To Love a Cop (2 page)

“What are you talking about, bias crimes?”

“We’re plugging up the works here.” Ethan nodded. “Let’s get out of the way so we’re not blocking the table.”

The vendor nodded his appreciation. “Can’t interest you in this FNP, Detective? Since you liked the feel?”

“I’m happy with what I carry. Familiarity is important.”

The man smiled and shrugged both. “Can’t argue with that.”

“What do you mean, familiarity?” the boy demanded as they stepped out of the way of traffic. They’d been close to the end of an aisle, and weren’t far from an exit.

“We don’t draw often except at the range,” Ethan explained. “You don’t want to fumble or hesitate when the moment comes you need to. The more you’ve used a particular weapon, the less you have to think about it, which allows you to focus on the situation.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “So how come you’re here, if you don’t want a new gun?”

Ethan gave his standard response. “I like to keep up on what’s out there.”

“’Cuz cops aren’t the only ones with guns.”

Feeling the rueful twist to his mouth, Ethan scanned the ever-growing crowd filling a hall that had to be sixty thousand square feet or more, packed with weaponry and shoppers. “You could say that.”

“Have you ever been shot?”

Ethan shook his head. Shot
at
, yes. Which wasn’t the same thing. “Hasn’t happened yet. I try not to make myself a target.” He raised an eyebrow. “You have a name?”

Alarm flickered in the boy’s eyes. “Oh. Um, yeah, but...my dad says I shouldn’t tell strangers my name. You know.” He started shuffling backward. “I should go find Dad now anyway. He might worry. I’ll, um, maybe see ’ya.”

The clear subtext was,
But not if I see you first.

He awkwardly flipped a hand and melted into the crowd. Only he didn’t wander slowly and browse this time. He walked fast, casting a couple of looks back over his shoulder.

Ethan went down the next aisle, keeping pace. If the kid thought he’d lost him—

But one of those darted glances back spotted Ethan, who cursed his height, and not for the first time.

Alarm segued into panic, and the boy began pushing through the crowd, his eye fixed on the doors that led outside. He was quick, and small enough to squeeze between people where Ethan had to bull his way, so he reached the exit first.

So much for the fiction of a father elsewhere in the exhibition hall.

Ethan stepped out and momentarily failed to see him. More people were streaming in, either from the parking lot or the covered walkway that led—

Oh, yeah, there he was, and running now.

Ethan broke into a run, too, unsure why he was so determined to get his hands on this kid, but set on it anyway. The boy couldn’t possibly be old enough to drive, which meant a bus or the light-rail.

Sure enough, he was headed for the light-rail station. Ethan didn’t see a train, but knew they ran often between the expo center and downtown, something like every fifteen minutes.

Eight or ten people waited beneath a shelter. No restroom to disappear into. The boy tucked himself behind a family group as if he thought Ethan would assume he belonged.

When he saw Ethan’s jog settle to a purposeful stride, he took a few steps back, his head turning in panic, but, with the rails behind him, there was nowhere to go.

“Excuse me,” Ethan murmured as he sliced through the cluster of people.

“I don’t know this man!” the boy cried. “He’s been following me.” He shuffled his feet, edging behind a beefy guy whose gaze first dropped to the holstered gun on Ethan’s belt, then rose to meet his eyes in challenge.

Ethan dipped a hand in his pocket and held up his badge. “The boy knows why I want to talk to him.”

The kid’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

They all heard the train coming. Ethan latched a hand around the boy’s skinny upper arm.

“I didn’t say you did. But we need to talk.”

“Can’t I just go home?” he begged. “All I wanted was to look.”

“I’ll be glad to take you home,” Ethan agreed.

The white bullet-like light-rail train glided to a stop and disgorged a whole lot of people. Everyone waiting climbed aboard. Ethan turned his young captive back the way they’d come.

He deliberately dawdled so they fell behind the eager beavers headed for the expo center. He had the time now to assess the boy, who was good-looking and dressed in blue jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt and expensive, gleaming white athletic shoes. Common for his age, his feet looked too big to go with the rest of him. This was no homeless kid—somebody bought him nice clothes, kept them clean, trimmed his hair regularly. At first sight, Ethan would have guessed Hispanic, but wasn’t so sure now despite the near-black hair and brown eyes.

