Imperfect Daddy

by Gregg E. Brickman

  "No, Sweetie, but I did bring you a present." I handed her a gift I purchased at Disney World. "I figured you and Barbie needed matching necklaces." I dug in my purse. "And here's a picture of Mikey with Mickey Mouse."

  The woman, no doubt feeling helpless to stop the visit, said, "You might as well have a seat. Amber has been asking about those folks who moved to Orlando." She pointed to the living room. "Go on in there. None of the other children will bother you."

  Amber and I sat side-by-side in a huge worn chair. When she finished quizzing me about the trip to Disney, I said, "I need to ask you a couple of questions. Is that okay?" After she agreed, I continued, "What name did you go by in school?"

  "Amber Lillian Pyle."

  "What was your name before?"

  "My name was always Amber Lillian. It's the same name as my mommy."

  "What's your real father's name?"

  "Daddy."

  I wondered if she was being deliberately obtuse. I had thought Amber was a bright child. Being the adult in the conversation, I decided to simplify the questions and maybe get somewhere. "What did mommy call your daddy?"

  "Asshole."

  "Amber, I mean his first name. What was his first name? Do you know?" I felt exasperated.

  I saw her grin and knew she had done it on purpose.

  "Tell me," I said.

  "Jack." She drew it out, southern style.

  "Jack," I repeated, "or are you saying Jake?" I was thinking Chief Jake Ervin.

  "Jack." She duplicated her original intonation.

  I was no smarter, but I was starting to think I'd been wrong in my assumptions.

  I took a few minutes to confirm with Amber that Poppy was Pyle and Daddy was her father. She said she didn't want to live with her daddy, because he was mean and would hurt her a lot. Amber knew Pyle adopted her

  "Miss Sophia, my poppy doesn't hurt me. Poppy loves me." Amber smiled and hugged herself.

  "I'm glad to hear that, Amber. I talked to your poppy, and he told me the same thing."

  "You saw Poppy?" She bounced in the chair. "When is he coming to get me? I'm going to live with Poppy. He'll take care of me. I won't have to live here anymore."

  I didn't comment, not wanting to give false hope of rescue from foster care. I put my arms around her shoulders and pulled her close.

  Before I left, Amber asked about Kathleen and claimed to understand why she couldn't live with her until Poppy came to get her. Then she asked if I would come back and see her again.

  "If Mrs. Doran will allow me to visit, I'd like to come." I saw Mrs. Doran in the doorway and wondered how much of my interrogation she had heard. "Ma'am?" I said.

  "We'll see," Mrs. Doran said, then she touched Amber's cheek. "Sweetie, hurry up with the other girls and get ready for bed."

  "Yes, ma'am." Amber ran from the room.

  Mrs. Doran glared at me—or was it my guilty conscience? "Did you find out what you wanted to know from her?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "You sound more like the police woman who came to see her today than a friend."

  I explained my background and my involvement in the case. "I know I shouldn't be poking around, but I think I know who her father is, and he's guilty of several murders."

  "I hope you're right, because the police lady told me they didn't have a clue now that Mr. Pyle is innocent."

  50

  I had interfering-in-things-that-weren't-my-business down to a science. Why stop now? I thought. I paused to reflect on my request for DNA results for Ray and Brandon. Even though I did the right thing and destroyed the report, the thought occurred to me I had a lot of nerve questioning Ray's ethics.

  Setting my self-examination aside, I dug in my purse until I found the card with Suzanne's number. When we parted company in the Roanoke airport, she asked me to keep in touch. I guess she didn't expect her former brother-in-law to keep her informed, and we both knew Ervin wouldn't bother.

  She answered on the first ring, recognized my voice, and sounded glad to hear from me. "Hang on a minute," she said, "I was putting the kids to bed."

  While I waited for her, I realized I didn't know anything about her. We'd talked about her sister, the murder, Ray, and me, but never about her. When she came back on the line, I apologized for having been self-centered and asked about her life.

  "Three kids in middle school, a minister husband, and I'm the head pastry chef at the Montgomery Magnolia Café."

