A Cop's Honor Read online

  That could be cause for alarm, but it could also just be Mason acting like an adolescent. “I snuck out plenty of times as a kid—usually to go somewhere with Rick. What did he have with him?”

  “His backpack.”

  “What was in it?”

  She blinked. “I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t you look?”

  “No. That’s a violation of privacy.”

  “You’re his parent, not his pal. Privacy is a privilege that must be earned.” Or so his parents always claimed.

  “I disagree. To teach respect you must show it.”

  “When he’s thirty. Right now he’s a kid with problems. You have probable cause and the right to search.”

  “You sound like a cop.”

  “Because I am one. Either you want my help or you don’t.”

  She tipped her head back to stare at the dense leaf canopy. Then she swallowed and met his gaze. “Do you know how hard it was for me to call you? I wouldn’t have if I’d had anyone else.”

  Regret twisted through him at the agony on her face. Talking to Hannah had once been almost as easy as talking to one of his sisters. She’d always been smart, informed and funny. “What about your dad or Rick’s parents?”

  Her mother had never been part of the picture. Rick hadn’t told Brandon why.

  “Dad’s stationed in Italy right now. He’s too far away to visit us more than once a year, and our parenting views...differ. Rick’s parents think I’m a horrible mother. They fuss continually because my kids are ‘ill-mannered and don’t respect others’ property.’ Once a month we visit them or they come here, but...it’s not a good relationship no matter how hard I try to fix it.”

  Some things never changed. On his few visits to Rick’s house he’d learned not to touch anything. “I take it their house is still full of priceless collectibles?”

  “Yes. In the Leiths’ eyes I don’t do anything right, and neither do my kids. Mason and Belle hate visiting them. But I want them to know their grandparents. I always lived too far away to see mine, and then they were gone and it was too late.”

  “What you’re saying is, Rick’s parents are still uptight pains in the ass?”

  She grimaced. “Pretty much. They keep pushing me to move closer so they can watch the kids when they’re not in school. What they really want to do is ‘fix them.’ But I don’t want to leave our home.”

  Her gaze bounced away. He waited, suspecting the speech she was formulating in her mind would be the core reason she’d called him.

  Worry-clouded eyes found his. “The Leiths miss their son, and they’re clinging to my children as a replacement—especially Mrs. Leith. When she heard about Mason’s troubles at school she insisted her precious Richard had never had behavior issues, and if Mason did it had to be my fault. She’s threatened to ‘call in a professional.’ I don’t know if she means a psychologist or social services, but neither would be good. Like you, she assumed I was bringing unsuitable men into the house, and when I assured her I wasn’t, she said he had to be learning his filthy language from me. Which, she went on to tell me, made me an unfit parent.”

  “She was always a vengeful bitch.”

  She’d tried to get Brandon fired after Rick’s death and throughout the follow-up investigation. Because of the Leiths’ clout with South Carolina’s movers and shakers, it had been a serious threat. He’d had to deal not only with his grief over losing his best friend and the threat of losing the job he loved, but also second-guessing his judgment because he’d let Rick talk him out of following protocol.

  “I’m a good parent, Brandon. I do my best to provide for my children. I never leave them unsupervised, and I send them to the best after-school program I can afford. But I saw a friend who was an excellent parent lose custody of her children when her ex-husband manufactured things. What he accused her of wasn’t true, but it cast enough doubt for her to end up with supervised visitation only. Like the Leiths, he’s loaded and connected, and like me, my friend doesn’t have the money to fight. I’m trying to give the Leiths as much access to the grandchildren as I can to keep them happy, but I’m afraid of what Rick’s mom can do with the ammunition Mason is unwittingly giving her.”

  The fear in her eyes was genuine, and he understood her concern. He’d seen exactly what she described—great parents losing custody. “Hannah, I witnessed the way you ‘mothered’ for your first five years of parenthood. If that hasn’t changed, there’s no way you could be considered a bad parent.”

