Cavanaugh Justice: The Strong Silent Type Part 8

"Were they waiters?" Hawk asked. "Chefs, interns?" To each question, Jocko just continued shaking his head. Exasperated, Hawk looked at Teri. "Help me out here. Who else wears uniforms?"

"Policemen, firemen-" The list was endless and they were wasting time. Maybe there was another way. "Can you describe the uniforms, Jocko?"

Jocko looked down at his worn, cracked boots. "I was a little out of it," he confessed sheepishly. But because there were two sets of eyes looking at him, he scrubbed his face with his hands, searching for a piece of something more to offer. And then he brightened. "Red. They had on red jackets."

She looked at Hawk. Who wore red jackets? "Doormen?" she guessed out loud. "No, wait. Valets." That seemed more likely. There were a score of valet services up and down Bancroft in the area Jocko had described. "Were they valets?"

Jocko only looked at her blankly, as if he didn't understand the word she'd used. And then he turned toward Hawk. The expression on his face testified that his attention span was almost gone.

"Did I do good?"

Hawk smiled at the man. Teri could swear there was even warmth in his voice.

"You did good, Jocko." Digging into his pocket, Hawk took out two hundred-dollar bills. He pressed them into the filthy palm. "Here. Clean up a little."

Gleefully, Jocko looked at his windfall, then carefully placed the bounty into the one pocket that wasn't torn clean through.

"Absolutely. That's what I'm going to do. Clean up. Soon as you go, I'm going to head off to the mission and clean up. Start a new life-you'll see. Thanks, Jackie. You would have done them proud." Teri watched as the babbling man grew misty. "You take care now."

He scrambled away before either one of them could say anything more.

Teri turned away from where they'd met the man and fell into step beside Hawk as they made their way out of the alley. "He's going to use the money to buy alcohol, you know that."

Yes, he knew that. But the battle for Jack Armstrong and his soul had long since been lost.

"Yeah, maybe." His voice was steely again. Removed. "More than likely, he'll use it to score some drugs."

Emerging out into the sun again, Teri saw that their ride was still there, untouched. It seemed almost incredible, given their location. "You gave him money to buy drugs?"

"No, I gave him money for information. What he does with it is his business." He rounded the hood and got in on the driver's side. His emotions, though blanketed, were on a dangerous edge. "Don't get on your high horse with me, Cavanaugh."

He started up the car and peeled away from the curb, just as he had once peeled away from this neighborhood, gasping for air and something clean to look forward to. He hadn't quite found it yet and probably never would, but he could live with that. Growing up here had taught him he could live with a lot of things, as long as it meant continuing for another day.

He didn't bother looking at her. His thoughts were still with Jocko. It had been over six months since he'd last the seen the man. Each time, he looked a little worse.

"Until you've lived on these streets, don't preach."

"I'm not preaching," she insisted, taking offense. "I just thought that helping Jocko really get clean instead of just tossing money at him-"

She saw him set his jaw hard. "Doctor at the free clinic gave him maybe six months. He wants to spend it in oblivion, that's his choice."

How terrible, she thought, to have nothing to look forward to except the numbing oblivion that came from drugs. "Where do you know this man from?"

He laughed shortly, ready to dismiss the question. Hawk had no idea what made him answer it. "He was my father's best friend. Jack Armstrong. My mother named me after him. Jocko kept my father from branding me once. I owe him."

Teri felt as if someone had just punched her in the stomach. "Branding you? My G.o.d, Hawk, that's awful."

Hawk blew out a breath. The incident had occurred over twenty years ago, yet it hovered around his brain as if it had been last week.

"No, awful would have been if my father had succeeded. Jocko was a lot more together then than he is now." Shaking his head, he took a corner. The neighborhoods slowly got better, the despair receding into the background. "He's a pretty decent guy who just never had enough willpower to walk away from what was keeping him down."

"What gave you willpower?" she asked quietly.

Hawk looked at her sharply. He knew what she was asking him. She wanted to know what had kept him from sinking into the mire he'd found himself standing in.

