I was drenched in sweat, which made the cool air-conditioning of the kitchen feel like a restaurant freezer.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Look at you, you’re soaked. Come on.”
I followed her through a carpeted hallway to a side room. One of several guest bedrooms. But there was no bed in it. There was a small desk, some boxes, and a large walk-in closet. Arlene disappeared into the closet and rummaged through the hanging clothes.
“I never had the heart to get rid of these clothes,” she said from inside the closet. “I gave away most of Arthur’s stuff, but there were a few things I just couldn’t part with. Here. This might work.”
She emerged holding a shirt and a pair of khaki pants. She also held a pair of bright yellow swim trunks.
“He was a little shorter than you, but these might work in a pinch. I didn’t keep any of his underwear, but I do have this swimsuit. He wore it during a family vacation in Key West the year before he died. Here.” She handed me the clothes.
“Arlene,” I said, taking the bundle. “What did the cops say?”
“After. Get out of those wet clothes. The bathroom is across the hall. You can wash up first.”
I followed orders and stepped across the hall to the bathroom. I stripped out of my sweaty clothes and ran cold water in my hands, rubbing it on my forehead and across the back of my neck. After the stale, fermented air of the boiling garage, the chilled water on my neck was almost baptismal.
The pants were a little short at the ankle, but the shirt fit fine. The swim trunks I now wore as underwear made faint rustling noises when I moved. I came out of the bathroom barefoot, carrying a bundle of my own sodden clothing. I found Arlene in the kitchen, setting down a glass of yellow-green liquid.
“Drink that,” she said. “It’s Gatorade. You need to replace your electrolytes.”
Only when I took the glass and started drinking did I realize how thirsty I was. I gulped the liquid like I had just crawled in from the Mojave. I saw Arlene scrutinizing my attire.
“They’re a little short, but not bad, all things considered.” She stepped around the kitchen’s butcher island for a better view of my ensemble. “Nobody’s worn those clothes in ten years. If I don’t look right at you, I can almost imagine Arthur standing here in my kitchen.”
I drained the glass and placed it on the breakfast bar. “He never saw this house, did he?” I asked.
She shook her head. “TJ was only twelve when he died. Arthur never saw his son’s success. This ridiculous house.” She held up her arms and gestured at the room.
“What did the cops say, Arlene?”
She opened the fridge and retrieved the half-empty Gatorade jug. “Nothing about TJ,” she said, pouring me a second glass. “Seems my nephew is in a bit of trouble.”
I took the glass and sipped, sensing there was more, waiting for her to continue.
“I assume that you already knew that, though.”
I nodded. “Is that what they wanted? To talk to you about the big scene on I-Drive today?”
“Sounds like it was quite a show.”
I clenched my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Arlene, I have a lot of questions for you.”
“Like what?”
I let out a breath. The pent-up questions shot out like machine-gun fire: “Like, who is this nephew? What’s he gotten himself into? Why has some hired goon been tailing me all over Orlando? How do I fit into it? Did the cops ask about me?” I took a small step toward her. “Why did you put me on your guest access list?” Another step. “Most important, where the hell is TJ?”
Arlene’s eyebrows went up. “Those are a lot of questions. Some have short answers and some have much longer ones. And some I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. But I’ll be happy to answer as many as I can.”
“Good. That’s good. Let’s start with TJ.”
“That’s a short answer. I have no idea where he is.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“No guess?” I said. “A hunch?”
“No.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Three days ago.”
“Here? In the house?”
“That’s right.”
“He was here, in the house, the day I had my seizure, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
I shook my head with new respect for Arlene Sommerset. She had lied as well as anyone I had ever interrogated, including professional street liars and Mafia-connected toughs trying to avoid a cellblock “accident.” She was as cool as any of them.
“We need to reach TJ,” I said. “As soon as possible.”
“I don’t believe TJ would commit suicide,” she said, leaning a hand on the kitchen island. “I don’t believe it.”