  "Oh my, all that time with a pastry chef, and I didn't get one recipe." I laughed. "My waistline thanks you."

  "What's going on with the case?"

  I updated her on Pyle's innocence, then asked about Pyle's father. "Do you know anything about him?"

  "I've known the family for years," Suzanne said. "When Elaine and Buddy Lee were in high school, Pyle, Sr.—Big Al—wasn't around much. He spent a lot of time drinking, beating his wife, things like that. Then Big Al went to jail on an assault and battery charge. While he was gone, Buddy Lee moved to Parkview and opened the business. The old man followed when he completed his sentence at the corrections facility. Big Al worked in the equipment-rental business with his son, mostly going out and operating the equipment for customers who needed help.

  "At the Bullock trial in Parkview, Big Al claimed Buddy Lee was innocent and wasn't home at the time." Suzanne paused as if thinking. "He screamed at Chief Ervin and Raymond in the courtroom, claiming they knew Buddy Lee was innocent and were framing him. At one point, he accused Chief Ervin of pulling the trigger, but no one paid any attention to his raving. Big Al swore he'd get revenge. Buddy Lee tried to calm him."

  "I thought Buddy Lee swore revenge."

  "That was later, after he was convicted and sentenced."

  "Do you still think Big Al Pyle murdered Dick and Elaine?"

  "It's a possibility." She hesitated, perhaps thinking. "Look at it this way. When the papers said Buddy Lee murdered his family, his father could have gone off the deep end. Big Al's always been crazy, but he loved his boys. Buddy Lee would have called his father and told him Raymond was involved. Big Al is capable of trying to make things right by killing Raymond, and then taking it a step further and settling the old score with Elaine. But he wouldn't hurt Buddy Lee's family. If Big Al is involved, there are two murderers."

  "Where does the old man live?"

  "I have no idea." After a long pause, Suzanne said, "I remember Elaine told me Buddy Lee settled down and married a lady with a young child. She may have known the woman, but I'm not sure. Elaine and Buddy Lee stayed in touch over the years, even after their affair was history. I suspect Elaine never stopped loving the man, but she realized he was no good for her."

  Before I could digest all I'd heard, Ray called. He was a couple hours north. He couldn't get a flight home, so he rented a car. Ray said he'd stop by when he rolled into town.

  I told him to wait until the morning, because his kids had gone to the movies. "Come whenever. I'm not working. Did you learn anything?" I asked before he could break the connection.

  "I got a fix on Elaine's time of death and convinced Chief Ervin that Pyle had an airtight alibi. Several reliable witnesses saw him in Montgomery late Friday night. He must have driven like a madman when he left Parkview."

  "Like someone else I know. I wonder what is it about Parkview that makes people want to speed away." I thought about my rapid departures.

  He laughed.

  "What do you think about Pyle's father as a suspect?"

  "A possibility. Pyle claims Big Al is a shadow of his former self and not capable of much in the way of organized thoughts. But still, Pyle wouldn't give us any assistance in finding his father. Pyle thinks we're protecting someone and are set on finding a scapegoat for the murders."

  "Can't blame him, if you ask me. By the way, I've been trying to figure out who Amber's father is."

  "What did you say?"

  "Amber's real dad." I realized that I hadn't talked to Ray since I'd visited Amber. "I asked Am
ber about her daddy's name, but she doesn't seem to know. Says his name is Jack. She told me she wants to live with Poppy—Pyle."

  "Sophia." Ray's voice was stern. "You're still poking around. I'd appreciate it if you'd mind your own business. We'll solve all of these cases without your interference."

  "Damn it, Ray. I've helped a lot on this case and got you the information to clear yourself. I'm going to continue to poke around. Dick asked me to pay attention to what Amber said when she came to the hospital, and I was there when Dick was murdered. Not to mention, I'm still interested in the welfare of you and your kids."

  "Fine, Sophia," he said.

  I couldn't see Ray's face, but I could imagine his goatee twitching.

  "If you get something, leave it on my answering machine," he said. "I'll follow it up if I think it's worth anything."

