The Baby Cop. Roz Denny Fox

      Lips pursed, Regan accepted the cup and sat. “Jeremy isn’t your son.”

      Joseph Knight, a big man who wore his uniform well, ran a hand through his full head of still-black hair. “He’s been our son for the last five years. And we’re as proud of him as we are of Matthew, Jacob and Ethan,” he said, reaching out a hand to catch Jeremy’s wrist. The gangly boy tumbled down on the couch beside him.

      “The folks wanted to adopt Jeremy,” Ethan said, passing Regan the plate of golden-brown cookies.

      “Really? I didn’t see mention of that in the file.” She bit into the cookie as she removed a folder from her briefcase and flipped through it.

      Ethan studied Jeremy a moment. The boy had begun to crack his knuckles. “Maybe Jeremy ought to supply the particulars.”

      “My mom…my real mom, she threw a royal fit. She don’t want me, but she don’t want nobody…uh…anybody else to adopt me. Mom and Dad Knight made me understand how she might not want to turn loose of me. And Anna…uh…Mrs. Murphy talked to her about me legally changing my last name to Knight. As kind of a compromise, she said. Anna was gonna file the papers, but then she died.”

      “You want to change your name?” Regan scribbled on the file. “I take it you’d like to live here permanently despite the racial incompatibility in the neighborhood?”

      “What racial incompatibility?” Elaine, Joseph and Jeremy said simultaneously.

      They looked so genuinely stupefied by her question that Regan, who choked on her cookie, turned to Ethan for clarification. He, in turn, deferred to Jeremy.

      “But…but all my friends are welcome here,” Jeremy blustered. “Besides, Tony Garcia lives three houses away. And Bill Washington’s on the next block.”

      Joseph Knight leaned thick wrists on his knees. “Either Ethan or I take Jeremy to the Boys’ Club once a week to mingle and play basketball. The school he attends is nicely integrated. And our daughter Erica has an adopted Vietnamese daughter.”

      Regan held up a staying palm. Yet it was to Ethan that she looked when she stammered out an apology. “I’m sorry. But…but…such issues matter in some placements. Jeremy is obviously happy here and quite well-adjusted.” She closed the file, tucked it into her briefcase and snapped the locks. Rising, she thrust a hand toward Joe and then Elaine. “Those cookies were the best I’ve ever tasted. I don’t blame Jeremy for wanting them three times a week.” Regan extracted a business card from her purse and passed it to Elaine. “If you share recipes, I’d love a copy.”

      Ethan’s mother beamed and so did he. His dark eyes roamed over Regan’s face and settled on her lips, where a cookie crumb still clung. He tucked the fingers of both hands into his pants pockets to keep from dusting off the crumbs. “Before I leave today,” he blurted, “I’ll write the recipe out. I’ll drop it by your office tomorrow.”

      Surprised and flustered by his generosity, Regan stammered her thanks. Then she remembered he didn’t travel anywhere without that huge dog. “Uh, don’t put yourself out,” she said in a changed voice. “I prefer my staff not deal with personal business on company time. I need to set a good example. Jeremy,” she said abruptly, careful not to glance toward Ethan. “I’m also giving you one of my cards. I’ll follow up on your name-change request. But should you ever need me for any reason, I want you to feel free to call. My home number is the second one.”

      Almost before Ethan got over the sting of her obvious rebuke, she’d gone. All that lingered in the room where he stood alone, the others having trailed her to the door, was a cloud of her perfume. He sniffed the air, telling himself he didn’t give a damn what made Regan Grant run hot and cold. Only, the heightened beat of his pulse told a different story.

      “Too bad she doesn’t conduct personal business at the office,” Ethan muttered under his breath as he made his way to the kitchen, determined to copy his mom’s raisin-filled cookie recipe. He found a pencil, then dug the recipe out of a gaily flowered box and sat on one of the counter stools. As he painstakingly listed ingredients, Ethan groaned. He could well imagine what rumors would fly if the guys at the station ever got wind of this. A detective trading recipes. He’d never hear the end of it.

      CHAPTER THREE

      OFFICE MACHINES hummed and staff chattered around Regan as she unloaded file folders from her briefcase and stacked them on the counter.

      “Are you completely finished with these, Ms. Grant?” a young clerk asked. “I can tag them for holding if you think you’ll be using them again.”

      “I’ve dictated follow-up reports on this batch. I can’t see any reason to keep them out. Oh, wait.” Regan thumbed through the stack and removed the file on Jeremy Smith. “The foster family for this young man said Anna planned to petition the court for a change of Jeremy’s last name. Is there a second file or some other record of how far along his request has gone?”

      “I’ll check. I shouldn’t be long.” The clerk—Abby, according to her name tag—took the file and disappeared into the record room.

      A caseworker who’d been talking with two colleagues broke away from the group and approached Regan. “Last night I received calls from two of our foster parents. Both felt unprepared for your impromptu visits yesterday.”

      Regan tapped her fingers on the counter. “I gave everyone the standard two-hour notice. Some families actually had more than two hours, because I phoned everyone before I left the office. Nothing was out of order. Why would they feel a need to complain, I wonder?”

      Terry Mickelson leaned on the counter and lowered her voice. “I didn’t mean to imply they’d complained. More like they…sounded curious. Perhaps you weren’t aware that Jennifer Layton and Erica Barnard aren’t run-of-the-mill foster moms.”

      “No?” Regan began to feel she’d stepped on a tread-mill somewhere that had no off switch. “What are they, then?”

      “They only accept kids through a temporary urgent-care safe-home section of the program instituted by Anna and Ethan, you know.” She smiled and gave a dainty shrug.

      Regan crossed her arms. “I’m afraid I don’t know. Enlighten me, please. By Anna and Ethan, I assume you mean my predecessor and Detective Knight of the Desert City PD.”

      “Uh…yes.” Terry glanced worriedly across the room at her friends who’d stopped talking to listen. The office fell silent enough to hear the tick of the wall clock. “Our records probably don’t indicate that Jennifer and Erica are Ethan’s sisters. Jen is a commercial artist who works out of her home. As does Erica. Work from home, I mean. She’s a CAD engineer. Computer aided design,” Terry supplied when Regan lifted one eyebrow.

      “Detective Knight’s sisters? I don’t believe that came up in our conversations. We briefly discussed their occupations. Relative to how they combine full-time careers with providing state-supported child care. Like I said, they passed admirably.” Regan allowed a smile for the first time. “In fact, I wish there was a way to videotape one of their average days to use as a training film for prospective foster parents. It’s a shame they only provide temporary urgent care for us.”

      Terry relaxed a body grown tense. “Erica and Jenny are great, aren’t they? Mostly I think their concerns stemmed from the fact that you seemed to single out their family for review. Elaine Knight is their mother. Lexie Knight’s a sister-in-law, and Jessica Talbot is a first cousin. I believe that today you’re scheduled to see Melissa Fogerty and Elizabeth St. George, two more of Ethan’s sisters.”

      “As they all seem to be related, I suppose it does appear I’ve chosen to pick on the Knights.” Regan raised her voice enough so that the staff straining to hear could do so without effort. “I’m planning to review all families who came into our program unconventionally. The people you named and some whose files I still have in my office skipped the application