  “Thank you for saying that. But I can’t risk it. In her grief Mrs. Leith doesn’t always...think rationally. And her friends have clout. I don’t.”

  Being a single parent with no backup had to be hard. His family was close. He had his mom and dad, two sisters and two brothers-in-law he could call on at any time for anything. Not that he had ever asked for help, but he knew they’d be there for him if he did—the same way he’d be there for them. No questions asked. He would have been that for Hannah and her kids—if she had let him. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Which brought him back to the problem at hand.

  “Was Mason running away?”

  “He claims he was going to study with a friend.”

  “But you don’t believe him?”

  She worried her bottom lip with her teeth and took another one of those breast-swelling breaths. He jacked his gaze north. “No. It was an hour after bedtime. Mason doesn’t make friends easily. And he refuses to tell me this supposed one’s name or where he lives. I’ve asked his teachers, and none know of any new friends he’s made.”

  Rick hadn’t made friends easily, either. He’d been a late-in-life, surprise baby. The Leiths hadn’t known what to do with the child they’d brought home from the hospital or how to interact with the brilliant boy he’d become. They’d raised him to be a little adult. Seen and not heard and all that crap.

  And then Brandon had come along. He’d intervened on the first day of second grade when one of the fifth graders on the bus had tried to bully the prissy new kid on their route—Rick. Brandon had given the bully a bloody nose and gained a loyal friend. Rick had become Brandon’s sidekick. He’d visited the Martins’ orchard every time Rick’s workaholic parents had let him. Out in the peach groves Rick had learned how to be a kid, how to climb trees, get dirty and make noise—all the stuff he wasn’t allowed to do at home. And Brandon had made sure his geeky buddy learned to defend himself.

  Rick should have been here to teach those same lessons to his son. But he wasn’t. And if Brandon had done things differently that day—He pushed aside the familiar weight settling on his chest.

  “I’d offer to speak to the Leiths for you, but I’m not high on their good list, either.” They blamed Brandon for turning their brilliant son away from a safe and lucrative, white-collar law career toward a dangerous, low-paying blue-collar law enforcement job. Mrs. Leith had said that if not for Brandon, her son would have gone to college and graduate school and he’d still be alive.

  “I don’t think they like many people. But they do love my children...in their own peculiar way.”

  “What do you want me to do, Hannah?”

  “I need you to talk to Mason—unofficially, of course—and see if you can figure out what’s going on.”

  Brandon leaned back. Here it was. The opportunity to fulfill his promise to Rick—to watch out for Rick’s family. But he was ill-equipped for the job. What if he failed? “Hannah, I know almost nothing about kids.”

  “You’re my son’s godfather. You have to help.”

  Guilt torqued through him. He’d been a lousy godparent. Out of respect for Hannah he’d stayed out of sight and kept tabs on Rick’s family from a distance. “How?”

  “Come to dinner tomorrow—unless you have a date—and see if you can figure out what’s going on with him.”

  The desperation in her face hit h
im hard—but not as hard as the jab about a date. Saturday night, and he’d be home alone. Again. He’d yet to find a woman he found more interesting than work. Sure, he dated. But not often. He was tired of the whole game. He met a woman. She pretended to be someone she wasn’t and swore she didn’t mind the danger of his job and didn’t want kids. Then her true colors seeped through.

  “Please, Brandon.”

  There was probably nothing wrong with the boy that some tough love wouldn’t cure. “I’ll be there.”

  He’d never live up to the gratitude in her eyes. But he had to at least try. He owed Rick that much.

  * * *

  HANNAH’S GARAGE GUTTER was sagging again. Brandon cursed and slowed his truck a hundred yards from the house Saturday evening. The fascia board behind the gutter, and possibly one or more rafters, would have to be replaced, but that meant removing the old ones, painting the new ones and getting it all reassembled without getting caught.