  "We'll be here in the morning. Goodnight." I hated his attitude. I jabbed the disconnect and flipped on the television.

  The Ten O'clock News logo flashed across the screen of Ray's television. In truth, I'd miss the thing when it was gone, and I returned to staring at the twenty-one inch screen of my aging Sony. I could buy another television, but I rarely watch it when I'm alone, preferring to read.

  Sunshine jumped onto the loveseat next to me and settled against my leg. I rubbed his silky ears as I watched the flamboyant introductions for the network news. A vague headline about authorities arresting a murder suspect in Clearwater caught my attention, so instead of flipping to the cooking channel, I stayed tuned to see if the story involved Ray's case. I hoped it wasn't the last segment, forcing me to endure an hour of hyped-up self-promotion.

  After several hints about the upcoming major development in a local big profile murder case, the Ken-doll-handsome anchorman introduced the story. Police apprehended and released a second man wanted for questioning in the July 30 slaying of local police detective Richard Reeves Schneider.

  The television screen faded into a view of a harbor on Clearwater Beach's coastline showing boat slips filled with sailboats with sails furled and cabin cruisers with decks cleared. The dark water surrounding the docks shimmered in the lights of the television camera. An interesting view, though I wondered about the relevance and whether it was a file photo or live.

  The next fade-in showed a white three-story building with horizontal rows of darkened windows. The camera panned to the corner entrance where an on-the-scene reporter had shoved a microphone in the face of a bewildered-looking elderly gentleman, Alfred Pyle Sr.—Big Al. After listening to several questions posed by the reporter, each with a non-responsive answer on the part of the interviewee, I arrived at the conclusion Big Al Pyle suffered from dementia.

  The reporter shifted her attention to a burly officer in a dark blue or maybe black uniform. "Sergeant Avery, can you tell me what you learned from the suspect?"

  "Mr. Pyle wasn't a suspect. We brought him in for questioning. Though he wasn't helpful, we verified his whereabouts at the time of the murders in both South Florida and Virginia."

  "Where does Mr. Pyle live?"

  "He lives in a supervised-care facility, which is where he was when we located him and where he has been every day for the last three years. He can't go into the community without supervision."

  "Then bringing him in to question him was a waste of time?"

  "No, I didn't say that. It was necessary to conclusively establish the facts of the matter."

  The camera panned away from the sergeant and focused on a second officer who was helping the old man into the back seat of a patrol car. At least the police are taking the old guy back home, I thought. I switched off the television and grabbed a novel. I'd found the whole thing enlightening, though all it did was rule out another suspect.

  51

  When I lugged my groceries in from the car on Wednesday morning, I found the dog in his crate and the house empty. There was small slip of paper on the counter next to a bottle of my favorite wine. In Ray's miniscule script, he thanked me for looking after the kids and asked if he owed me anything in the way of cash to cover their expenses. The last line, added like a postscript, admonished me to stay out of the case and said he'd be in touch. He hadn't bothered with a salutation or signature.

  I blinked back frustrated tears and decided to continue to do as I pleased. I didn't believe I could damage our relationship any more, and I didn't think Ray was blameless either. Some honesty on his part would have gone a long way.

  After I took Sunshine to the vet, filled his prescriptions, and settled him back in his crate, I decided to venture across town to the neighborhood of Ray's condo. On University Drive, I jammed the brakes to avoid a dark blue Chevy subcompact that seemed intent on occupying two lanes.

  The Chevy jogged my memory. I wondered if police identified the vehicle Ray saw leaving the scene of Dick's murder. He hadn't mentioned it, but then he was intent on my minding my own business. He'd said he had leads, but he refused to part with the details. I made a U-turn and headed north, turning east at the first opportunity. There was a Ford dealer a few blocks away. I remembered Ray had thought the car was a Toyota rather than a Focus.

  I parked in customer parking in front of the new car showroom and climbed out of my Mini. A salesman approached me before I set foot on the first step. He didn't ask if I was car shopping. I didn't lie. I went with the flow.

