Chapter One

“They found the boy scavenging through trash cans at the bus station.” Detective Enrico Santini shifted his cell phone from one ear to the other and scanned the reception area of Macy Capshaw’s upscale law office. “He doesn’t know his name or where he’s from.”

“And you think it could be Chelsey’s kid?” his partner asked.

“He’s the right age.”

“Yeah. Him and how many others out of the 800,000 kids who go missing every year. You still feeling responsible?”

Rico didn’t answer.   He’d been the one who suggested his niece stay at Haven’s Gate to have her baby, and less than twenty-four hours after the birth, the infant had been abducted.

“We did everything we could,” Jordan said.

Yeah, so why did he feel he could have done more? “I need to check it out.”   

The receptionist nodded at Rico, indicating the lawyer was ready to see him.

“Gotta go. I’ll get back to you later.” He stood, pocketed the phone and followed the young woman into the attorney’s spacious office. 

“Detective Santini,” the receptionist introduced him to the woman behind an oversized mahogany desk. Her blond hair gleamed like the patina on the champagne colored Benz he’d seen in the parking garage with the vanity plate MC2LAW, her tailored suit screamed Gucci or some other designer name, and the subtle lift of her chin warned that a cop, the son of Italian immigrants from Hoboken, New Jersey, wasn’t in her league. Not even close.

She stood to shake his hand, a quick, firm move that was all business.

As the receptionist left, Rico noted that Macy Capshaw, with her hair pulled back into a sleek, long pony tail, looked as if she’d just graduated high school. Only the Harvard Law certificate on the wall said otherwise.

How someone her age could afford digs in the L.A. Citicorp Building without any partners was a mystery.

The lawyer motioned for him to sit in the chair across from her. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I understand you’re the court-appointed advocate for the boy found at the bus station.”

“I’m his court-appointed attorney. Similar to and advocate but not exactly the same.” Her cool blue gaze flicked over him, lingering on his faded jeans and J.C. Penny button down shirt.

“I’m working a cold case in which an infant was abducted five years ago. The boy would now be about the same age as the child in your charge. I’d like to find out if they might be one and the same, and I understand that I need your okay to see him.”

She relaxed against the back of a tanned leather chair, arms at ease.

“LAPD?”

He nodded.

“But you’re not from California, are you.”

“New Jersey, born and bred.” He gave her his best smile. “Did the accent give me away?”

The corners of her mouth moved, but didn’t make it into a smile. “The child is in protective custody and under a physician’s care. Being questioned by more police is not in his best interests right now.”

“Isn’t it in his best interests to find his parents?”

“We want to find his parents as much as anyone . . . but as I said, he’s under a physician’s care.” Her firm words belied her relaxed body language.

Rico leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Was he abused?”

“Possibly. He has several physical problems, and he doesn’t remember anything about himself or his family. We don’t know if he wandered away from his parents or if he was abandoned. But since it’s been well publicized and no one has come forward, the likelihood is the latter.” The ice blue eyes locked with his. “We may not know anything for quite a while.”

“Are you refusing to let me talk to him?”

She frowned. “Whatever he’s been through was obviously traumatic and more people questioning him might send him over the edge. It’s my job to ensure that doesn’t happen. If your case is five years old, Detective, it can’t hurt to wait a little longer, can it?”

Rico’s blood rushed. He was too close to this case and he knew it. He took a calming breath. “The case might be old . . . but the child’s mother has been grieving for five years over the loss. The boy in your charge could be her son.”

Her eyes seemed to soften around the edges, and he saw an almost imperceptible wince. Maybe he’d touched her nurturing side. He hoped.

As if she knew what he was thinking, she pulled herself up and squared her shoulders. “I can sympathize, Detective. But that’s all I can do. Right now numerous authorities are involved. Child Protective Services, the court that appointed me, the hospital and a number of physicians and the police who took him into custody. I’ve had three other detectives call me because each had an old case with a missing child and they want the same thing as you do. As the child’s advocate, my responsibility is to the boy, and if we found his parents right this minute, we wouldn’t spring them on him immediately. Not until we have some answers.”

