LOVER UNDER COVER Page 7

  But they all had one thing in common, and that was the smile that broke out on their young faces the moment they came through the door and saw her. He heard the words pelo rojo tossed out a few times, and grinned at the tenacious Ms. Murphy being called redhead so familiarly; it had clearly become a nickname among the kids who came here. And many did. He had to admit, he hadn't expected the steady stream that seemed to flow in and out of the Neutral Zone.

  He watched as she worked the crowd—there was no other expression for it, he thought—and saw how they all accepted her. And when she jokingly waved him off as a forlorn, lost tourist she'd taken in, he managed to merely grimace at the laughter and the hoots aimed at him. But he also noticed that the kids kept a wary distance from him; in this neighborhood, any new face was looked upon with suspicion.

  Twice during the afternoon, she disappeared through a door in the yellow wall into what appeared to be a small office. The first time, it was to hand a large manila envelope to a slightly older boy who looked quite pleased with whatever she said to him. The second time, she came out with a small white package that she handed to a frightened-looking little girl of about eleven. She knelt beside the child, spoke to her in soft tones. Quisto heard her say, "No te preocupes, Alicia," saw the girl nod and give Caitlin an unsteady smile, and wondered what she was telling the child not to worry about.

  The rest of the time, he watched her fill glasses, hand out snacks and, under the guise of joining in, supervise games of darts and a tournament that seemed to be in progress on the single video game that sat against the side wall, away from the street. The kids were noisy, shouting and laughing, and except for the language being a little cruder, it could have been a kids' party anywhere.

  And that, he realized, was her goal. That was what she wanted for these kids, just a brief respite, a few moments of normalcy in a world that would most likely turn ugly for these children far too soon. It was the kind of goal he should be admiring, he thought with chagrin, not sniping away at. Maybe she was foolish and naive, but she was trying, and that was more than many would do.

  It was a long time before she finally took a moment's break and sat down on a stool beside him. The clientele had changed slightly, he had noticed as the afternoon wore on; the younger children left, to be replaced by some older ones, kids with a bit more hardness in their faces, a bit more harsh wisdom in their eyes.

  But the atmosphere remained calm, although the looks he got were much more speculative than before, tinged with a sexual awareness that had been lacking in the younger kids, as the new arrivals cast furtive glances at him and Caitlin. He could almost feel them assessing, calculating, wondering who he was and what he was doing there, with her. He was doing a little wondering along those lines himself.

  "Quite a place you run here," he said.

  She studied him silently, as if she were trying to see whether there'd been any sarcasm in his words.

  He tried again. "The kids all seem to be having a good time."

  "That's what I'm here for. To give them a chance at that. A simple, innocent good time is not something they're very familiar with."

  "What's wrong with Alicia?" She drew back, and he saw suspicion flare in her eyes. He shrugged. "I heard you tell her not to worry. About what?"

  "Is this the cop asking?"

  His mouth lifted wryly at one corner. "I'm not a cop this afternoon, remember?"

  "Yes. I just wasn't sure you did."

  "It is pretty ingrained," he said solemnly, "but I find I can turn it off occasionally. For instance, when my nephew persists in assaulting me with his slingshot. Or when Mrs. Weybridge, my charming little old neighbor, insists on taking a shopping cart home with her. It is a tremendous effort on my part, of course, but…" He ended with a dramatically expressive shrug.

  Her smile when she realized he was teasing her was worth much more effort than he'd put into getting it.

  "Her father is ill. That was some medication I picked up for him, because he can't get out."

  He studied her for a moment before asking softly, "And who paid for it?" She colored, and he had his answer. "That's what I thought."

  "He can't go to work, so they can't afford his medicine. They'll pay me back."

  He doubted that, but he didn't comment. He made a gesture that took in the entire room. "And the rest of this, Caitlin? Who pays for it?"

