Chapter Two
On Tuesday, thoughts of Kerry kept wafting in and out of Chris's awareness. He wasn't sure why. She certainly wasn't the glamorous type of woman some of his co-workers liked to show off, nor was she the settled, motherly type he'd always imagined would be best as a stepmother for Melanie.
It was the vulnerability that had touched him most, the sense of pain just beneath the surface. He wanted to soothe her, which was a crazy idea, since he'd never been all that good at easing his own worries.
In between reading reports about a robbery at a restaurant and a shoplifting ring plaguing the Brea Mall, Chris pictured Kerry again and admitted to himself that he found her damned attractive.
He'd never met a woman with such an unusual combination of natural, instinctive physicality and something he could only describe as spirituality. Except maybe, in just a little way, his daughter.
Damn it. Was he being unreasonable? Would Melanie resent him in later years for screwing up her chance at the big time?
They'd discussed it this morning over cereal. Melanie had looked like a little kid, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her eyes huge even without makeup.
She hadn't begged or pleaded; Mel had too much dignity. She'd just let her lower lip tremble, and looked at him in that hurt, pleading way.
His little girl. Maybe he was being overprotective. But he didn't think so.
The phone rang. It was Captain Yarborough.
"Chris? We've had some more problems at the Ahmed house."
All thought of his family problems vanished. "What is it this time?"
"A threatening phone call. Mrs. Ahmed is pretty freaked. I thought it might help if you went out there personally."
"I'll get right on it."
Shuffling through the papers on his desk for the Ahmed folder, Chris strode out to his car. It was a wiltingly hot September day, the middle of a typical late-summer Southern California heat wave, and he turned the air conditioning on full blast as soon as he got in.
The Ahmed house wasn't far away, located in one of the relatively new tracts near the mall. The problems the family had been suffering weren't serious compared to many of the crimes Chris encountered, but they were delicate. It was one of those situations that could turn nasty.
Gamel Ahmed was a professor of history at Cal State Fullerton. A little over a month before, he'd given a well-publicized speech to a service organization, presenting his insights into some of the issues plaguing the Middle East.
Someone had taken offense. More than offense; they'd begun harassing his family. So far, there'd been only a couple of paste-up letters and some graffiti, but the threats were harsh enough to frighten Mrs. Ahmed and their two small daughters.
Chris hoped it wasn't some weird terrorist sect; he could never figure out the various disputes in the Middle East, but it seemed as if everybody hated everybody else one way or another. And he didn't like to think about somebody planting a car bomb in peaceful Brea.
More than likely it was some isolated nut, or maybe kids who didn't understand how complex these matters were and just wanted to be mean. Whoever it was, Chris hoped he would catch them. Soon.
He pulled up in front of the house, a standard-issue stucco structure with lots of plants hanging from the decorative rafters in front. For once, he wished he were driving a marked police car; he wouldn't blame Mrs. Ahmed if she panicked at seeing a stranger approach.
Chris walked up to the front door and rang the bell. A moment later a curtain was pulled aside in the front window.
He held up his badge. The curtain fell, and the door opened slowly.
Mrs. Ahmed was a small woman with a strong, intelligent face. "Yes?"
"I'm Lieutenant Layne, Brea P.D.," he said. "We're looking into that phone call you received."
"Oh, thank you. I didn't expect a lieutenant." She stood aside to let him in.
Although the house was designed like a hundred others he'd seen, distinctive touches caught his eye—a gold-trimmed Arabic scroll displayed in a glass case, some striking pottery, a lush Persian rug instead of wall-to-wall carpeting in the living room.
Sitting on the couch, Chris accepted a cup of tea. He didn't particularly like tea, but neither did he wish to give offense.
Flipping open his notebook, he said, "Tell me about the caller. Was it a man? Woman? About how old?"
"The voice was, um, strange—you know—"
"Disguised?"
She nodded. "I'm pretty sure it was a man. And there was a radio playing. Rock music. I think he must be young."
Chris paused as two dark-haired girls dashed into the room, then halted abruptly on seeing him. Their mother spoke to them gently in a foreign language, and the children raced away.
"What beautiful children," he said. "I have a daughter of my own."
"We're very frightened," Mrs. Ahmed said. "Why would anyone want to do this?"
"That's what we have to find out." He asked her some more questions about the call, but she didn't come up with anything helpful. "Have you talked to the phone company about a tracer?"
"Yes," Mrs. Ahmed said. "We're going to do it. But I hate it, you know?"