  After Hannah had ordered him to stay away from her and her family and refused multiple offers of help from other officers from SLED, Brandon had covertly organized a team of Rick’s coworkers. He and the guys were limited to working the one weekend a month when Hannah and the kids went out of town. That made complicated, multistep projects difficult to complete without getting caught.

  Their clandestine activities were aided by the fact that her three-acre lot was heavily wooded, concealing the house on all sides from her neighbors, and those neighbors were the kind who minded their own business.

  Privacy had been Rick’s primary reason for choosing the fixer-upper in an older area, although he had planned to clear out more trees to make a bigger lawn for the kids to play on. But he hadn’t lived long enough to finish that project or many of the others on his long list. Brandon kept the small patch of grass in the front yard weeded and fertilized, but he couldn’t do much more without revealing the team’s secret work.

  He parked beneath the basketball goal “Santa” had left last Christmas then scanned the house as he traversed the walk, noting the white clapboard siding was still clean from the last pressure washing, and the shutters still looked good, too. He climbed the stairs to the small porch and pushed the button. A bell chimed inside. Seconds later the door opened. A miniature version of Hannah with big blue eyes—Rick’s eyes—stared up at him and regret gnawed his gut. Rick would never get to see how much his baby girl had grown.

  The heavy humid air clogged Brandon’s throat. He cleared it. “Hello, Belle. I’m Brandon. Your mom’s expecting me.”

  A rustle of movement behind her preceded Hannah’s appearance. She looked flustered. Color tinted her cheeks and upper chest. She opened the door wider, revealing an outfit identical to her daughter’s short denim skirt, pink T-shirt and sparkly sandals. But Hannah wasn’t shaped like a six-year-old. Her curves rounded out her clothing nicely, and her legs—

  Eyes north, dumbass. “Hey.”

  “Hi. Belle, Officer Martin is joining us for dinner. He’s the one you set the extra plate for.”

  “Did you know my daddy? He was an occifer, too.”

  “Your dad was my best friend. We grew up together. We met when we were just a little older than you.”

  “I have a best friend. Her name is Sydney. She sits beside me at school. Mommy packs extra snacks for Sydney because her family can’t ’ford them and the Bible says we hafta share with those less fort’nate.”

  He—a master interrogator—had no idea what to say. He glanced at Hannah. Pride and love for her daughter glistened in her eyes. “That’s uh...nice,” was all he could muster.

  “Let’s see if Mason remembers Brandon, Belle.”

  Rick’s little girl curled her fingers trustingly around Brandon’s then she pulled him inside, towing him across the scarred hardwood floor that Rick had once planned to refinish. A strange feeling, similar to the sixth sense that prickled up his spine before a dangerous encounter, crawled over him. But there was nothing to fear from this house, Hannah or her children. He attributed the weirdness to the fact that he hadn’t been inside since before Rick’s death, and being here now without his buddy felt wrong somehow.

  From the moment Hannah had laid eyes on the place she’d wanted it, and with Brandon’s help, she’d sold Rick on the idea of turning the old house into a dream home for him and the big family the two of them had planned to have.

  The foyer was clean but worn. A dark wood intricately carved banister curved upward. Rick had wanted to paint it all white. Correction: he had wanted to con Brandon into doing it or pay someone else to. Rick hadn’t been much on manual labor. He’d been more of an egghead who could visualize the most efficient way for others to implement his plan unless it was a computer program. With those he’d been a tireless genius at building them or picking them apart.

  But Brandon had been tied up with his first rental property and couldn’t help, and hiring someone required cash—something cops didn’t have a surplus of. Which meant that jobs had to be prioritized and spread out. So Rick had drawn up a five-year renovation plan and been killed two years into it.

  Belle released his hand to grab a toy pony. “This is Molly. I’m going to have a horsey like her when I get big.”

  “I like horses, too. We have them in the orchard where I grew up. Your dad and I used to race them between the trees.”

  “Daddy could ride?”

  “Yeah. I taught him how.”

  Brandon spotted a dark-haired boy sitting at a desk in the den, staring into a laptop. He didn’t turn when they entered.