  "A lot of it is donated. The video game, the dart board, the sodas. The furniture and the bar are mostly old junk we fixed up. I get some small donations, when some of the parents can afford it. And the Corderos, who own the little grocery store on the corner, they donate the cookies, chips and—" she grinned and pointed at his drained glass "—the ice cream."

  "You know," he said conversationally, "I've heard it said that some teachers actually take time off in the summer. To take trips, relax, regroup, recoup their energies for another year of keeping up with the little … scamps."

  Caitlin smiled, waving at the roomful of kids. "This is where my energy comes from," she said, her voice quiet but echoing with dedication. "As long as I can see just a tiny bit of good being done here, I can keep going."

  That it was only that, a tiny bit, was something Quisto managed to refrain from pointing out to her. If a tenth of these kids stayed away from the gangs, he'd be amazed. The culture was too entrenched, too accepted. He'd bet the majority of these kids still wound up in gangs before they hit sixteen, some a lot sooner. And of those, half would be dead, or so strung out on drugs that they might as well be dead, inside of two years. A lot of them would be in jail, and the rest would fight it out among themselves, until the few survivors got old enough to be absorbed by the Pack.

  Or killed by the Pack; the chances were, it seemed, about even on that score.

  "You don't believe in any of this, do you?" she asked, as if she'd read his thoughts.

  Quisto chose his words carefully. "I believe you have the best of intentions."

  Her mouth twisted wryly. "You sound like my father. He thinks it's hopeless."

  He wasn't sure he liked that comparison, but he couldn't deny that he tended to agree with the sentiment. "He doesn't like what you're doing?"

  "He says he appreciates what I'm trying to do, but he doesn't think it will work." She grimaced again. "He and my mother would both be happier if I would just come home and be their little girl again."

  "That's … understandable. This isn't the safest place for you to be."

  She looked at him for a moment. "You think it's useless, too, don't you?"

  "I think the odds are against you having much success, yes," he said.

  Her mouth quirked. "At least you're honest."

  "I will try never to lie to you, querida."

  Faint spots of color tinged her cheeks again. Quisto smiled, pleased out of all proportion by this evidence that she wasn't quite as cool and indifferent to him as she tried to appear. But she didn't react to the endearment; she just, Caitlin-like, got back to the subject.

  "But isn't any success at all worth it? Isn't one kid who walks away from the gangs, one kid who succeeds in getting out, worth any effort?"

  Quisto considered pointing out to her that walking away from the gangs in this neighborhood was as likely to get you killed as joining one was. But the earnestness of her expression forestalled him; he'd done enough today to try to make her face reality.

  "I suppose, as long as you have the energy," he said. "But it will eat you alive if you let it, Caitlin."

  She seemed surprised at even that much of a concession from him. Apparently to cover her disconcertedness, she hastened around to the back of the bar.

  "Want another float?"

  He shook his head, smiling. "My mouth says yes, but my waistline says no. With Chance on vacation, I'm being far too lazy."

  "Lazy?"

  "No racquetball."

  "Oh. You two play a lot?"

  "Not as much as we used to before he got married." He grinned at her then. "So now we play harder
."

  She smiled back at him, and again he was startled by how pleased that simple fact made him.

  "Who wins?"

  "We are, shall we say, about even. He's bigger, but I'm faster."

  She laughed, and he felt his own smile widen until he felt like one of the kids, delighted by her attention.

  "So, what was in the envelope?" he asked, trying to shake the ridiculous feeling.

  "Envelope?"

  "The one you gave the other kid. The older one."

  Suspicion flared in her eyes again. Quisto sighed. "Talk about assuming," he muttered.

  "I'm never sure when a cop stops being a cop. If ever."

  "Some don't," he said, "but I was just curious. Not cop-curious, just normal-person curious. He looked quite happy about it, whatever it was."

  She hesitated, then accepted his explanation. "It was his homework."

  Quisto blinked. "What?"

  "You heard me. He had to write an essay for school. I read it over for him. Neither of his parents write English, so I offered to help."

