The Baby Cop. Roz Denny Fox
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application.”
There was a collective gasp from Terry’s co-workers. She was first to express her shock in words. “It would be a horrible mistake to trash Ethan’s efforts to save Desert City’s abused kids.”
“Is that so?” Regan’s light eyes darkened. “Pardon me, but I labor under the impression that saving this city’s abused kids is our responsibility.” Stretching across the counter, Regan tapped a fingernail on the title stamped above Terry Mickelson’s name badge. “Child Help Center. That’s us, correct?”
A once-retired caseworker, Odella Price, materialized from the records room along with Abby, the clerk who’d gone to help Regan. Odella had left the department six years previously but had returned part-time at Anna Murphy’s request. For more than a year now, Odella’s part-time load had totaled fifty hours a week. There were employees like Terry Mickelson and others who thought Odella should have been given Anna’s job, even though she had no administrative experience. A fair share of the staff let it be known in unsubtle ways.
Odella Price had grown up the daughter of parents who ministered to the poor. She was intelligent and well-educated. Empathy oozed from her pores. Around the office, she assumed a role of unofficial negotiator.
A tall woman, Odella stood five foot ten inches without shoes. She carried no spare ounce of flesh beneath her smooth mocha-colored skin. Outside of tiny laugh wrinkles fanning from rich brown eyes, few who met her believed she was sixty years old, as she claimed to be.
Moving fluidly, she glided between Regan and Terry. A gregarious smile displayed even white teeth, only close friends knew they’d been crooked until Odella turned twenty-four, when she got her MSSW and subsequently her first paycheck in a field she loved. Now she spoke through that dazzling smile. “Abby tells me you inquired about the status of Jeremy Smith’s request to change his last name, Regan.” Odella was probably the only staff member, other than Piggott, who dared call Regan by her first name. Nathaniel liberally used given names, but he allowed only a chosen few to call him anything besides, Director or sir. Since Odella’s return to the workforce, she’d placed herself on Piggot’s short list. More to annoy the man than to align herself with him.
Switching her focus from Terry Mickelson to Odella, Regan concurred with a slight nod. “I was told Jeremy desired adoption, but his birth mother refused. They believe she agreed that he could legally take the Knight name.”
“That was six months ago. Shontelle’s status changed just this week. I pulled off a fax yesterday informing us that she’s being held in a Utah prison pending murder charges. She’s alleged to have knifed her current boyfriend.”
“Excuse me? Who knifed whom?”
“Shontelle Waters. Jeremy’s birth mom. In the time he’s lived with the Knights, she’s been married and divorced twice. At last report, she’d left the state with a new man—the one she reportedly murdered. I’ve considered contacting her court-appointed attorneys in Utah. It occurred to me they could attach a clause in a plea bargain that’ll free Jeremy up for adoption.”
Regan stared into the guileless brown eyes, feeling a muscle jump in her jaw. She’d heard a rumor to the effect that Odella’s mission in life was to see all children in the foster-care program adopted into good homes. An impossibility, of course, for any number of reasons. But a worthy endeavor. One to which Regan subscribed—the operative word being good. She might add loving and nurturing to that. “Hmm, Nathaniel mentioned how successful you’ve been, Odella, in acquiring adoption permission for formerly unadoptable foster kids. Do you have a minute to step into my office to discuss that in general and, more specifically, Jeremy’s case?”
“I’d love to.” The older woman gave Regan time to collect her briefcase, and the two strolled out leaving the other caseworkers grumbling over Regan’s proposed lecture on Monday.
Once they’d entered Regan’s office, Odella asked her a personal question—something no staff member had done since Regan assumed her post. “I used to see you jogging in Riker Park each morning. Have you stopped or are you going there earlier? I hope you’re not going before daylight. Riker isn’t the safest park in the city.”
Regan bit her lower lip. “I’ve switched to the track at the high school. It’s closer to my apartment. Plus, there are fewer people to contend with. I’m sorry, I don’t recall seeing you in the park.” Regan felt bad about not recognizing Odella, although she rarely noticed people when jogging, unless they had dogs. It seemed the majority of joggers in Riker Park did have them. Big ones. Now that Odella mentioned it, her decision to change locations probably had to do with the safety issue.
Odella laughed heartily. “The morning-me in no way resembles the workplace-me. When I’m running, I wear baggy sweats and have my hair tucked under one of my husband’s old army caps. Add to that a set of earphones and dark glasses the size of saucers. You, on the other hand, could pass for Barbie’s sister in your matched pink baseball cap, spandex bike shorts and T-shirt.”
Regan flushed at the apt description.
“That was meant as a compliment, Regan,” Odella said as they each claimed a chair and sat. “You looked fashionable, and I envied you. I’m such a mess in the mornings. Oh, and you have a great jogging pace. You don’t run like I’m almost sure Barbie—or any member of her family—would run.”
That garnered a laugh from Regan. “My former fiancé ran five miles every morning before he went to the gym. He couldn’t stand the thought of me sleeping in while he went out to sweat. I learned to keep up. It was either that or forever after listen to how weak women are.”
“Nice guy. Is that why he’s your former fiancé?”
Realizing she’d let something private slip, Regan dropped her affable manner. “I believe we came here to discuss Jeremy Smith’s situation and that of other children stalled in the foster-care system.”
The glimmer of interest aimed at Regan stayed in Odella’s warm brown eyes for another moment. “Before we get down to business, let me extend an invitation to meet me anytime to jog, hike or bike. My kids are grown. They’re all too busy with their own lives to join me anymore. Roger, my husband, said he had to punish his body every day of the twenty-five years he served Uncle Sam. Now that he’s retired, he prefers getting his exercise pruning our cactus. I guess you know how slowly cacti grow.”
“I don’t enjoy hiking alone,” Regan murmured. “In Phoenix I had friends who regularly hiked Squaw Peak. Or sometimes we’d drive to Prescott on the weekend to climb Thumb Butte. I haven’t inquired about trails here.”
“There are some nice ones in the Catalina Foothills. Mount Lemmon offers more strenuous routes.” Odella pulled a business card out of her suit pocket and shoved it across Regan’s desk. “I won’t bug you. But here’s my home phone number if you’re ever in the mood. And, Regan, for the record, I leave work at the office.”
Regan turned the business card over in her fingers several times before relaxing enough to tuck it into her pocket. “I’ve missed hiking. The weather lately has been perfect for it. There’s something about mountain air—it refreshes the mind and rejuvenates the soul. We’ll have to set something up for a weekend soon. I’ve been spending far too much time inside since I moved to Desert City.”
“Good.” Odella leaned forward. “Now, about Jeremy’s current status—” She was interrupted by a heavy footfall outside the door, followed by feminine giggles and deeper male laughter.
“Let me shut my door so we’ll have more privacy, Odella.” Regan rose and circled her desk. She’d gripped the knob, starting to pull the door inward when pointed black ears, a dark muzzle and lolling pink tongue appeared in front of her. Regan felt the floor shift and spin. Her legs refused to carry her backward as her mind screamed at her to do it and do it quickly.
Odella, who’d rotated in her chair, clucked happily. “Well, if it isn’t the Tasmanian Devil himself.” Climbing to her feet, she hastened across the room to rub the dog’s head and pat his wriggling