On the notepad, she circled his name. Twice.
She would most definitely be finding out what he had to do with a rather ordinary boy whose father was about to be released from prison.
“SEE IF YOU CAN MATCH that shot,” Duncan taunted, bouncing the basketball to the boy. He used the ragged hem of his T-shirt to wipe sweat from his face as he watched Tito move into position inside the free throw line and concentrate fiercely on lining up his shot. It was probably too far out for him; he was small even for his age and his arms were scrawny, but he didn’t like to fail, either. Duncan had come to feel a reluctant admiration for his determination.
He bent his knees, the way Duncan had taught him, and used his lift to help propel the ball when he released it from his fingertips. It floated in a perfect arc and dropped through the hoop, barely ruffling the net.
“Yes, yes, yes!” Tito did a dance, and Duncan laughed.
“Very nice.” He held up his hand for a high five, and the boy slapped it. “I’m being too easy on you.”
“I’ve been practicing,” Tito admitted. “It stays light so late. Now that I have my own ball.” Duncan had given him one. “There’s hardly ever anyone here in the evening. I have the court to myself.”
They played soccer, too, and Tito was better at that, but for reasons mysterious to Duncan the boy was determined to become an NBA-quality basketball player. His father, he had admitted, was only five foot nine, and his mother was little—he’d held up a hand to estimate, and Duncan guessed Mama wasn’t much over five foot tall—but he was going to be bigger than his father. He was sure of it. And he could be a point guard—they didn’t have to be as tall, did they?
No, but Duncan suspected that six feet tall or so was probably a minimum even for the high school team. Still, Tito was only twelve, and who knew? He might have a miraculous growth spurt. No matter what, he might excel in PE, and being good at anything could make a difference to him right now.
Besides…they were enjoying their occasional evening hour or Sunday afternoon on the concrete basketball court behind the middle school, or on the soccer field. Duncan often suggested pizza afterward, or sometimes a milk shake. Tito was slowly opening up to him, although Duncan was still unclear why he lived with his sister and where his parents were. He occasionally wondered uneasily whether the family might be here illegally; perhaps the parents were around, but avoiding the cop who was inexplicably befriending their son. He couldn’t be sure and had decided from the beginning that he wouldn’t go out of his way to find out.
Looking cocky, Tito passed the ball to him. Duncan drove in for a layup, easily evading the boy’s feint at him. Tito tried to copy the move and thumped the ball against the backboard nowhere near the iron hoop. Scowling, he retreated and tried again, and again.
Duncan’s cell phone rang. Irritated, he jogged over to where he’d left it outside the painted line on top of his sweatshirt. It was displaying a number he didn’t recognize. He almost didn’t answer, but a glance told him Tito was occupied, yelling at himself as he dribbled away from the hoop, then turned to begin a new drive.
Duncan answered brusquely, “MacLachlan.”
A very feminine voice said, “Captain, my name is Jane Brooks. I’m a Guardian ad Litem for the family court. I understand you know Tito Ortez.”
His gaze went straight to the boy, leaping to rebound another missed shot. Tito looked at him in inquiry, and Duncan held up one finger. Tito nodded and dribbled the ball in for another attempted layup.
“Yes,” Duncan said. “May I ask what your interest is?”
“As I said, I’m…”
“A Guardian ad Litem,” he interrupted. “I get that.” And didn’t like what his gut was telling him. Tito hadn’t said anything about being involved in a custody dispute. Unless this had to do with the sister’s children? Guardian ad Litems were always appointed to be a child’s advocate—in fact, they were deemed the one person involved in a court case whose sole concern was the best interests of the child. “Does the case involve Tito?”
“Yes.” She didn’t embroider the bald answer. “I’d like to meet so that we can talk.”
Tito had stopped and stood dribbling the ball, watching him, although he was too far away to be able to hear even Duncan’s end of the conversation. From the apprehension on the boy’s face, Duncan realized his expression must have given something away.
“I’m with him right now,” he said curtly. “Tomorrow morning…”
“Evenings are better for me.”
He raised his eyebrows. Guardians ad Litem were paid, if minimally; many worked out of counseling services or the like. It would be normal to conduct business during the day.
Silence was an unbeatable tool for interrogation. He employed it now, and finally, grudgingly, she said, “I own a business. Dance Dreams.”
He knew every business within the Stimson city limits, his jurisdiction, at least by sight. He’d never had occasion to step foot inside Dance Dreams, which sold dancewear, presumably including tap shoes and toe shoes, tutus and a lot of pink sparkly stuff that appeared in the window. Not his kind of place—and the juxtaposition of pink tulle and sometimes ugly dependency court hearings seemed to be a strange one.
Meeting Ms. Jane Brooks might be interesting.
“Evening, then,” he agreed. “Tomorrow?”
“That would be great.” She hesitated. “Shall we make it a coffee shop?”
“Why don’t you stop by my place? We won’t want to be overheard.”
She agreed and he gave her his address. Duncan ended the call and returned to Tito. He conducted a lightning-quick internal debate and decided to say nothing yet. He’d find out what was going on first.
“Business,” he said, then grinned. “What say we hang it up and go get something to eat? I didn’t manage dinner and I’m starved.”
“Pizza?” the boy said hopefully.
“Burgers.” Duncan laughed at his expression. “Pizza next time.”
Tito sighed with exaggerated disappointment. Somehow or other, he’d manage to force himself to chow down a cheeseburger, a good-sized helping of fries and a root beer float at a minimum.
Hey, maybe he’d have that growth spurt yet.
CHAPTER TWO
AT SEVEN IN THE EVENING, it was still full daylight in the Puget Sound area. Darkness wouldn’t fall until eight-thirty or nine. The day had been hot for early May, and the heat still lingered when Jane arrived at Duncan MacLachlan’s.
She loved his home on sight. It was distinctive enough she suspected it had been custom designed and built. The lot wasn’t huge, but the houses on his side of the street all backed up to Mesahchie Creek and the greenbelt that protected it. Right here in the city, he had his own slice of wilderness.
The house was one story, sided with split-cedar shingles. Trim was painted forest green. From the driveway she could see interesting angles, bay windows and skylights, and a wooden arbor over a flagstone paved path that led around the side of the house.
Unable to repress a sigh, she got out. She was already afraid she was going to have the hots for him, and now she’d succumbed to his house before she even stepped inside.
I am unbiased, she reminded herself firmly. I’m being paid to think of Tito first, last and always.
She rang the doorbell and, as she waited, listened to the delicate music played by an unusual wind chime, long, thin shards of obsidian suspended from a branch of driftwood. It distracted her enough that she was startled when the door opened. She gave a betraying jerk, then felt her cheeks warm