  “Mason, come and meet Officer Martin.”

  The kid jumped, then punched buttons and quickly shut down the computer. Too quickly? He twisted their way and déjà vu hit Brandon hard, hurling him back to his childhood. Mason was a miniature Rick. Those familiar blue eyes were wary. The cop in Brandon immediately asked why and if it was related to his school issues? But he dismissed the questions. Hannah had introduced him as an officer and a lot of people were uncomfortable around cops.

  Brandon crossed the room and stuck out his hand. “Mason, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Brandon, a friend of your dad’s.”

  Mason showed no sign of recognition. His expression soured. “My dad’s dead.”

  Brandon suppressed a flinch at the inevitable stab of pain. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  He was sorry in more ways than the boy would ever know.

  Hannah cleared her throat. “Mason.”

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” Mason added at the prompt and shook Brandon’s hand.

  “Your dad was good with computers. What do you like to do on them?”

  The kid froze then snatched his hand back. His gaze slid left. “Nothing. Just look at stuff.”

  That warning prickle intensified. “What kind of stuff?”

  Mason swallowed and shrugged. He focused on a point beyond Brandon’s ear.

  “Games? Instant messaging? Chat rooms?” Brandon prompted, endeavoring to keep his tone friendly and casual, but red flags were flapping wildly in his subconscious.

  Mason shook his head vigorously. “Mom doesn’t allow any of that. It’s just research. For papers I have to write.”

  Hannah patted her son’s shoulder. “Mason’s in the accelerated Language Arts class.”

  “Your dad was smart in Language Arts. He really liked to read. Sometimes he helped me with book reports.”

  The kid rolled his eyes. “Is dinner ready? I’m starving.”

  Hannah opened her mouth as if to protest her son’s rudeness, but Brandon caught her gaze and shook his head. No point in alienating someone he was here to study. “I’m hungry, too. Lead the way.”

  Hannah’s expression turned apologetic. “I hope you don’t mind baked spaghetti. It’s one of the few things my picky eaters like.”

  “Sounds good.” He stopped on the threshold of t
he dining room. The once dark walls and wainscoting gleamed white. “You painted in here.”

  “We’re working our way through the list, slowly, but surely.”

  “We’re going to paint my room ’morrow,” mini Hannah chirped.

  Brandon heard opportunity knocking. “Oh yeah? Maybe I can help. I like to paint.”

  He glanced at Hannah for confirmation. She nodded.

  “I’ll be here first thing in the morning.”

  Hannah shook her head. “We won’t get home from church until 12:30.”

  “I’ll be here when you get home.”

  “Don’t you go to church, Occifer Brandon?”

  Was the half-pint channeling his mother? “I’m usually working. But tomorrow I’m off. And I can’t think of a better way to spend the day than painting with you.”

  Belle beamed. Hannah and Mason looked less than thrilled. But Hannah had asked for his help, and she was going to get it.

  Chapter Two

  HANNAH WAS HAPPY to see the end of the meal. Belle had chattered almost nonstop, but that hadn’t been enough to cover Mason’s monosyllabic responses to Brandon’s questions. Even though Brandon had appeared relaxed, Hannah doubted he’d missed her son’s rudeness, and she was sure she’d hear about it—the same way she heard about it from her in-laws—as soon as they left the table.

  “Mason, go take your shower. Belle, pick out your pajamas and a book.”

  The children left the room, Belle skipping, Mason moving at a slower, rebellious pace. Hannah missed the days when they both raced up the stairs like a thundering herd and all she had to worry about was one of them falling and getting hurt.

  After the footsteps faded Brandon hit her with a somber look across the table. “He wasn’t thrilled to have me here.”

  Hannah bolted to her feet and started stacking dishes. “It takes him a while to warm up to strangers. Just like his father. But I really appreciate your efforts to draw him out.” When Brandon rose and grabbed what she couldn’t carry she protested, “You don’t have to do that.”