"I didn't want to be like my old man. Ever." How did she do that-get him to talk when he had no intentions of talking? "Look, this isn't something I want to discuss, okay?"

He'd opened a door and she didn't want it shutting again. "You brought up the subject."

She was nitpicking, he thought angrily. "You asked me where I knew him from."

She wanted to set the record straight. He'd been the one to start the ball rolling, not her. "But you said you grew up around here." s.h.i.+fting in her seat, she turned toward him. "Hawk, I don't want to pry-"

He snorted. "Well, then you're doing a d.a.m.n poor job of it."

"But sometimes, when you keep something like that inside of you for too long, it can make you break apart."

He rolled his eyes as he eased through a green light. "Any shrinks in your family?"

"No."

Hawk turned in her direction before switching lanes. "You trying out for the position?"

"No, I'm trying out for the position of partner."

The radio crackled, but no message followed. Just his luck. "'Case you haven't noticed, you already are my partner."

It took more than a coupling to accomplish that. She wanted what everyone in her family had. What she'd grown up believing in. Partners knew each other inside and out. They were there for one another, come h.e.l.l or high water, no matter what. That didn't begin to describe what existed between them.

"We sit next to each other in the car every day, and in the office, but you don't share."

He scowled at her. Why hadn't he gone with his first instinct and just disappeared on his way to the men's room? She didn't need to come with him. "You never stop talking. n.o.body else can get in a word edgewise."

She was one step ahead of him. "You wouldn't start talking to me if I did stop."

He laughed, savoring the thought. "No, but the peace would be nice."

"Hawk, partners share things."

Maybe in her world, but not in his. "I didn't even know one of my partners had kids until they showed up at his retirement party. We talked about work, which we were getting paid for." He looked at her, his point clear. "n.o.body was paying us to be best friends."

She seized on the word. "Have you even ever had a best friend?"

"No, but I've had an urge to wrap my fingers around a throat as white as snow." His patience snapped. He shouldn't have to have this discussion if he didn't want to. What was it about this woman that brought his emotions to a full boil? "d.a.m.n it, Cavanaugh, I don't need a friend, a father confessor or a shrink."

She braced herself as he flew through the light. She could always tell when she got to him. He drove faster. "You work it right, a friend can be all of that."

He bit back the curse that rose to his lips. It wouldn't solve anything and she'd probably come up with a bar of soap to use on his mouth. "You just don't stop, do you?"

When he looked in her direction again, she moved her head from side to side. "Nope."

This time, he did mutter an oath, albeit a mild one. "You're like that kid's story about the train-"

It took her a minute to realize what he was referring to. "You mean The Little Engine That Could?"

"Yeah, that one." He turned right on the corner. "Pus.h.i.+ng and shoving, being a d.a.m.n pain in the b.u.t.t, until you make it up over that hill."

"Who read you a story?"

Her question, asked so softly, caught him off guard. He shrugged. "They read it in school once." Why was he even telling her that? Why was he telling her anything? Every time he tried to clam up, she was at him with a crowbar and he didn't even realize it. "Cavanaugh, I don't pry into your life-"

She spread her hands innocently. "Pry away, it's an open book."

He didn't want to pry. The less he knew about her, the better. She was already haunting his thoughts far more than he was happy about. To know anything more about her might increase her occupancy time. "That's your problem, not mine."

It never bothered her to be too open. She had no secrets, other than a deep fear of commitment, of being hurt. But that certainly wasn't in play here. "Okay, but someday, you're going to need a friend. And when you do, I'm here."

That sounded more like a threat to him than a promise. He sighed. "Until then, could you make like a silent partner?"

"Sorry."

And then he laughed. "Didn't think so. I guess that sort of thing comes under the heading of miracles."

"Looks to me as if you've already had a slice of that."

Hawk pulled up into the parking lot. "How do you figure?"

He expected Cavanaugh to say something about his having her as a partner, but instead, she said, "You got out of your old neighborhood in one piece."

Almost one piece, he thought. But the mean streets had left their mark on him and it wasn't the kind of mark that anything could ever wash away.

He kept that to himself.

