"It shouldn't be much of a load," he said as he ate his dry toast-butter was fattening. "Why would all that junk be abandoned in the first place if it was worth a plugged nickel?" Heads were shook at his ignorance, followed by a slew of reminiscences of priceless bargains discovered in obscure places. Dean had to admit-never out loud-that Fred O'Connor was far ahead in this junk collecting game. It simply proved the adage there was one born every minute, especially when it came to Internet shoppers. A phone call excused him from hearing more of the robust bragging. While Dean planned to again call the state agencies in an attempt to run down Martha, he didn't have to wait. A tired voice asked for him by name.
"Your message came up to the surface," the woman said after identifying herself as a state worker and named a department he didn't catch.
Dean explained, as succinctly as possible, their concern for this child who'd spent six months in their care. The woman listened patiently, or so Dean assumed by her silence. When he was finished, the quiet continued to the point where he wondered if she were still on the line. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked away the seconds and chimed.
"So you're not even official foster parents?"
"No, but that doesn't mean-"
"Look, the mother always has primary rights in these cases. She may be a first class bitch-but if there isn't a legal custody fight or the child isn't reported in danger or grossly neglected, it's none of our business."
"I know that, but Martha said she'd telephone-we even gave her a calling card-and we haven't heard a word from her."
"Kids," the woman said, as if that answered all the questions plaguing Dean's mind. Now Dean was silent. The woman let out her breath, as if exhaling a cigarette. "Do you want to hear the sugar-coated-whipped-cream-on-top version or the truth?"
"The truth."
"We've got a few thousand kids in real danger of immediate, physical harm. How much time do you suppose we're spending on a case where as far as we can tell no one is in harm's way whatsoever?"
"How do you know that?" Dean asked.
"Because there's nobody standing in front of this desk screaming at me to do something, that's why. Look, I can sympathize with you, but there's nothing I can do, at least not yet."
He thanked her and she promised to keep the file on her desk, just in case. She didn't say just in case of what.
Dean felt compelled to do something even if he didn't know what. He could call the Cañon City prison and speak with another answering machine, or if he was lucky, another tired bureaucrat with no answers. He could lie and tell them he was a police officer or sheriff and maybe squeeze some tidbit of information about recently released mom Patsy, but surely Fitzgerald would find out and tank his election ambitions, if those aspirations weren't already six feet under.