She felt weak, was trembling ever so slightly. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so defeated in her life. Kovac just sat there quietly, watching her with sympathy in his world-weary face.
“I’d like to go home now,” Carey announced, pushing herself to her feet. “I need to rest up for the big scene.”
“You’re telling him tonight?” Kovac said, rising from his chair. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Why wait? I’ve waited too long as it is.”
Kovac gently caught her by the arm as she came around the desk, headed for the door. His touch surprised her.
“I can be right there for you,” he said, looking her straight in the eye.
And he meant it, Carey thought. This hardened street cop, who didn’t even like her, would help her through this if she asked. And she had no doubt that he would follow through. That was who Sam Kovac was-blunt, honest, reliable-and not for any reason other than he simply believed that that was the right thing to do.
“I really don’t want an audience,” she said.
“I’ll stay outside.”
Carey shook her head. “I already have two officers sitting out front. David is as aware of them as I am. He wouldn’t risk touching me. He has a whole other life to live for. I can guarantee you prison isn’t on his agenda.”
“I don’t want you to be alone,” Kovac said.
“Well, that’s what I’ll want to be-alone. Despite all recent evidence to the contrary, I prefer to cry in private.”
He didn’t like the idea at all. He wanted to protect her. What a lovely thought, someone looking out for her, someone to lean on, someone volunteering to shoulder the burden for her.
“I appreciate the thought,” she said. “I really do.”
“I don’t trust him, Carey.”
“Don’t worry. David is far too passive-aggressive to hurt me himself.”
“I want you to call me after,” Kovac said. He still had hold of her arm and stood close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek. Peppermint… and the faintest hint of scotch.
She arched a brow. “Drinking on the job, Detective?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, that little tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You drove me to it.”
“Well, then, I guess your secret should be safe with me.”
She took a step away from him, and he let go of her arm.
His expression turned serious. “Be careful. And call me. And remember: I can be there before you hang up the phone.”
Carey nodded. “Thank you… Sam. Thank you.”
She wanted to put her arms around him and hug him for being kind. Or because she wanted to feel strong arms around her, supporting her, protecting her. She felt so alone.
Instead, she thanked him again and went to the door. Lucy’s face lit up.
“Mommy, I learned how to arrest somebody.”
Officer Young smiled at her. “What do you say to the bad guys?”
Lucy put her hands on her hips and made her best mean face. “Assume the position!”
Carey chuckled. “We have to go now, sweetie. Thank Officer Young and Detective Kovac.”
Lucy said her thanks to the officer, then went to Kovac’s feet and looked up at him. “Thank you for holding my hand, Detective Kovac.”
Kovac leaned down and shook her hand formally. “You’re welcome, Fairy Princess Lucy. You can call me Sam.”
The little girl smiled, delighted. “I like you, Detective Sam. Will you carry me?”
“Lucy!” Carey exclaimed.
Kovac looked uncomfortable and slightly terrified. He glanced up at Carey.
“You don’t have to,” she said.
But when he looked back at Lucy, he couldn’t seem to say no. Lucy put her arms around his neck and sat in the crook of his arm, looking pleased as punch with herself.
“I’m going to pretend you’re a giant,” she said. She jabbered at him all the way to the car.
When he put her down on the sidewalk, he turned to Carey, his expression dead serious. “You call me, I’m there. Be careful.”
Carey nodded and slipped into the backseat of the Mercedes. All the way home, she thought of how much her father would have liked Sam Kovac.
29
“YOU PLACE KIDS in foster homes, you worry if the foster parents are just in it for the money or if it might turn out they’re abusive. You never think about some psycho killing them.”
Marcella Otis had been the Family Services caseworker for Wayne and Marlene Haas regarding their fostering of Amber Franken’s two children. Liska had arranged to meet her at a coffee shop on the Nicollet pedestrian mall just a few blocks from the police station. They sat at a sidewalk table, soaking up the glorious day, nursing their drinks, and talking. They probably looked as if they were just two ordinary women chatting about ordinary things. Only the people at the next table, who were quite obviously eavesdropping, knew better.
Ms. Otis was a sight to see. A woman of considerable substance in a neon green tunic and pants, an African-looking multicolored pillbox hat perched atop ropes and ropes of cornrows. She wore hip rectangular glasses and an abundance of silver jewelry.
“I was just sick when I saw it on the news. I’ll never forget that night. That terrible thunderstorm. Just waiting for a tornado to take the house. It seemed like a nightmare, but it was all too real. I remember everything turned green just before it hit, the sky, the air. Freaky.”
She closed her eyes and shivered at the memory.
“Had the kids’ father ever surfaced before the murders?” Liska asked.
“Ethan Pratt? Ha! That’s a good one. He had no more interest in those children than the man in the moon.”
“But I heard he’s suing the county for endangering them.”
Marcella pursed her lips and made a face. “He’s all interested now. Those kids are worth more to him dead than they ever would have been alive. That boy’s a damn coyote, picking at their bones. He’s making noise about suing what’s left of the Haas family too. Like those poor people haven’t been through enough tragedy.”
Liska nodded. “Yeah. I talked to Bobby Haas a little while ago. He’s been through more than any one person should go through in a lifetime. Finding Marlene and the two children. His own mother dying of cancer.”
“Cancer?” Marcella said, arching a brow.
“He told me Marlene Haas was his stepmother,” Liska said. “That his real mother died of cancer a few years ago.”
“If he was talking about the first Mrs. Haas, that’s just not true,” Marcella said. “The first Mrs. Haas was carrying laundry down to the basement, slipped, and fell down the stairs. She died of a broken neck.”
Liska sat back. “Why would he lie about something like that?”
“I don’t know. I guess you’d have to ask him. Maybe he just doesn’t want to think about one more person being snatched out of his life so suddenly.”
“Did you know that Mrs. Haas?”
Marcella nodded. “Rebecca. A very sweet lady with a big heart. She and Wayne were talking about taking on another child. I had just been to their home to speak with them about it a day or two before the accident.”
“You said if Bobby was talking about her,” Liska said. “Who else would he have been talking about?”
“His birth mother, I suppose.” She took a long sip of her chai latte.
“Bobby Haas is adopted?”
“Yes. Wayne and Rebecca took him on as their first foster child when Bobby was ten. They ended up adopting him. And now that I think about it, his birth mother didn’t die of cancer either. She committed suicide.” She fondled a chunk of biscotti while she pulled the memory up. “That’s right. She hanged herself.”
“Jesus,” Liska muttered.
“If I remember correctly, she was a seriously disturbed woman. Bobby Haas had gone through the tortures of the damned before he ever became Bobby Haas.”
“Does he have any history? Trouble in school? Trouble on the streets?”