“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.” Eve held up her badge.
“You can’t arrest me for thinking about buying shackles and chaining my son to his bed for a nap, can you?”
“It’s probably not a smart thought to share with a cop.”
“I’m past smart. I have no brain left. This is day three of the kid with the cold from hell. Why, why can’t they fix a damn cold? I’d trade any technology for a cure.”
She gestured behind her to a boy of about six who sat on the floor surrounded by a junkyard of toys. His nose was a bright red beacon in a heavy-eyed face that nonetheless clearly projected the devious.
“He’s feeling better, and that’s my hell.”
“I want ice cream!” The boy shouted it and banged his heels on the floor. “I want ice cream!”
“You get nothing until after you take a nap.”
His answer was an ear-splitting scream.
“Take me in.” The woman held out her hands, wrists close. “Arrest me. Save me. They won’t take him back in school until tomorrow, and that’s only if I swear in my own blood, and I’m willing, that he’s not contagious. His father’s on a business trip, the lucky bastard.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Ice cream!”
On the scream, the boy hurled the toy closest at hand. Eve dodged the toy truck that missed the mother by an inch.
“That’s it!” The woman whirled. “I’m done. Sick or not sick, Bailey Andrew Landon, your butt’s about to be as red as your nose.”
Though Eve considered that a reasonable response, she put a hand on the
woman’s arm.
“Kid.” She pushed back her coat so her weapon came clearly into view. “You’ve just violated Code Eighty-two-seventy-six-B. You’ve got two choices. Go take a nap, or go to jail. There’s no ice cream in jail. No toys in jail, no cartoons on screen in jail. There’s just jail.”
The boy’s sleep-deprived eyes went huge. “Mommy!”
“There’s nothing I can do, honey. She’s the police. Please, Officer.” The mother turned to Eve, hands clasped as if in prayer, and with an almost insane grin on her face. “Please, give him another chance. He’s a good boy. He’s just tired and not feeling very well.”
“The law’s the law.” Eve aimed a hard, cold look at the kid. “Nap or jail.”
“I’ll take a nap!” He scrambled up and ran as if pursued by demons. Eve heard a door slam.
“I’ll be right in, baby,” the woman called out, then turned back to Eve. “If you take off your boots, I’ll kiss your feet. I’ll give you a pedicure. I’ll make you dinner.”
“Just answer a couple questions and we’re square.”
“We’ll never be square, but what do you want to know?”
“Clinton Frye.” Eve gestured across the hall. “When did you last see him?”
“Yesterday, about five, I guess. I had some food delivered because I can’t take Bailey out, and he was leaving.”
“Did he say where?”
“He doesn’t say anything. I haven’t had a conversation with him in the five years we’ve lived here. He’s not what you call neighborly.”
“Any trouble with him?”
“No. But I’m not surprised to find the police at my door asking about him. He just gives off that . . . vibe. I’ve never seen anybody visit, never seen him with a single friend.”