  "Oh." Then his forehead creased. "But it's summer."

  "And Pedro is in summer school. To improve his English, so he can get a job after school to help his parents." She gave him a pointed look. "He's one of the ones who can escape. He's bright, he's working hard, and he's determined. He'll make it."

  If he lives long enough, Quisto thought. But he didn't say it. He just asked, "Where did you learn your Spanish?"

  "I took years of it in school, but I don't think I ever really learned it until I got here. Keeping up with the kids, with how fast some of them talk, really teaches you in a hurry."

  "I'll bet," he said with a smile.

  He watched as a new wave of kids—more older ones, he noticed—hit the bar, laughingly demanding drinks, and making some disdainful comments about the lack of alcohol. This was a rowdier bunch, and Quisto kept a wary eye on them. He frowned when he saw a couple of familiar faces. He turned on his bar stool to survey the room again. A few more older kids had arrived while he and Caitlin were talking, and he recognized two more faces. A knot began to form in his stomach. Because he knew where he'd seen them before. Not in person, but in photographs.

  Mug shots. In a crime-warning flyer they'd gotten from Trinity West.

  * * *

  He had to sneak in and out of the station, since he was officially on a vacation day and didn't want to explain to anyone what he was doing, but he managed to surreptitiously make some copies on the machine in the administrative division, deserted at this late hour. Then he used the computer terminal there to pull up the Marina del Mar local files, then the county juvenile files, and came up with about what he'd expected. He copied that, as well.

  After a bare ten minutes, he was done, having managed to avoid seeing anyone except the janitor, who was hardly going to report his presence to anyone. He opened the outer door for the man, held it for him as he wheeled his cleaning cart through, and smilingly asked him how he was.

  "Hola, José. ¿Como le va?"

  "Bien, Señor Romero, bien. Gracias. ¿Y usted?"

  He answered with a thumbs-up, then hurried out before anyone else spotted him. He was behind the wheel of his car before the short exchange with José reminded him of Caitlin talking about where she'd really learned Spanish. His mouth twisted into a rueful grimace. Everything lately seemed to remind him of something to do with Caitlin.

  And Caitlin, he thought, wasn't going to be happy with what he'd found out tonight. His expression became grim as he started the car. He pulled out into the street, thankful that traffic was light after eleven o'clock.

  He'd had to do it, he told himself. If she didn't know what she was dealing with, she could wind up in danger. She had to be more careful. At least careful enough to keep that damned back door shut when she was in there alone. And to get her to do that, he had to convince her that the kids who came to the Zone weren't the harmless innocents she kept insisting they were. Hell, if one of them strolled in with a gun, she'd probably insist it was a toy, right up until he shot her with it.

  The image slammed into him with the force of a large-caliber bullet. He hit the brakes, then glanced around, in some part of his mind aware that he'd been lucky no one was behind him. Then he pulled to the side of the road, stunned by the impact the brutal vision of Caitlin lying dead in a spreading pool of her own blood had had on him.

  He sat there, trying to slow the slamming of his heart while he tried not to think about why the image had hit him so hard. It had been like that instant on the case where Chance had met Shea, that moment when he burst through a door to see Chance down, blood spreading beneath him. It hadn't been his, but the moment before he'd known that was etched on Quisto's mind with gut-wrenching clarity. Nothing had ever jolted him like that, before or since. Until now. And this wasn't even real, just his imagination gone haywire.

  He ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble on his jaw. He'd meant to go home, to figure out the best way to approach her with knowledge she wasn't going to want to hear. He'd meant to work out a tactful approach, a way to tell her what she was dealing with without making her mad at him, if that was possible. He'd meant to go back in the morning, maybe take her to breakfast, and discuss it calmly.

  But there was nothing calming about what had just flashed through his mind, nothing calming about picturing the glorious red-gold of her hair matted with blood, nothing calming about the thought of bright blue eyes gone glassy and lifeless, vacant of everything, including the trust that had killed her.