  "I'm interested in looking at the small cars, maybe collecting a brochure or two to help me along," I said after the salesman had introduced himself as Jim Nelson and instructed me to call him Jim.

  "You're looking to trade, are you?" Nelson, a squat older man wearing a pressed white shirt, asked.

  "Nah, not really. Just looking, trying to identify a car I saw. I've always liked small cars."

  Nelson pointed to my Mini. "Only a couple of years old?"

  "Yeah." I led the way into the showroom and stopped in front of a white car with a prominently placed sign identifying it as a Focus. I tried to envision it in blue. I scanned the remainder of the cars, which were all larger. "What about the Escort?"

  "Don't handle them new anymore. Escorts were mostly fleet cars. Now the agencies use the Focus or the Fusion."

  "Do you have brochures?"

  "Let me check." He was gone for a long time, then returned a Fusion brochure in hand. "This is all I found." He handed it to me, then pointed to a stack of Focus brochures on the counter.

  I thanked him and rushed out, making my excuses. When I stopped at the first light heading west, I compared the pictures of the Focus with the Fusion, envisioning them both in royal blue. They were distinctly different-looking cars. With that in mind, I stopped and repeated the process at the Toyota dealer.

  I pulled into the Publix parking lot across the street from Ray's condo and sat in the car with the motor running, wondering what I was doing there and what I hoped to accomplish. Was I a savvy investigator or a jilted lover turned stalker? I'd have been better off calling the ER and volunteering to work a day of overtime. At least that would have been productive.

  While thinking the day was a total waste, I decided to poke around anyway. The Publix parking lot had an unobstructed view of the front of Ray's building and the street.

  I slipped the car brochures into the side pocket of my purse and took a seat on the bench in front of the exit. The fifth carry-out kid I stopped had worked the day Dick died, but hadn't noticed anything, hadn't looked, and didn't know. What the kid did say was his friend worked during the evening shift, and watched all the activity. I noted the friend's name and schedule. He was due at work in a couple of hours.

  While I waited, I busied myself buying cards in the adjacent gift shop and wandering the aisles in the drug store. I went back to the bench to wait the fifteen minutes until the boy's scheduled arrival time. I eyed every person who approached the store. Based on the description the kid gave me earlier, it wasn't hard to identify Matt Laurence. He shuffled down the sidewalk, head bent low, watching his feet as if he anticipated them
doing something unexpected.

  "Matt," I said when he tripped up the ramp.

  He looked up.

  "Got time for a couple of questions?"

  "Who are you?"

  I told him. "Did you talk to the police about anything you saw the night the detective was murdered across the street?"

  "Nah, the officers came around asking if any of us saw anything, but I kept quiet. I really didn't see anything, just watched all the cop cars come and go. Didn't see any people close up."

  "You never know what's useful for the police. Sometimes the slightest thing can be an important clue." I took out the brochures. "For example, do you remember seeing a car like any of these hanging around the building over there?" I pointed in the direction of the condo.

  He took the brochures out of my hand and studied them for a long time, flipping back and forth through the stack. He handed me the picture of the Toyota Yaris. "This one, in blue. It sat in this lot for a long time with the engine running. Then when I was out here watching the cop cars and the ambulances, it wasn't here anymore."

  "How can you be sure?"

  Matt pointed to a parking space next to the street. "It was in that space. We all stood there to watch."

  "Did you see the driver?"

  "Nah, didn't look," Matt said. "People sit in the lot all the time, waiting for people to come out of the store."

  "You didn't think it was important to tell the police?"

  He bent his head and shrugged. "I, you know, wasn't sure. If they'd asked me personally, I'd of told them. I guess. You know."

  I thanked him for his time, moved my car into the same spot, and sat there in the air conditioning watching the front of the condo and feeling like a stalker.

  The view was excellent, but it was too far away to distinguish facial features. The feathery fronds of a twelve-foot-tall areca palm obscured the view of the kitchen door, which explained how the assailant might not have known there were two similar looking men in the apartment. Dick, I remembered, had come in through the kitchen door, while Ray had come in like a guest through the front door.