face…
The photo wasn’t from one of his staged appearances; she suspected it had been taken with a telephoto lens, as he strode away from a crime scene. He was listening to something another man beside him was saying. His head was cocked slightly and he’d been frowning, more as if he was concentrating than annoyed. His face was…harsh. It might be the seemingly permanent furrows between his dark eyebrows and on his forehead that aged him. She’d had the probably silly idea that he could have been a seventeenth-century Calvinist minister—unbending, judgmental, yet unswervingly conscious of right and wrong.
Those Calvinist ministers probably hadn’t had shoulders like his, though, or the leashed physical power that his well-cut suits didn’t disguise.
So, okay, she’d never heard anything to make her doubt his integrity, but that still begged the question: why in heck was he interested in Tito Ortez?
On the notepad, she circled his name. Twice.
She would most definitely be finding out what he had to do with a rather ordinary boy whose father was about to be released from prison.
“SEE IF YOU CAN MATCH that shot,” Duncan taunted, bouncing the basketball to the boy. He used the ragged hem of his T-shirt to wipe sweat from his face as he watched Tito move into position inside the free throw line and concentrate fiercely on lining up his shot. It was probably too far out for him; he was small even for his age and his arms were scrawny, but he didn’t like to fail, either. Duncan had come to feel a reluctant admiration for his determination.
He bent his knees, the way Duncan had taught him, and used his lift to help propel the ball when he released it from his fingertips. It floated in a perfect arc and dropped through the hoop, barely ruffling the net.
“Yes, yes, yes! ” Tito did a dance, and Duncan laughed.
“Very nice.” He held up his hand for a high five, and the boy slapped it. “I’m being too easy on you.”
“I’ve been practicing,” Tito admitted. “It stays light so late. Now that I have my own ball.” Duncan had given him one. “There’s hardly ever anyone here in the evening. I have the court to myself.”
They played soccer, too, and Tito was better at that, but for reasons mysterious to Duncan the boy was determined to become an NBA-quality basketball player. His father, he had admitted, was only five foot nine, and his mother was little—he’d held up a hand to estimate, and Duncan guessed Mama wasn’t much over five foot tall—but he was going to be bigger than his father. He was sure of it. And he could be a point guard—they didn’t have to be as tall, did they?
No, but Duncan suspected that six feet tall or so was probably a minimum even for the high school team. Still, Tito was only twelve, and who knew? He might have a miraculous growth spurt. No matter what, he might excel in PE, and being good at anything could make a difference to him right now.
Besides…they were enjoying their occasional evening hour or Sunday afternoon on the concrete basketball court behind the middle school, or on the soccer field. Duncan often suggested pizza afterward, or sometimes a milk shake. Tito was slowly opening up to him, although Duncan was still unclear why he lived with his sister and where his parents were. He occasionally wondered uneasily whether the family might be here illegally; perhaps the parents were around, but avoiding the cop who was inexplicably befriending their son. He couldn’t be sure and had decided from the beginning that he wouldn’t go out of his way to find out.
Looking cocky, Tito passed the ball to him. Duncan drove in for a layup, easily evading the boy’s feint at him. Tito tried to copy the move and thumped the ball against the backboard nowhere near the iron hoop. Scowling, he retreated and tried again, and again.
Duncan’s cell phone rang. Irritated, he jogged over to where he’d
The photo wasn’t from one of his staged appearances; she suspected it had been taken with a telephoto lens, as he strode away from a crime scene. He was listening to something another man beside him was saying. His head was cocked slightly and he’d been frowning, more as if he was concentrating than annoyed. His face was…harsh. It might be the seemingly permanent furrows between his dark eyebrows and on his forehead that aged him. She’d had the probably silly idea that he could have been a seventeenth-century Calvinist minister—unbending, judgmental, yet unswervingly conscious of right and wrong.
Those Calvinist ministers probably hadn’t had shoulders like his, though, or the leashed physical power that his well-cut suits didn’t disguise.
So, okay, she’d never heard anything to make her doubt his integrity, but that still begged the question: why in heck was he interested in Tito Ortez?
On the notepad, she circled his name. Twice.
She would most definitely be finding out what he had to do with a rather ordinary boy whose father was about to be released from prison.
“SEE IF YOU CAN MATCH that shot,” Duncan taunted, bouncing the basketball to the boy. He used the ragged hem of his T-shirt to wipe sweat from his face as he watched Tito move into position inside the free throw line and concentrate fiercely on lining up his shot. It was probably too far out for him; he was small even for his age and his arms were scrawny, but he didn’t like to fail, either. Duncan had come to feel a reluctant admiration for his determination.
He bent his knees, the way Duncan had taught him, and used his lift to help propel the ball when he released it from his fingertips. It floated in a perfect arc and dropped through the hoop, barely ruffling the net.
“Yes, yes, yes! ” Tito did a dance, and Duncan laughed.
“Very nice.” He held up his hand for a high five, and the boy slapped it. “I’m being too easy on you.”
“I’ve been practicing,” Tito admitted. “It stays light so late. Now that I have my own ball.” Duncan had given him one. “There’s hardly ever anyone here in the evening. I have the court to myself.”
They played soccer, too, and Tito was better at that, but for reasons mysterious to Duncan the boy was determined to become an NBA-quality basketball player. His father, he had admitted, was only five foot nine, and his mother was little—he’d held up a hand to estimate, and Duncan guessed Mama wasn’t much over five foot tall—but he was going to be bigger than his father. He was sure of it. And he could be a point guard—they didn’t have to be as tall, did they?
No, but Duncan suspected that six feet tall or so was probably a minimum even for the high school team. Still, Tito was only twelve, and who knew? He might have a miraculous growth spurt. No matter what, he might excel in PE, and being good at anything could make a difference to him right now.
Besides…they were enjoying their occasional evening hour or Sunday afternoon on the concrete basketball court behind the middle school, or on the soccer field. Duncan often suggested pizza afterward, or sometimes a milk shake. Tito was slowly opening up to him, although Duncan was still unclear why he lived with his sister and where his parents were. He occasionally wondered uneasily whether the family might be here illegally; perhaps the parents were around, but avoiding the cop who was inexplicably befriending their son. He couldn’t be sure and had decided from the beginning that he wouldn’t go out of his way to find out.
Looking cocky, Tito passed the ball to him. Duncan drove in for a layup, easily evading the boy’s feint at him. Tito tried to copy the move and thumped the ball against the backboard nowhere near the iron hoop. Scowling, he retreated and tried again, and again.
Duncan’s cell phone rang. Irritated, he jogged over to where he’d
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