Free Moonbird Boy by Abigail Padgett Page A

the air-conditioning for a few minutes, watching Bird through a tinted window. The fine dark hair and blue eyes were Mort's, but the graceful, almost pointed ears and prim mouth must have come from the mother. Bird didn't look much like his father, Bo thought. At least not on the outside. But there might be other similarities invisibly locked in the boy's genetic makeup. Frowning, she tried to remember something she'd read about attention deficit hyperactivity disorder as a potential childhood warning for later psychiatric problems. Not in every case, but sometimes. And Mort had schizophrenia. His son's behavior might be a red flag demanding skillful handling as a hedge against what might lie ahead. Bo sighed and made a mental note to discuss schizophrenia with Eva. It would not, she admitted, be a fun chat.
    Her office smelled musty when she returned, its overwarm interior striped by shadows from half-open miniblinds she'd forgotten to close before she left. On her desk blotter was a tidy stack of pink phone memos, the top one from Billy Reno.
    "Per Reno there's no problem with Wagman estate, but there will be some delays. Phone Wagman atty. Reynolds Cassidy for details," the CPS message operator had written in pencil, giving a Los Angeles number.
    There was no comma separating the names, but that might have been an oversight. Bo dialed the number, unsure of whether to ask for Mr. Reynolds or Mr. Cassidy. Somehow getting it right loomed as a marker of her overall competence as a human being. Getting it wrong would constitute public evidence of stupidity and general unworthiness. In seconds she remembered where that strange scenario came from. Depression, again. It was like living in a poorly written play, she thought. A truly awful play with a title like Bleak Raspberries, and a minimalist set involving one uncomfortable black chair and a deep hole. Grinning, she determined to paint the scene, just to get even.
    "This is Bo Bradley from Child Protective Services in San Diego," she said when the phone was answered. "I have a message directing me to phone 'Reynolds, Cassidy' in regard to my client, Bird Wagman." Making it sound as if she were reading the name from a message memo removed personal responsibility. Depression was so tedious, Bo thought. And alien. She wished she were manic instead. That state was at least familiar and didn't involve a recurrent need to redeem the world from one's personal blunders through exhaustive manipulation of trivia.
    "Mr. Cassidy is in court at the moment. I'm his office manager. Perhaps I can be of help."
    Bo drew tiny scales of justice on the margin of her desk calendar while explaining Bird's situation to a young woman whose level of empathic engagement with the narrative suggested a failed career in acting.
    "Oh dear," she interjected sweetly. "Oh my... what a shame... how awful." Then when Bo had finished she said, "Mr. Cassidy is not at liberty to discuss any aspect of the case with you until you provide documentation establishing your agency's custody of the child. In the meantime you must provide this office with the current address and all other information pertaining to that child. And please extend to him Mr. Cassidy's sympathy for the tragic accident." She sighed contentedly as if just having read a difficult speech.
    "Accident?" Bo snarled as a comforting anger made her ears lie back. "Mort's lawyer thinks his death was an accident? Mort was murdered, lady, and now his little boy is stuck here until I can find any relatives Mort had. That's my job, and if Cassidy's withholding names of the family from me, then he's contributing to the pain and suffering of a helpless child. In California that's called child abuse, and he knows it! Now get that file and tell me if it contains anything I need to know." The speech was impressive, Bo thought, if a total fabrication. Cassidy didn't have to tell her anything, but the breathy office manager might not know that. In a minute the