“Why didn’t you want to tell me your name?” he asked.

The boy shot him a defiant look. “Why should I?”

“Because I’m a police officer, and I asked. Because I suspect you cut school to come to the gun show.”

Ethan felt like a jerk when the kid’s lower lip trembled.

“Mom is going to be so mad.”

“What about Dad?”

This sidelong look glittered with tears. “Dad’s dead.”

Truth at last. “How old are you?” Ethan asked, more gently.

The answer was a mumble. Ethan raised his eyebrows.

“Eleven.”

He blinked as he calculated. “That means you’re not even in middle school.”

The boy shook his head. “I’m in sixth grade. I left after lunch.”

“It ever occur to you that the school probably let your mother know you’d disappeared?”

His mouth fell open in horror. “I thought since I was there in the morning when they did roll call...”

Ethan nudged him toward the parking lot. “I can pretty well guarantee somebody noticed you
weren’t
there come afternoon.”

“Oh, man.” He raised desperate eyes to Ethan’s. “
Please
don’t tell her where I was! She
hates
guns. She’ll freak!”

“What were you going to tell her if she found out you took off?” he asked, keeping his voice easy to encourage continuing confidences.

“I don’t know.” Back to mumbling. “Just that, like, I had a fight with one of my friends or something.”

Ethan drew him to a stop beside his GMC Yukon. “Here’s your ride.”

His head turned back toward the light-rail station. “I’ll go straight home, I swear! Please, mister. I mean, Detective.”

Ethan shook his head. “We’ll talk to your mom. She may be more understanding than you think she will be.”

“She won’t! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“In,” Ethan said inflexibly, holding open the passenger door.

As he walked around to the driver’s side, he watched through the windshield in case the kid tried to make a break for it. All he did was slump in defeat.

Once Ethan was in, he hit the button to lock the doors. “All right,” he said. “No more dancing around. I need your name.”

The kid jerked a one-shoulder shrug and mumbled again, although this time Ethan heard him. “Jake Vennetti.”

“Vennetti.” Oh, damn. Why hadn’t he seen the resemblance right away? “Your father was Matt Vennetti.”

Jake sneaked a look sidelong with those chocolate-brown eyes just like his father’s. “Yeah.”

Ethan opened his mouth and closed it before he could say aloud what he was thinking.
Oh, shit.
Jake was right; his mother was going to freak. She had good reason to hate guns.

In fact, this boy, sitting beside Ethan, had to be the one who’d gotten his hands on his father’s service weapon and accidentally shot another kid, who died. From there, the tragedy had cascaded. In the end, Portland Police Bureau Officer Matt Vennetti had ended up killing himself. Not with the same gun, but he’d swallowed a gun nonetheless. It all happened—Ethan wasn’t sure. Five years ago? Six? He knew Matt’s only son was a little boy and not to blame, which wasn’t to say he didn’t blame himself.

“I went to your father’s funeral,” he said quietly. Despite his rage at a man who’d leave that kind of burden on his wife and child. “Your dad and I rode patrol together early on.”

Head ducked, Jake didn’t respond.

Perturbed, Ethan said, “I can look up your address if I have to. Why don’t you just give me directions.”

“Like I have any choice,” the boy spat.

Ethan started the engine. “You didn’t do anything so bad today. I cut school in my time, too.”

Jake turned his head sharply away. Ethan had a bad feeling it was to hide tears.

* * *

W
HERE COULD HE BE?

Laura Vennetti paced, her phone clutched in her hand. Fear squeezed her heart. She’d be purely mad instead of scared if Jake had ever done anything like this before, but he hadn’t. It wasn’t like him at all. He was a good student. Never in trouble. She’d fear a kidnapping if a classmate hadn’t reluctantly told the principal that he’d seen Jake get on a city bus.

He’d been gone
hours
now. School had let out. She’d called all his friends, none of whom would admit to knowing his plans, although it was hard to tell with preteen boys, who seemed to communicate primarily in grunts and hoots.

