The Baby Cop. Roz Denny Fox

Smith had been labeled a badass from the age of seven. Ethan’s dad had booked the kid on counts of preliminary arson, fighting and petty theft. The boy’s alcoholic mother couldn’t handle him and didn’t want to. By the age of ten he was a ward of the court. Joseph and Elaine Knight were his fifth set of foster parents. After four years, the boy turned his life around. Already he had basketball talent scouts scoping him out. Ethan and his brother Jacob had taught Jeremy his first one-on-one at the hoop. Now Jeremy could cream either one of them or both at the same time.

      Ethan grinned as he parked in front of his house. If Regan Grant saw him take a drubbing at the hands of a fifteen-year-old, maybe she’d lighten up a bit.

      AT FOUR O’CLOCK the next day, Ethan, sweating like a racehorse and six points behind Jeremy, was about to ask for a water break when Regan Grant arrived for her appointment with Elaine Knight.

      Grant started to turn her silver Honda Accord into the driveway, apparently saw the players and backed out to park at the curb. She climbed from her vehicle, briefcase in hand, only to catch sight of Taz bounding toward her, tongue lolling out one side of his mouth.

      Ethan saw how fast Regan dived back into her car. Holding up a hand to halt Jeremy’s drive to the basket, Ethan snatched the ball and held it loosely against his right side. Was it just Taz, Ethan wondered, or did the woman have a thing about all dogs? “Jeremy,” he murmured, dropping his other hand on the boy’s bony shoulder. “The new CHC supervisor is here to talk to Mom. I think Taz makes her nervous. Could you shut him in the backyard?”

      A sullen frown marred Jeremy’s sweat-sheened brown forehead. “What’s she want here? Let’s sic Taz on her so she’ll go back where she belongs.”

      “Easy, kid. It’s a routine visit. Remember, Anna died before she could petition the court to let you change your name to Knight—after your birth mom nixed the folk’s adoption request. Maybe Ms. Grant will carry on where Anna left off.”

      Jeremy had a wonderfully sunny smile when he turned up the wattage. It broke free now as he hurried to take Taz as Ethan requested.

      Regan had leaned over the passenger seat and rolled the window down an inch. “I don’t know why you’re here, Detective Knight, but please restrain your dog. I have a four-o’clock appointment at this home, and I’m already late.” She fumbled in her briefcase and pulled out a card. “My appointment is with Elaine Knight. Oh.” She leveled her gaze on Ethan. “Is Elaine your wife?”

      Ethan laughed wickedly while blotting sweat from his brow. “Elaine is my mother. I’m not married,” he said, slanting her a glance to see if the news of his single status affected her. If it did, she covered well. He was almost disappointed. “Have you always been so skittish around dogs?” he asked bluntly.

      “Dog is man’s best friend. Not woman’s.” Regan peered up the driveway and in both directions along the street. “Is he gone or merely lying in wait somewhere?”

      Swiveling, Ethan saw Jeremy close the side gate and head toward them again. “Taz is confined, Ms. Grant.” Jogging across the driveway, Ethan assisted Regan from her car. “I’m no psychologist,” he murmured, feeling her arm tremble. “But you seem beyond skittish. More like phobic, I’d say.” He had a niggling urge to bedevil her. Bending close to her ear, he whispered, “Well, Ms. Grant, oh, great master of sociology and psychology, have you ever sought counseling for your problem?”

      She jerked from his hold so fast Ethan didn’t know exactly what he’d done wrong. But he felt bad for razzing her.

      “If you’re hoping to divert my attention and keep me from examining this foster placement, I assure you it won’t work. I found Jeremy Smith’s case history most interesting.” Squaring her shoulders, she started up the walkway.

      Curious, Ethan followed. “Interesting how?” he challenged. “Because of the way he’s done a one hundred percent turnaround in the time he’s lived with my parents?”

      Her hand raised to knock on the door, Regan glanced back, giving Ethan a cool look. “Interesting in that I watched students in this neighborhood get off the school bus a while ago. It made me wonder why you would place an African-American child in an all-white neighborhood.”

      Ethan, who’d just leaned forward for a better whiff of Regan Grant’s spicy exotic perfume, stopped dead. “What exactly are you trying to say? It doesn’t take an Einstein to note the marked decrease in Jeremy’s encounters with the law since he came here.” He glowered at Regan, then spun to see that Jeremy hadn’t heard her statement. Fortunately the kid had found another basketball and was practicing free throws.

      “You mean it never occurred to you that the boy might be intimidated at being ripped from his ethnic roots?”

      Ethan’s arm tightened on the ball he still held. Of all the things she might have taken him to task for—like the flouting of procedures or the nepotism angle—the battle she actually chose floored Ethan. Almost as suddenly as he’d tensed, he felt an urge to laugh. He couldn’t wait to see how she’d react when Jeremy set her straight.

      “Well, nothing to say for yourself, I see.” Regan again raised a fist to knock. “Those are the types of considerations trained social workers know to look for when deciding on placement. We take the whole child into account.”

      Ethan blocked her knock by reaching over her shoulder to shove open the unlocked door. “Mom,” he yelled. “I’m showing Ms. Grant into the living room. She’s here for your Family Assistance appointment.”

      “I like the foster families I work with to call me Regan,” she said while attempting to shut Ethan outside. “I’ll wait right here in the entry until Elaine comes,” she told him.

      Her obvious efforts to get rid of him didn’t deter Ethan. “In this house, Family Assistance appointments involve everyone, Regan. I see my dad has driven in. He’ll bring Jeremy.” Ethan’s smile was charming if not slightly provocative. “I’m so glad you want to use first names. Calling you Ms. Grant sounds so stuffy. And now you’ll call me Ethan, of course.” Taking her arm, he propelled her into a homey room that held two leather couches, each with a matching chair. A large beehive fireplace took up all of one corner next to an arched north-facing window, which let in the afternoon sunlight. Family pictures covered the largest wall and spilled over onto every available surface in the room. School photos, mixed with graduations, weddings and christenings. At least four school pictures of Jeremy hung among the others.

      Regan, who’d grown up in a divorced family, estranged from her mother all these years, found the Knights’ gallery fascinating. Her dad, who’d had custody of her, was a busy executive. Regan had spent her formative years in boarding schools. Summers she lived with Great-aunt Roberta, a terribly allergic soul who kept a pristine dust-free house. Possibly why Regan herself maintained an orderly apartment.

      Elaine Knight and her husband, Joseph, walked in together. Short and plump, yet still youthful-looking at fifty-eight and after bearing nine children, Elaine immediately noticed Regan’s interest in the photographs. She passed the coffeepot and plate of cookies she was carrying to her husband, who hadn’t changed out of his county sheriff’s uniform. Hooking an arm through Regan’s, Ethan’s mother proudly walked her through a family rundown.

      “Hey, cool, Mom. You made my favorite cookies,” Jeremy announced, lumbering across the living room in his untied size-thirteen sneakers.

      Elaine glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “There’s milk and juice in the fridge, Jeremy. I also left an entire plateful of cookies on the kitchen counter just for you.” Turning back to Regan, she said, “Otherwise the rest of us wouldn’t get any. My three older boys could take or leave raisin-filled cookies. Jeremy would have me make them three times a week.”

      Turning from the wall of photos, Regan set her briefcase on the coffee table. “I only see three boys in your family portrait, Elaine. Have you lost a son?” she asked softly, her eyes filled with sympathy.

      Elaine’s brow crinkled in consternation. “Why, no.