Her voice had softened and maybe she really did sympathize. Whether she did or not, he had to admire her conviction. Her concern for the boy. He drew a breath. It was obvious he wasn’t going to get anywhere by pushing the issue. If he’d learned anything in his ten-plus years in law enforcement, it was that making nice on someone won him more points than bullying ever did.

“And exactly what is your responsibility?” he asked. “I’ve never worked with a child attorney before.”

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue--a gesture that oddly had him wondering what it might be like to unravel that cool, you-can’t-touch-me attitude of hers.

“It’s my job to represent the child’s best interests--to ensure that any abuse suffered at home . .. or elsewhere, doesn’t continue as abuse and neglect at the hands of the system.”

Back to the canned legalese.

“And you are the system, Detective Santini.”

Maintaining eye contact, he stretched his legs and forced himself to appear at ease, the posture at odds with the tension building inside him. “I’d like to see him, not interrogate him.”

She picked up a folder on her desk and thumbed through it. Finally she said, “All in due time. Right now it’s more important to determine his physical and mental state. Surely you can understand that.”

His nerves tensed even more at the condescending tone. “I can. And surely you can understand that, like you, I’m doing my job--and I’d hoped you’d be able to help me.”

“As much as I’d like to, Detective, I can’t. Not today.”

Right. She’d like to help him about as much as she’d like to spend an afternoon at a baseball game swilling beer and chowing hot dogs. “Well, if you won’t let me talk to him, perhaps you could come to the station and take a look at the case file. Maybe you’d see something that would allow us to rule out the possibility?”

Her lips formed a thin line and he knew she was going to refuse his request. “I can’t tell you how devastated this mother has been, searching the faces of every child she sees, just in case she might recognize one as her son. Five years is a long time to be doing that. Can you at least think about taking a look at the file?”

She glanced up at him and after a moment, gave a reluctant nod. “My schedule is very full. But, I’ll see what I can do.”

At that, Rico stood, stuck out a hand and, pasting on his most charming smile, said, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

She reached to shake his hand. This time he was surprised at the warmth. Apparently ice didn’t run through her veins. Ignoring a sudden physical urge, he turned and on his way out, he gave a two-finger salute. “I’ll be in touch.”

****

An hour later, Cheryl, Macy’s receptionist, beeped her. Macy hit the intercom.

“It’s that detective again. The cute one.”

The cute one. Yes. He had it going on all right. But she wouldn’t describe him as cute. He commanded attention. And like most cops she’d worked with, he wanted to call the shots. He hadn’t been in her office for two minutes before she knew he was a man who had to be in control.

Hell, he’d barely left and was already calling back for a decision. “Put him through, Cheryl.”

Annoyed, she let the phone ring twice, then picked up the receiver. “What can I do for you Detective?”

“How about meeting me at the coffee shop downstairs?”

His voice, a deep resonant baritone, was low and seductive, his East Coast accent most noticeable when he said cauwfee. Yeah. She knew the drill. He wanted something from her and she’d bet he usually got what he wanted. Most women would find a man like Rico Santini irresistible. Tall and dark, a big white smile and those soft brown “I’m available” eyes, were hard to resist. Well, unfortunately for him, she’d had her fill of tall, dark and irresistible.

“I want to show you something,” he added. “Can you spare a few minutes this afternoon?”

She had a deposition to do, a brief to write and she had to file a restraining order on Ginny Matthews’ estranged husband.  And she had to be in court at one o’clock. She didn’t have time to have coffee with anyone, especially someone with an agenda. She needed a paralegal. Desperately.

This mother’s been grieving for five years over the loss of her child.

She closed her eyes. Remembering things she didn’t want to remember. “I’ll have a few minutes around 3:00 p.m. if that works for you.”

“I’ll be there.”

Macy let the handset slip into the cradle, a dull ache of loss heavy in her chest as painful memories played in her head. The darkened room, the contractions that never went anywhere, the scent of alcohol, and somewhere in the drug-induced fogginess of her brain, hushed, disjointed voices, words like Cesarean and breech. All she’d wanted was to have her baby and take him home. Instead she’d been given drugs to ease the pain, and then it was all over.

And her baby was gone.

Excerpt from His Case, Her Child by Linda Style
Harlequin Superromance (June 2005)
ISBN 0-373-71281-2
Copyright © 2005 by Linda Style
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher.
The edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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