“Arlene. Please. Just let me talk to him.”
“I swear to you, I don’t know where he is. He packed his things three days ago and said he was going to find some solitude. He didn’t say where he was going or when he’d be back.”
“Can I get a message to him?”
“Only if he decides to call me.”
“I’m worried about his safety. He needs professional intervention. He needs to talk to a counselor.”
“You know,” she said, “for the record, he’s well aware that you’re looking for him. If he wanted to talk to you, he’d just pick up the phone.”
“If not me, have him call someone. A counselor. Please.”
Arlene turned her head absently toward the counter window, staring over the pool to the manicured lawn. She sighed.
“What are you going to do about your brain tumor?” she asked, still looking into the backyard.
The question caught me off guard. It took me a second to regain my bearings. “I don’t know.”
“Can it be treated?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. The odds aren’t good.”
She nodded to herself. “Mr. Garrity. You still have a lot of questions and I’m starting to get hungry. I get cranky on an empty stomach and that won’t be pleasant for either one of us. Let’s continue this conversation over dinner. My treat.”
“Okay.”
“But, please, go home and change first. Seeing someone else walking around in Arthur’s clothes is about to make me cry.”
CHAPTER 15
“Did you grab the wrong suitcase or something?” Jennifer said when I walked into the apartment. She eyed my outfit. “I mean, where’s the flood, dude?”
She and Gwen were on the living room floor reading the liner notes of the Boyz Life album I had given her. Gwen was an alert, big-eyed girl with midnight-black hair.
“Long story,” I said.
“Did you get the pictures?” Jennifer said.
“Yeah.” I produced a set of one-hour drugstore prints I’d picked up before arriving home. They featured Jennifer’s visit to the Global rehearsal studio this morning.
Gwen grabbed each one from Jennifer with increasing incredulity.
“Oh my God, Jenn. Look at you! Oh my God! Look, he’s holding your hand!”
“I told you,” Jennifer said.
Gwen sat up and looked seriously at me. “Mr. Garrity. You are, like, the coolest dad ever. No doubt.”
I exchanged a look with Jennifer, searching for validation of the opinion. She gave me a furtive look, embarrassed, awkward. But she didn’t roll her eyes and declare, Yeah, right. Which is exactly what she would have done a few weeks ago. I suppressed a smile and stepped into my bedroom.
Arlene suggested meeting at an Irish pub in Winter Park. I hadn’t been there in seven or eight years, but I knew it well. Dark wood, Guinness on tap. A crowd of mostly upwardly mobile young professionals and rich kids from nearby Rollins College. I rummaged through my closet looking for the right clothes, wondering what I should wear, suddenly aware that I cared.
I couldn’t remember the last time I was actually concerned about my wardrobe. Maybe when Cam and I wer
e still married. Definitely not since Bob arrived and I left the job. I grabbed a pair of Dockers from a hanger and stared at them.
Why did I suddenly care about what I was wearing? Was it for Arlene? This was by no means a date. Far from it. So why should my wardrobe matter? I suppose I wanted to look presentable to her. I pondered for another moment before exhaling and tossing the pants on the bed. It didn’t matter. Introspection has never been my strongest suit. Some primitive part of my brain was dusting itself off and exerting its influence. I decided to go with it.
After a quick shower, a collared shirt and sport coat finished the ensemble. I brushed my teeth and ran a razor over my chin. Jennifer promised not to leave the apartment or open the door for anyone. She and Gwen were making a frozen pizza and watching a movie. I nodded, wished them a good night, and locked the door behind me.
* * *
“Eddie is family, and you have to love your family, right?” Arlene rotated a half-empty bottle of Corona in a ring of its own condensation on the table. “Those are the rules.”
She was wearing a pair of beige slacks and a hunter green sweater twin set. She looked lovely and I was glad I’d put on the sport coat, the first time I had worn one since becoming unemployed.
