they want me back. Barb says you were on swing shifts this week for Health-and-Welfare checks. New plan: I want you to go back to the MSU, go to your office, work office hours, and stay by your phone. Catch up on paperwork and do what you can with your real caseload. The Feds will talk to you, but if they don’t call by close of business, take off. Keep your cell phone on. Questions?” Yeah, a thousand of them. I keep them to myself because I recognize the dismissal, and I leave the house without looking back or saying good-bye. Trevor and Barb are leaning on the hood of her car, and they’re holding hands and not talking. When they see me, Barb points me to the passenger seat and kisses her husband’s cheek, and we drive off. “David talk to you? Tell you what to do?” she asks. “Back to the MSU, and don’t get into trouble.” I want to do something, anything, to help Staci. Barb reads my mind. “You can help her by doing what you’re told this time.” Am I so transparent to the world? It’d explain why I was the worst strip poker player in college…and in high school. “It’s just…” “Yes?” “I feel useless.” A small smile. “Yeah, not to the other kids and families on your real caseload. Most of them like you, and the ones who don’t like you are the ones who need you the most. Let this one roll off your back. I need your good head on your shoulders, not the spoiled brat from Connecticut or wherever the hell you were raised.” She knows damn well where I was raised, and she’s made her point. I have to pull my head out of my ass and be a reliable advocate for my families. I give in to the inevitable. “The Caddy?” “Keep it. No one needs it at the WSU.” “Do you want me to send anyone to assist?”
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume She shakes her head. “David wants CPS to keep a low profile in the WSU service area. He doesn’t want us tripping over the FBI and Metro while they work on getting Staci back. Nothing but emergencies, so I’ll catch up on things while I can.” With our tablets, our offices travel with us. We get back to the WSU building, and I get behind the wheel of the Caddy as Barb goes upstairs. It comes from deep inside, the rush of anger. I’m hitting the steering wheel and screaming cuss words that would have gotten me grounded ten years ago. I knew something was going on with Staci, and I missed it! I’m twice pissed over the frustration over what I missed plus the humiliation of being taken off her case. A part of my brain remembers it wasn’t my case in the first place, but the greater portion doesn’t buy into it. It’s one of Barb’s rules: kids don’t know bureaucracy. I had ownership, maybe for a minute, and she became one of my kids. The same question persists: what did I miss? Most likely nothing. It was just one of those things. I shove the Caddy into gear and head to the MSU. As I get my emotions under control, I remember I haven’t eaten since Devon and I snacked last night, and the starvation pangs hit me hard. I don’t bother to look in my bag for loose change. I can’t go to Devon’s place and raid his kitchen, because he didn’t have an extra set of keys for me. I’ll either have to scrounge the MSU for food or suck it up until dinner. You’d think I’d know Devon Walsh better. Nope. I’m an idiot. I almost welcome the familiar noises of screaming babies and the smells of their dirty diapers. Almost. It’s amazing how quickly this has become a kind of home to me. I’d go out of my freaking mind with boredom if I were assigned to the WSU. Jayce waves at me as I pass by her counter. She’s got an armful of unhappy kids as she listens to their mother complain about “that man” and how he treats her. The intake room behind her area is empty, and my office is cracked open. There is a stack of plastic boxes in the middle of my desk with a simple “XO, D” etched in the top one.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume My boyfriend bought me lunch. It’s Thai food. I eat as though it’s going to disappear while contemplating how this bounty appeared. His mom must have called him and told him I was being sent back to the MSU, and he remembered I couldn’t get into his apartment. He had it delivered, or he risked the wrath of Metro to drop it off himself. I smell another scent alongside the food. I open the big bottom drawer and find a bouquet of red roses in the same place he left the last batch. The combination of Thai food and flowers smells wonderful. Oh, man, I’m falling very hard for Devon Walsh. The question: do I let him catch me?
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume
This serial and book are solely owned by its creator, JT Hume (a pseudonym). Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved in all countries and languages. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Third-party vendors providing electronic means to create, edit, and/or publish/post this serial and book have no literary and/or financial claim (including wi-fi network owners and operators). For more information and permission requests, the author may be contacted via email only: jthumebooks at gmail dot com. Twitter: @JT_Hume Website: http://www.jthumebooks.com
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