“I swear I’ll ground him until he leaves for college.” The sound of her voice was meant to fill the silence. Instead, it seemed to echo, leaving her even more conscious of being alone in the house. She reached the back door and swung around to stalk through the kitchen and dining room into the living room. “I won’t
let
him leave for college. He doesn’t deserve—” Her voice broke.

She’d thought it was dumb for a boy his age to carry a phone, but she had just changed her mind. If he was in trouble, how could he call her? There weren’t many pay phones anymore, and he might not have money with him anyway, and she discouraged him from talking to strangers.

Maybe it was time to report him missing to the police. Her gaze went to the clock on the DVD player. No, it wasn’t even four yet. Kids cut class all the time. Nobody would take her seriously.

Soon.

She heard a deep engine outside and rushed to the front window. A black SUV had pulled up to the curb in front of her house. The passenger side door opened and—

Laura clapped a hand over her mouth.
Thank you, God. Thank you.
She raced for the front door and flung it open. Her son lifted his head and saw her, then, ducking his head again, trudged across the lawn toward the porch. She was barely aware that a man had gotten out, too, and came around the big SUV to follow Jake.

She planted her fists on her hips in lieu of bounding down the porch steps and snatching him into her arms. “Where have you
been
? Do you have any idea how scared I was?”

He sneaked a shamed look at her. “I didn’t think the school would call you.”

The man came to a stop behind Jake and laid a large hand on his shoulder. She thought he squeezed, just a little, before letting the hand drop. Laura had to lift her gaze a long way to the man’s face. He was...well, not a foot taller than Jake, but a whole lot taller. He had to be six foot three or four.

Her heart drummed for an entirely different reason now. Calm eyes she thought were hazel held hers. His hair was brown, but not as dark as Jake’s, or as her Italian husband’s had been. He might not be male-model handsome, but came close, with a strong jaw, prominent cheekbones and a high-bridged nose. He had broad shoulders and the long, lean build of a basketball player. Standing so close to him, Jake was dwarfed.

“Jake.” She heard how sharp her voice was. “Come here. Right now.”

The stranger arched dark brows but stayed where he was when Jake slouched his way up the steps onto the porch. She pushed him behind her into the house.

Only then did she see that the stranger wore a gun.

“Who are you?” She sounded hysterical, with good reason.

“Ms. Vennetti.” He nodded. “I’m Detective Ethan Winter, with PPB.”

A police officer had brought her son home. Dread closed her throat. She had to swallow before she could ask, in a harsh whisper, “What did he do?”

“Nothing more serious than cut school.” That slow, deep voice was as calming as his steady gaze. “I was hoping to talk to you for a minute, though.”

She bit her lip and gave a choppy nod. “Come in, then.” She turned to find Jake hovering on the other side of the living room. “Go to your room,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later, after I’ve heard what Detective Winter has to say.”

“I didn’t do—”

“Your room,” she snapped.

His expression stormy, he thought about defying her, but the moment lasted a matter of seconds before he bolted for his bedroom. The door slammed hard enough to make pictures on the wall bounce. Laura closed her eyes, prayed for strength and once again faced the police officer who had brought Jake home.

He stepped inside, his shoulder brushing her, his gaze skimming the room in what she guessed was automatic assessment.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, and closed the front door.

He hesitated momentarily, making her aware none of the furniture was built on a scale for a man his size, then chose one end of the sofa. She sat in her favorite easy chair facing him over the coffee table.

“I knew your husband,” he said abruptly. “We patrolled together for about a year early on in our careers. I’d been on the job a little longer than Matt had, but not much.”

She suddenly felt stripped bare. All she could do was hold up her chin. “So I suppose you know our whole history.”

A couple of lines deepened on his forehead. “Your whole history? No. I remember hearing about the accident, and I was sorry about what happened with Matt. I actually came to the funeral. You and I spoke briefly afterward.”

She had been mercifully numb by that time. She remembered a succession of police officers, all in uniform, one by one expressing their regrets. Some she knew, many she didn’t. She had been grateful they had come. If they hadn’t, who would have? Her own family was so small. And Matt’s—

Laura shook off that memory.

“Where did you find Jake?”

“The gun show out at the Expo Center.”