“What kind of trouble is he in?” I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders and sipped her beer. “Who knows? He smoked a lot of pot when he was in high school. His mother told me he gambles. Bahamas. Vegas. Maybe some shady stuff, too. I honestly don’t know. It could be anything.”
“How close are Eddie and TJ?”
“Not very. Eddie’s a year older and they were buddies as kids, but they drifted apart the last few years. If you’re wondering if Eddie would know where TJ is, the answer’s no. And TJ wouldn’t call him. I’ve advised TJ to stay away from him.”
“Does your son always listen to his mom?”
“Mostly.”
“I think Eddie’s looking for him,” I said. “He was snooping around your house today, trying to get in.”
“Eddie’s a user. TJ has a big heart and Eddie’ll take advantage of him.” She tore a corner from her beer label. “I called Carol, Eddie’s mom. She has no idea where Eddie is. The cops have been to her place, too. She’s worried, but mostly she’s tired. This isn’t the first time she’s been visited by police looking for her son.”
“Eddie’s father is your husband’s brother?”
“Yes. Like I said, family.”
A blond waitress came by our table and delivered our entrées. We each ordered another drink.
“Has TJ helped Eddie in the past?” I asked. “Loaned him money?”
“Probably. I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Arlene had no idea who the thug in the Mustang was. She’d told the cops the same when they’d asked. She also denied knowing anyone with an old Ford pickup. I thanked her for covering.
“It was selfish,” she said. “I’ve changed my mind about you, Mike Garrity. As odd as it is to admit it, now I do want you to find TJ. I can’t believe that he would hurt himself, but … He wasn’t himself when he left the other day. He seemed withdrawn. Inside himself. I tried calling his cell phone but it’s off. He’s my only son. I need to make sure he’s okay.”
“Then I’ll need your help. If you have any guess where he could be, any information, if he calls, if you hear from Eddie, anything, I need to know about it. I don’t know how much time we have.”
“I’ll do what I can. He left three days ago. He was driving his Jetta.” She put her fork down, bit her bottom lip. “What about … Miguel? Doesn’t he know anything?”
I stopped eating, too. “No. He’s worried. He feels guilty for what happened.”
“Who else knew about them?”
“Not sure. Eli, definitely. A few close to him. Maybe a couple of others had suspicions. But they were very discreet.” I took a breath. “I’m sorry I had to tell you.”
“Don’t be. I didn’t know about Miguel, but I’m not surprised. I know TJ’s gay. We never talked about it, but I knew. A mother knows. He knows I love him no matter what. I just … want him to be happy.”
“I have a daughter. She’s fifteen. We haven’t always gotten along. Mostly my fault. But she’s TJ’s biggest fan.” I wasn’t sure why I was telling her this or what kind of response I expected. Arlene just nodded knowingly. “Why did you put me on the security list at Isleworth?”
Arlene considered and half smiled. “I knew you’d be back.” The crooked smile seemed to imply that she hoped I’d be back. What was happening here?
Arlene promised to call her sister-in-law and get me some names of Eddie’s friends. Maybe I could find him through some known associates. Maybe I could get some answers about Mr. Day-Glo in the blue Mustang. Maybe Eddie knew where TJ was. A lot of maybes.
I thanked Arlene for dinner and walked her to her silver Jaguar. She leaned against the driver’s door and crossed her arms.
“I’ve done some research,” she said. “I found some stuff on the Internet. If possible, surgery is almost always the first treatment option for brain tumors.”
“Mine is in a risky spot.”
“Risk is relative, Mike.”
“Good night, Arlene.”
“I’ll talk to Carol and call you in the morning.”
“Thanks again.”
I stood in the parking lot and watched her drive away, the red taillights flowing into a river of red taillights on Fairbanks Avenue. Across the street was a liquor store. I went inside and bought a bottle of five-year-old merlot.
I realized that, like Eddie, I had also become something of a user. The wine was a peace offering. A token of appreciation for favors both past and future.
