Love by Association

She’d applied for a position on the Santa Raquel police force, as well as with the High Risk team developed by The Lemonade Stand—a unique women’s shelter right there in Santa Raquel. The place where Meri Bennet—wife to Chantel’s close friend, Max Bennet—had run when her ex-husband, a Las Vegas police detective, had threatened the lives of her husband and young son.

In the time since Meri’s rescue from the hands of a madman, Chantel had not only grown to know her, but to consider her one of her closest friends.

When she thought about what would have happened to her if Max hadn’t been so adamant that his wife was in trouble...if Chantel hadn’t loved him enough to have enlisted Wayne’s help...

The captain tapped the table. “So, I’ve read the reports. We’re all on the same page here, and unless I hear from Stanton that we have a problem, I’ll expect normal reports on this sting until otherwise noted.”

“Yes, sir.” As a beat cop, Chantel wasn’t used to sitting down for one-on-one conversations with a department captain.

She wasn’t used to hobnobbing with the rich and famous, either. She hoped, during her debut that evening at the auction being hosted to benefit some art foundation, that she wasn’t as tongue-tied and awkward as she felt right then.

The captain seemed to have dismissed them, but he was still sitting there. And until he stood, she couldn’t. “I just have one question...”

“Yes, sir?” Wayne answered for the two of them.

“This collage thing... You don’t think this is overkill? The department’s money, going undercover, working your ass off for no compensation because some kid pasted pictures on a board during art class?”

“The boy’s father has a sealed juvenile record, sir,” Wayne said, immediately pointing out the information they’d found when they’d started asking questions about the wealthy, respected and well-known Morrison family, who lived just a few miles from them in nearby Santa Barbara.

“I understand. He hit his younger brother with a baseball bat.”

“The boy died.”

“That was more than forty years ago. Plus, as we’ve already said, the record was sealed.”

“Hospital records show that Mrs. Morrison is accident-prone.” Wayne was all business as, in his suit and tie—daily attire for him now—he sat forward, facing the captain.

“I understand. She’s not the only woman who appears to suffer from the malady. Believe me, I want domestic violence to stop. I don’t want anyone to suffer abuse at the hands of loved ones. I’m just trying to understand, between you and me, why we’re going to all this trouble because of a collage.”

Wayne looked at her, and Chantel found her tongue.

“The artist who works in the schools doing collages with students, Talia Paulson, volunteers at The Lemonade Stand, sir. She has now had formal training in domestic violence counseling. She works with all students, but part of her purpose is to read the collages, as a way to pinpoint problems students might be having that the adults in their lives are either unaware of or not tending to.

“Anger issues, self-concept issues, grief... It all comes out not only in the photos these kids choose, but in organization and color expression, too.”

She had Captain Reagan’s full attention now. And though she felt like a bug under his microscope, she respected the man and needed his buy-in.

Not to do the job. The project was already approved. But for her own sense of...she didn’t know what.

“Ryder Morrison is a straight-A student in a well-touted private school. He also used to be a star swimmer and was damned good at surfing, too. In the past year, he’s become withdrawn. Never wanting to leave home, or seemingly leave his mother’s side. Talia was called in. What she saw in Ryder’s collage alarmed her to the point that she called the High Risk team immediately.”

“I read the report,” Reagan said. “What was in the collage? That’s what I’m asking.”

“Baseball bats. A series of them, hidden among a collection of surfboards, sticking out of the leg of a pair of swim trunks, as a tattoo on a businessman’s arm. The bats were all small, and all black. The other thing that stood out was a collection of ads—all women selling house-cleaning supplies like furniture polish and floor wax. They also were spread throughout the other clear interest groupings. All of those were rimmed in red and purple. Colors that typically signify love and blood. Bruising. There were other things, but those were the most standout. Talia was alarmed and called us. Wayne checked it out and found not only that Mrs. Morrison was prone to being hurt—bruised—but that Mr. Morrison had had an episode with a baseball bat...”