Andrew's body felt stiff as he brought his car to a halt in the parking lot. It was the tension rather than his years that was taking its toll on him. He'd felt it ever since he'd gotten into his car earlier.

Turning off the ignition, he sat behind the wheel for a moment. Gathering his thoughts. Gathering his courage. Beside him on the pa.s.senger seat was their family alb.u.m and Rose's copy of Gone with the Wind. Evidence to prove his case.

He wavered, debating turning back. Debating bringing one of his kids with him. Callie was the convincing one and he wished she was here with him now.

d.a.m.n it, a man shouldn't be afraid to see his own wife.

But he was. Afraid of rejection. Afraid that what would happen here would destroy the fabric of the life he'd woven together these past fifteen years for himself and the kids. A life that was still missing one thing.

Rose.

He'd wanted to call the family together and tell them about the fingerprints. That he'd been right all along. That their mother was alive. Twice he'd even picked up the phone to call Brian and tell him about it. But each time he'd hung up before the call went through.

This was something he needed to face himself, to do himself. The others could know later.

Rayne had been the one who'd seen Rose first. On her way to Bainbridge-by-the-sea on a case, his youngest had stopped at the diner and seen the woman who called herself Claire. The resemblance was so strong, Rayne had been struck by it immediately. She'd come home to tell him about it, about possibly seeing her mother.

But she hadn't asked him if he'd gone to see for himself, hadn't asked him anything at all. It was as if she'd uttered a silent plea that until he was certain, she didn't want to hear anything.

He knew how that could be.

And he was certain.

But it wasn't enough. She had to come back with him. Rose had to come back home.

So here he was, sitting in the diner's parking lot, steeling himself off so that he could convince her by using photographs of their life together, photographs of the children they'd had, both looking the way they'd looked when she'd disappeared and the way they looked now.

He needed to know where she'd been for fifteen years and why she didn't remember him.

The pit of his stomach felt as if it were harboring a cannonball. Praying, he got out, the alb.u.m and novel under his arm.

When he walked in, the diner was empty except for the sunlight that filled it.

Rose wasn't anywhere to be seen.

For a moment, his heart froze. Had she disappeared again? Had he imagined it all? Imagined her? No, the fingerprints were real. And Rayne had seen her, too. It wasn't just him.

Over in the corner, the cas.h.i.+er looked up from the magazine she was reading. "Can I help you?"

He crossed to her, hoping she could. "Excuse me, is Rose-I mean, is Claire around?"

The heavyset woman beamed. "No, she's off today. Just me and my husband here today, I'm afraid." She began to rise from her perch. "Everybody always asks for Claire. That smile of hers brings in a lot of business. What'll you have?"

"Do you know where I can find her?" He saw a wary look come into the woman's brown eyes. He lowered his eyes to her name tag. "Lucy."

She shook her head. Her smile was sympathetic. "I'm sorry, but I can't-"

She probably thought he was some kind of stalker, Andrew guessed. "It's really important I find her. I need to talk to her." Before she could turn him down or call her husband out, Andrew opened the alb.u.m and placed it on the counter between them. He pointed to the photograph of a young Rose surrounded by their children. He was standing next to her. "I'm her husband. I've been trying to find her for fifteen years."

Lucy's mouth fell open.

Half an hour later, he was standing before the door of a garden apartment, feeling as if his very life were on the line. He'd chased down dark alleys after perps with less fear than he was feeling now.

He'd told his story to Lucy and the woman had been deeply moved. She'd pored over the photographs in the alb.u.m, saying that she'd known all along that had to be more to Claire's life than what the woman had told her. Claire had turned up at their diner fifteen years ago, looking for work, having no place to stay. She'd seemed overwrought and nervous. Lucy told him that she and her husband had put Claire up for a few weeks and when she'd gotten together enough money, she moved into a place of her own.

No one, Lucy said, could have asked for a better, more tireless worker. Lucy loved her like a daughter.

At the end of her story, she'd given him Claire's address.

The door opened on his first knock.

His Rose was in the doorway, her hand on the doorjamb, her body blocking any access.

"Lucy called me," she explained. She looked at him hesitantly. "You're the man who came into the diner the other day."