* * *
Lydia Dupree was surprised to see me. It had been a few years. She stood wide-eyed, her hand on her mouth. She quickly recovered and embraced me there on the front stoop.
“Oh, Michael. How are you?”
“Good, Lydia. Really.”
“We’ve been praying for you.” Her dark eyes were moist.
“Thanks.”
She led me inside where Jim and the kids were watching a Magic playoff game on TV. The team had made a surprising push deep into the postseason. Jim saw me and stood, crossing the living room in three giant strides.
“Am I interrupting?” I said.
“Naw,” Jim said. “Jameer twisted his ankle and we just blew an eight-point lead. Game’s over anyway.” He eyed the bottle-shaped paper bag in my hand. “What’s this?”
“A bribe.”
“’Bout damn time.”
We sat at the kitchen table and I relayed the story of my afternoon, leaving out that I now possessed the goon’s .22 pistol. I did give Jim the Mustang’s license tag. He wasn’t personally working the Eddie Sommerset case, but he’d find out who was. Probably Orange County, not OPD. Jim would have to give the primary this info, but he’d see what he could run first and pass it along. He also promised to try to keep me out of it, saying he got a tip or something.
“I need to know who the Mustang’s working for,” I said. “What kind of mess I’ve stepped into.”
“I’m gettin’ that itchy neck, G,” Jim said, scratching the bristly hairs on the back of his neck. “Not good, bro. Not good.”
“I’m not ready to quit yet. I can’t. Not until I find the kid.”
Jim leveled a sausage-sized finger at me. “You’re lettin’ this get personal. What’re you, some kinda rookie? What’s the matter with you?”
“I know.” I rubbed my hands over my face. I was tired. It had been an eventful day.
Jim studied me, a sour twist on his lips. “You okay?”
“Yeah … tired. The doc has me on some pills that make me puke. That’s generally no fun.” I traced a finger along a knot in the polished wood grain of the table. “I had a seizure the other day.”
Jim was silent for a moment, his expression softening. Then he pushed his big body out of his chair and slapped
my shoulder. “C’mon. I’ll open the wine, make some popcorn. We’ll watch the fourth quarter and see what the Magic have left. There’s always hope for a miracle. Right?” He looked at me meaningfully.
“Sure.”
I squeezed onto the couch between the Dupree kids. Jim and Lydia reclined on the love seat. The adults drank the merlot, the kids had juice, and we all polished off the bag of microwave popcorn. For the first time today—for the first time in a long time—I felt myself really relax, emotionally and physically, nestled in the bosom of the Dupree family.
And the Magic came back and scored the game-winning shot on a desperate three-pointer, just as time expired.
CHAPTER 16
Gwen had left by the time I returned home. Jennifer was still awake, sitting at the desk in her room, tapping away on her laptop computer. The blue glow from the monitor cast her in an ethereal light.
“Hey,” I said, leaning against the doorjamb.
She looked up. “Hey.”
“What are you up to?”
“Nothin’. Just a chat room.”
“Chat room … What do you chat about?”
“Y’know. The usual. This one is for Boyz Klub fans. We talk about the new album. When concert tickets go on sale. Rumors like Holden dating Britney, before she got married. Stuff like that.”
I nodded, silently wondering how those subjects could possibly sustain any conversation, online or otherwise.
“Huh. That’s funny,” Jennifer said, crinkling her brow at the monitor.
“What?”
“I wrote that I met the band today, and that it was totally awesome. But I still want to meet TJ. Most of the other people in the room wanted to know details. Y’know, what they were wearing, are they really as cute in person … But this one is different.”
I crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed behind her, peering over her shoulder. “What do you mean, different?”
“Well, most of the people in this room are regulars. But this one is new. Klubhopper1. I’ve never seen her before.”
“Her?”
“Her. Him. I don’t know. I just say ‘her’ ’cause, y’know, it’s easier. This room is almost always girls. Anyway, she asked me to join her in a private room.”
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