  He couldn't wait. He wouldn't wait. And he didn't care if she got angry at him. If he hurried, he might still catch her at the club. She didn't close up until eleven, and she'd said she had some paperwork to clear up, something about the city council and a complaint about her use of the building. As if it really mattered in this neighborhood, where the Neutral Zone was one of only three places open for an entire city block.

  He drove hurriedly, pulling into the alley behind the Neutral Zone when he arrived. The door was closed, he saw, but when he walked up to it he found it unlocked. He pulled it open without knocking, and saw a shaft of light spilling out across the floor from the open office doorway.

  He should, he told himself, sneak up on her and scare the daylights out of her. Maybe that would teach her to lock that blasted door. But the memory of that painful, bloody picture of her was too fresh, and his nerves were too raw. He couldn't do it. So instead, he called out her name.

  Seconds later, she appeared in the office doorway. She was still wearing her paint-flecked jeans, and those absurdly small white high-top tennis shoes on her feet, but she'd pulled a heavy sweatshirt over her T-shirt. The pale yellow sweatshirt was decorated simply with the logo of the Marina Heights Middle School. She had pulled her hair back into a ponytail with a yellow cloth band of some kind. She looked young, effervescent, energetic even at this hour … and very much alive.

  "Quisto? What are you doing back here?"

  "I just … wanted to talk to you. But I can wait until you're done."

  "I was just wrapping up. Come on into the office."

  He followed her into the lit room, which was bigger than he'd expected, a long rectangle about seven by twelve feet. At the end nearest the door, beneath an old schoolroom-style clock, was a desk, rather cluttered with a basic single-line desk phone atop an ancient-looking answering machine, a battered-looking rotary card file, some file folders, several loose scraps of paper, and a framed photograph of what appeared to be a slightly younger Caitlin and a good-looking young man with eyes nearly as blue as her own and a mop of hair nearly as blond as Gage Butler's. Perhaps Gage was wrong in thinking he wasn't Caitlin's type, Quisto thought sourly.

  She sat in the battered desk chair and began to put the file folders into a drawer. Quisto glanced around the rest of the office.

  A file cabinet sat beside the desk at a right angle, and next to that a narrow, four-foot-long table was placed against the long side wa
ll. It held a coffee maker, a small radio, a partial roll of paper towels, and a large stack of worn-looking books. At the other end of the office, opposite the desk, were a sofa and a small lamp table that barely fit along the narrower wall. On one arm of the sofa sat a pillow and a neatly folded blanket that made him twitchy; surely she didn't sleep here?

  Quisto had to stop himself from constantly looking back at the framed photo on the desk, wanting and not wanting to know who the man was at the same time. His irritation with himself put an edge in his voice.

  "You left the back door unlocked."

  She shrugged. "Sometimes one of the kids comes by after I close up the front."

  "So, naturally, you leave it open."

  "Don't worry, I lock it when I leave."

  "When you leave?" he yelped, that bloody image still too vivid in his mind. "Damn it, Caitlin, it's you you should be worried about protecting, not this … this…" For once in his life, words failed him, and he waved rather vaguely at their surroundings.

  She leaned back in her chair. "I've done it that way for a year, long before you ever wandered down here."

  "You've been lucky."

  She sighed audibly. "Are we going to fight about this again?"

  "We don't have to fight about anything, if you'll just see reason."

  "Meaning your way of looking at things? I don't think I'd like that."

  He raised one leg to sit on the edge of her desk, looking at her with an earnestness that wasn't at all feigned. "Then how about some plain common sense? Caitlin, you're here for the exact reason you should be more careful. Because this is a rough neighborhood. If it wasn't, there'd be no need for a place like the Neutral Zone."

  To him, the logic was infallible, but he was still a little surprised when she nodded in agreement.

  "Exactly. But if those kids think I'm afraid of them, then any chance I have to accomplish anything here practically vanishes."

  "And not being afraid of them could get you killed."