talked to Brad lately.”
Well, that answered that. “Ah,” J.D. said, crumpling the message slip and aiming it at the wastebasket behind his desk. “Yeah.”
“I know this is going to sound really strange, but…did he by any chance mention any plans with the children? Because they were supposed to be home today, only his cleaning lady said he was taking them on vacation—and I don’t know where they are.”
J.D. closed his eyes, feeling as if he’d just been sucker-punched. So Brad hadn’t just been shooting off his mouth.
And here you didn’t want to call and warn her….
“Oh, God,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, Kirs.”
“Well, so, I was just hoping—I mean, nobody’s heard anything, and—” With every phrase her voice sounded shakier. “The police said they can’t do anything about a custody violation, and I’ve been asking everyone, only it’s like they—they’re just gone—I mean, it’s probably okay, because when I got the mail there was a…a…what, a postcard, only—”
“Kirsten,” he interrupted. “Take a breath.”
There was a momentary silence, then he heard a quick, shuddering gasp. All right, she was listening to him.
“Good,” J.D. said. “Another breath, okay? A big one.” He couldn’t make up for what he’d failed to do, but he could at least keep her from passing out.
A longer breath. “Okay,” she said, sounding slightly more composed. But then he heard the panic slipping back into her voice. “They’re just gone—and I don’t know what to do!”
Neither did he, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. “It’s okay,” he said in his best soothe-the-assault-victim tone. “We’ll get it handled.” Kirsten was right about the police not pursuing civil cases—which always shocked parents who viewed custody violations as a crime—but he’d make damn sure she got whatever assistance he could line up. “You say you got a postcard?”
“From the Space Needle,” she confirmed. “Brad always takes them there when they first get to Seattle, and they always send me one of those big postcards. Except this time, Lindsay and the boys wrote their names and drew pictures like they always do, and Brad added a note—”
“Can you read it to me?” This was the kind of thing a private investigator should handle, J.D. knew, but he couldn’t think of anyone to recommend in Tucson or Seattle. His only other contacts were cops, who couldn’t offer the kind of help she needed—and yet it was his fault she needed help in the first place. If only he’d phoned her in January….
“Let me get it. Just a second.” It took only a little longer than that before she cleared her throat and read, “Never realized till I lost my folks how great it is, having family around. Call if it’s a problem, but I want to give these kids a really fun summer—show them all the places we’ve never been. Don’t worry, I’ll have ’em home for school. Love you, Brad.”
He could hear his buddy’s breezy, carefree tone even through the tremor in Kirsten’s voice. That sounded like Brad, all right—blithely assuming she wouldn’t mind giving up her kids on the one hand, and signing off with “love you” on the other.
That son of a—
But he couldn’t trash the father of Kirsten’s kids, no matter how upset she sounded right now.
“I never would’ve agreed to let them spend the rest of the summer with him!” she cried. “Two weeks, all right, they can eat candy every morning for two weeks, and it’s important for them to spend time with their dad. But the whole summer—when he’s never been all that responsible in the first place—”
“Right,” J.D. acknowledged, forcibly channeling the heated anger into the cold concentration he employed virtually every day of his life. “You’ve already tried calling him?”
“When they weren’t on the plane, I talked to the cleaning lady—only it was too late by then. Brad probably thought it was fine to take them, since I hadn’t said no, but the postcard only came today. And I’d never, ever let him keep Lindsay and Adam and Eric that long!”
At best the Seattle P.D. might send someone over to the house, leave a message, check back a few times…. Kirsten needed more than that. “Let me get someone on this, okay?”
“The police?” She sounded both hopeful and apprehensive. “Will that—I mean, as much as I hate him for doing this, I don’t want Brad to get arrested or anything. It’d be horrible for the children to think their father was— I just want them home.”
It wasn’t all that horrible, seeing your father arrested…although, J.D. reminded himself, Kirsten’s kids had grown up in the same comfortable, happy-ending world she’d always taken for granted. Maybe it would be horrible for people like that.
“I’ll get you a private investigator,” he told her, “someone who can start right away.” He would have to give the P.I. everything he could remember from that conversation during the Super Bowl, when Brad had boasted about all the great things he could do for his kids if Kirsten weren’t so fussy about school attendance. “Find a couple photos of them, okay? And write down everything you know about Brad—where he likes to stay, friends he might call, any credit-card numbers, that kind of thing.”
“I will,” Kirsten promised, sounding somewhat reassured. “J.D., really, I appreciate your help. I was hoping someone could…I mean, I can’t let them go all summer—”
“No, I know.” Brad had always been good company, but the same blithe irresponsibility that made him fun to spend time with was probably a major drawback when it came to looking after kids. “You’d just as soon they didn’t live on candy bars, right?”
“Well, that, and the kindergarten needs Adam and Eric in by August first. If they’re going to be in separate classrooms instead of together, I have to—” She broke off, sounding suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, that’s mom stuff. And here I didn’t even ask…how have you been?”
The question startled him, coming over the phone on which no one had ever asked such a thing. “Uh, fine,” he said, gripping the receiver a little tighter as he scanned the list of private investigators he recommended to parents seeking children sucked into the world of drugs. “I’m moving to Chicago in a few weeks.”
“Chicago! What will you be doing there?”
“Narcotics task force. I got the call last month.” He’d been elated at getting into a department where the work would be more demanding, more challenging, more of a chance to make a difference. More opportunity to keep addicts and dealers from inflicting on anyone the kind of childhood he’d endured. “Same kind of thing I’m doing here, but a bigger city. With better pizza.”
He could almost hear her smile at that last comment. “You always wanted to travel,” she observed, surprising him with how much she remembered of the dreams he’d never shared until that one summer. “It’s wonderful you’re getting the chance.”
She sounded a lot happier for him than anyone else had. Not that he’d told many people—just the captain, a few of the guys he worked with and the manager at his apartment complex.
“Well,
