Free Minor in Possession by J. A. Jance

herself, hurried inside.
    â€œMother, Mother,” Jennifer wailed, letting loosea cloudburst of noisy sobs. She clambered off the couch and raced toward her mother, catching Marsha Rothman in a desperate tackle as the woman started across the room.
    â€œJoey’s dead,” Jennifer whimpered, burying her face in her mother’s woolen skirt. “Joey’s dead.”
    â€œI know.”
    Marsha Rothman’s usually unemotional face was distorted by her own grief. Distractedly she placed both hands on Jennifer’s heaving shoulders. “Where’s Daddy?” she asked.
    Jennifer sobbed all the harder and didn’t answer.
    Feeling like an eavesdropper, I followed Jennifer across the room and stood waiting for the two of them to notice me. Melting mascara had left muddy tracks on Marsha’s pallid cheeks. Her skin had the leathery look of someone who has spent years in search of the perfect tan, but now there was no trace of color in her skin. She looked pale, gaunt almost, but not a lock of her perfectly sculpted haircut was out of place.
    I was only a few feet away, but she didn’t see me. I didn’t necessarily like the woman, but at a time like that, personal preferences don’t mean much. Marsha Rothman’s stepson was dead, and I would do whatever I could to help.
    â€œI’m sorry about Joey,” I said quietly, wanting to let her know I was there without startling her.
    Despite my cautious tone, Marsha Rothman jumped when I spoke but regained her composure. My words of condolence seemed tostrengthen her somehow. She swallowed and stiffened.
    â€œThank you,” she answered formally. “Thank you very much. Do you have any idea where I could find my husband?”
    â€œHe went down the hall,” I told her. “Probably into Louise Crenshaw’s office. The detectives have been using that for a base of operations.”
    She nodded and then looked down at the weeping Jennifer, who still clung to her mother’s waist. “I’ve got to go, Jennifer,” Marsha said, trying to disengage herself. “Can you stay here with Mr. Beaumont?”
    Jennifer shook her head and held on even more desperately. “Don’t leave me, Mother. Please don’t leave me. Can’t I come too? Please?”
    Marsha’s answer was firm. “No, Jen. I have to go be with Daddy. You have to wait here.”
    One clutching finger at a time, Marsha pried loose Jennifer’s grasping hands. There was no anger in the gesture, but nothing very motherly either, no caring, warmth, or comfort, just a practiced indifference. I caught myself wondering if maybe Jennifer was right. For whatever reason, maybe Marsha really had liked Joey Rothman best.
    Sobbing and bereft, Jennifer allowed herself to be handed over to me while Marsha paused only long enough to straighten her skirt and give her hair a superficial and unnecessary pat before walking away. As she left, Marsha Rothman didn’t favor Jennifer with so much as a backward glance.
    I picked up the weeping child and held her, letting her bury her head against my shoulder while I rocked back and forth. I held her for some time, listening to her cry, watching the pelting rain falling outside the windows, and wondering how the hell to ease the hurt she was feeling. Suddenly, I caught sight of Shorty Rojas. Slouched under a huge yellow slicker, he rode past the ranch house on an ancient plodding gray horse. Behind him he led a wet string of bridled but unsaddled horses. It was a heaven-sent but guaranteed diversion.
    â€œLook at all the horses,” I said, pointing out the window with one hand while boosting Jennifer off my shoulder with the other. “Would you like to go outside and see them?”
    It worked like a charm. Little girls and horses are like that. Jennifer’s sobbing stopped instantly. “Could we? Really? Maybe I could even ride one.” Then, just as suddenly, her face fell