Free Little Lamb Lost by Margaret Fenton Page B

record was two floors below me and I didn’t
know. How was the state office going to react to that one? Why in the hell
hadn’t I run his background check two years ago?
    Time to go see Danessa. I took the chart
with me up the stairs to the third floor and made my way to the perimeter of
the foster care unit’s area. She, too, had a window office with a plate glass
front that overlooked cubicles in the middle, just like Mac’s. Hers was more
cheerfully decorated, with plants and jazz concert posters.
    Danessa sat behind the large desk. She
was in her late forties, and I speculated she was getting close to the magic
twenty-years-of-service mark. A lot of our long-timers left at that point,
since they could draw full retirement from the State. She had soft black hair
that rested on her shoulders, a few gray threads visible. Crows’ feet and laugh
lines stood out like wood grain in mahogany. A pair of half-moon reading
glasses balanced on her nose. She had a boisterous personality and a lot of
spirit. I wouldn’t have minded being in her unit, come to think of it.
    She was writing something, but stopped
when she saw me in the doorway. “Claire! What you up to, girl?”
    “Can I interrupt for a sec?”
    “Sure, come on in.”
    I stepped in and closed the door, then
took a seat in the burgundy metal-framed chair in front of her desk.
    She asked, “How have you been? I heard
about that case of yours.” Funny how no one used the word “death.” Like it was
bad luck or something. Like saying Macbeth in a theater.
    “Yeah. Michael.”
    “You afraid they’re gonna make you a
scapegoat?”
    She didn’t mince words, so neither did
I. “Yep.”
    “Fight for it, girl, you hear? If you
don’t want to leave, don’t let them make you.”
    “I’ll try.”
    “Not good enough. You’re too good to go
someplace else. If you want this job, make sure you keep it.”
    The pep talk cheered me a bit. “Thanks.”
    “What can I do for you?”
    “I wanted to pick your brain about a
case from thirteen years ago.”
    She hooted. “Girl, you know I can’t
remember what happened last week, but I’ll try.”
    “The Mackey case. The little girl was
seven. You did two abuse investigations in the same year. Bruises. Dad was the
perp. He wound up moving out and the court ordered him to have no contact. Ring
a bell?”
    She thought back, her faraway gaze on a
framed Wynton Marsalis poster. “Oh, yeah,” she said slowly. “Al. Little girl
was Heather. Smart kid. Pretty, too. Lots of wispy black hair, just like her
momma. Only child, thank God. He was a drunk.”
    “That’s him. I don’t suppose he was ever
prosecuted?”
    “ ’Course not. The mother didn’t
want Heather to testify against her own father, and he probably wouldn’t have
done much time anyway. Wasn’t worth it to the D.A. Why? What’s his sorry ass
done now?”
    “My kid that died? He was his
stepgrandfather.”
    “Oh, crap. You think he had something to
do with it?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Your kid OD’d, right? On mamma’s
drugs?”
    “He OD’d. I’m not sure the drugs were
mamma’s.”
    “Al’s MO was more smacking them around.
If your boy —”
    “Michael.”
    “If Michael had been beaten to death, then
I’d be suspicious for sure. Is Al doing drugs?”
    “I don’t think so. He’s still a drunk,
and a gambler.”
    “Nice.”
    “No kidding. Thanks for the info.”
    “Hang in there, kid. And remember what I
said.”
    “I will.”
    I returned the file to Dolly in the
basement and went back to my cubicle to get my things, where I literally ran
into Michele.
    “There you are. I was looking for you.
You want to go to lunch?”
    “Thanks, I’d love to, but I’ve already
got plans.”
    I headed north a few blocks to the Top
of the Hill Grill. The restaurant squatted on a small rise of ground near the
Convention Center, and was walking distance from the courthouses and towering
financial institutions downtown. It was a popular lunch