In Plain Sight. Tara Quinn Taylor
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thanks for meeting with me.” She stood, shaking the off-duty detective’s hand as he joined her at the table for two along one wall of Macy’s Coffee-house early the following Saturday morning.
“My favorite Ethiopian coffee and a beautiful woman. How could I pass that up?” he asked, settling his slightly overweight middle-aged body on the chair across from her. She was used to seeing him in uniform, and the jeans and flannel shirt were hard to get used to.
It didn’t surprise her that when it came to coffee Danny Ruple went for the strong, rough, dry kind. She bought the coffee for him at the counter, along with one of Macy’s famous muffins. And ordered a light-roast Brazilian for herself. She was picking Hailey up for breakfast as soon as she finished with the detective and she hoped that one small dose of caffeine was all she’d need until then.
“I heard about your brick encounter a few days ago,” he said, taking a sip from his steaming cup.
She wasn’t shocked by that. With only about sixty officers on the Flagstaff police force, the men and women resembled a big family; if one of them was called to the home of a county prosecutor, they’d all know about it.
“Officer Ramsey thinks it was gang related.” Much to her relief.
Danny nodded. “There’ve been three or four similar incidents south of the railroad tracks since May.”
“Any suspects?”
“We’re pretty sure we know the kids doing it,” Danny said. “But so far there’s been nothing more than minimal damage, no injuries—no real proof. We’ve brought a couple of them in for questioning, at least to let them know we’re onto them, to scare them a little. Lord knows, if we make an arrest without a full confession, fingerprints and VHS recordings, some defense attorney will start spouting rights of the accused and get him off.”
“Attorneys are not all misguided, Detective,” she said with a grin. “We’re just bound by laws that strangle us occasionally.”
“And you call on us to cut the rope and then tie yourselves up again.”
It was an ongoing debate between the two of them—in jest, but there was truth, as well. “You’re a fine cop, Danny Ruple.”
“Uh-oh, this isn’t going to be good.” He stared into his coffee, so she couldn’t read the look in his eyes. Which was probably for the best. “What happened— Hall walk again?”
“Nope.”
He studied her. “You’re actually going to make it stick this time? ’Cause I gotta tell you, Jan, I’m pretty damn sick of risking my butt so he gets a few days bed and board on the state and then returns to the street with a vendetta against the cop who booked him. I got a wife and two teenage boys who prefer it when I come home alive.”
“I know.” She nodded. Took comfort from the warmth of the ceramic mug resting in her cupped hands. “And I’m going to get him. But I need your help.”
“Of course, you do. Why else would you be buying me expensive coffee? What’ve you got?”
He thought she had a lead that needed checking. It wouldn’t be the first time Danny had spent unpaid hours off duty, assisting on a case.
“An offer.”
Narrowing his eyes, he sipped from his coffee, and said nothing.
“I’ll charge the Lorna Zeidel case and prosecute to the fullest extent of my ability.” Even though that meant starting from scratch on a cold case, a wild goose chase that—unless she pulled off a miracle—would cost the state and ultimately hurt her reputation.
“Shit.” He put down his cup with careful deliberation. The muffin she’d bought him remained untouched. “In exchange for what?”
“I need you in court a week from Monday, 8:30 sharp.”
“Why?”
She didn’t look down, as much as she was tempted to. “An evidentiary hearing to establish the validity of your confidential informant in the Hall case.”
“They want me to testify that it’s valid?”
If it was that easy, she wouldn’t have needed Lorna Zeidel. Jan waited.
Ruple threw himself against the hardwood chair, almost tipping it backward. “You want me to expose my source.”
She nodded.
“Knowing it’s the kiss of death for a cop.”
She nodded again, saying nothing as he stood.
“Do I look like a fool to you, Ms. McNeil?”
“No, Danny,” she said, still seated. “You look like a cop who’s really in it to get the bad guys—no matter what the cost.”
She had him. At least for a second. And then, leaving his coffee unfinished, he stalked out.
Would he be in touch? Or would she have to attend Hall’s hearing still wondering if her key witness—her only witness—was going to show?
“Can we not talk about our court stuff right now?”
With an effort, Jan’s smile remained intact as she fell silent. Fork in midair over her blueberry pancakes, she watched the eight-year-old across from her consume a plate of French toast without a care in the world.
“Have you changed your mind about us, Hailey?” she asked softly, holding her breath. “Because it’s okay if you have. All you have to do is say so. I won’t be angry with you, I promise.”
Heartbroken, but not angry.
The child’s short, dark curls bounced as she shook her head. “’Course not,” she said, her mouth full. “Next to Mrs. Butterworth, you’re the nicest person I ever met. Being your kid would be almost as good as there really being a Santa Claus.”
Jan wanted to hug Hailey so tight, keep her so close that no harm could ever come to her again. “You just don’t want to know about the legal proceedings?” she asked, just to be sure, respecting the little girl’s reserve.
Hailey shrugged, her shoulders bony looking beneath the blue T-shirt she was wearing with a pair of faded jeans. Her sweater was wadded beside her on the bench in the booth of their favorite diner on Route 66.
“You planning to tell me what’s bothering you?”
“Nothing.” Hailey peeked up at her. Swallowed. And did not immediately shovel another bite of food into her mouth. “I just don’t see why I should hear about the actual adoption, when they aren’t going to let it happen anyway.”
“Who isn’t?”
Had the Ivory Nation connected her to Hailey? Threatened the child? Jan’s body temperature dropped, until she realized that, once again, she was falling prey to paranoia.
“You know, the court people,” Hailey said, frowning. “Judges and CPS and all that. Derek says they probably won’t give me to anyone, but they especially won’t give me to you.”
Derek Lincoln, the twelve-year-old biological son of Hailey’s foster parents.
“Why not?”
“Derek says no one wants kids like me to have regular homes, ’cause we won’t fit in. They just keep moving us around from foster to foster, till we’re old enough to live alone.”
As quickly as Jan’s blood had frozen, it burned. “Derek’s wrong.”
“He says he’s seen it. He says it always happens that way. They talk about adoption, but every foster kid in his house just gets moved to other foster houses. He says most people don’t want us kids, ’cause we’re troublemakers and ’cause we’re too old. He says even some foster homes aren’t good, ’cause people do it for the money. He says they aren’t all like his mom, who just loves any old kid.”