"So do I." Shaking his head, Chris stood up. "I'm sorry this has happened. It isn't typical of people around here."
"I know." When she smiled, she was remarkably pretty. "We're new to Orange County but we lived in San Francisco for several years. We like America."
He left feeling a little better, but not much.
Maybe this whole thing would just fade away, but still, it was ugly. The crimes Chris hated most involved violence against innocent victims. Second came racist acts and other types of harassment that were a form of psychological violence against the innocent. Like the Ahmeds.
All they wanted was to live their lives quietly and protect their children. Just like he wanted to protect his own daughter.
Driving back to the police station, Chris felt a twinge of guilt. He hadn't spent much time with Melanie lately. Maybe that was what he needed to do, to get to know her better so he could be sure he was making the right decision.
He'd try to get off early tonight and pick her up at ballet school. It would save her a bus ride and give them more time together.
And if he was lucky, he might even get to see Kerry again.
Kerry taught two adult classes during the morning. Although none of the students would ever be a professional ballerina, she enjoyed the women's enthusiasm and dedication.
Some of them took class for the exercise. Others had always wanted to dance and were indulging in something they loved.
And quite a few needed the classes professionally. Some actresses and modern dancers drove to Brea from as far away as Los Angeles to study with Kerry. They took show dancing classes elsewhere but wanted the ballet underpinning to keep their technique tip-top.
At three o'clock she welcomed the beginners. Among the dozen new students was little Suzie Ezell. She and her mother had obviously gone shopping last night. She wore a pink leotard and tights and matching ballet slippers that must have strained Mrs. Ezell's budget.
The child's small face bore its familiar determined air but there was a hint of uncertainty playing around her mouth as she regarded the other girls. They were all larger and more confident; several came from wealthy families.
Well, one thing they would quickly learn: all students were equal here, distinguished only by hard work and talent.
"Line up at the barre, please," Kerry said. The girls scrambled to obey.
Several of them glanced questioningly at the stick she carried in one hand. Kerry smiled. "Don't worry. This isn't to beat you with." Several of them smiled back. The others didn't look convinced.
"I know you've all seen ballet, either on TV or on the stage," she said. "You probably have visions of going home tonight and dancing on your toes. Well, you're not going to do that for at least another year, and I don't want anyone trying on their own. Understand?"
The little
heads nodded.
"Secondly, you're not going to be dancing at all, not for a while. I know you're dying to, but you have to prepare for it. Muscles have to be strengthened and trained properly.
"All that elegance and speed you see on the stage is the result of long, hard hours of training in technique. Yes, there's artistry involved, too, but that comes later. If you're here to dazzle your friends, then you've come to the wrong school."
No one moved. Kerry had made the same point to their parents, so she hoped there would be no dissatisfaction. This was a serious ballet school.
"Very well," she said. "The first thing we're going to work on is breathing."
One of the girls giggled. At Kerry's sharp glance she said, "But, Miss Guthrie, we already know how to breathe."
"That's what you think," Kerry said.
She spent the next half hour teaching them how to breathe from the diaphragm and giving them exercises to do at home. Then the girls were allowed a short break, sitting on the floor, before they went on.
"Next, we begin working on the five positions," Kerry said. "You thought you knew how to breathe. I'll bet you thought you knew how to stand, too. Well, you don't."
She demonstrated the positions for them. "Today we'll work on the first position. Do you feel your muscles straining? It isn't a natural way to stand, is it?"
Suzie, doing her best to imitate Kerry, shook her head solemnly.
"The purpose of these positions is something we in ballet call turnout," Kerry said. "You have to train your legs and feet to turn out in a way that isn't natural. But it's necessary to dance gracefully."
The girls worked hard, helped by the stick Kerry used to prod knees and elbows into the proper conformation. Before she knew it, the class was over and the little girls had made their bows and dashed away to the dressing room.
She doubted any of them felt it yet, but there would be a lot of sore muscles in the morning.
Melanie came in a few minutes later. Her eyes looked larger than usual, as if she'd been fighting tears.
"What's wrong?" After teaching her for five years, Kerry could tell almost instantly what mood Melanie was in.
"My dad," she said.
The pang of anxiety caught Kerry by surprise. "He isn't— isn't hurt or anything, is he?"
"Hurt? No." Melanie crossed to the barre and began warming up. "He refuses to consider letting me go to New York."
Kerry let out a deep breath. "We've got a few months to change his mind."
"You don't know my dad." Melanie stopped as Tom Hadley bounded into the room.
The air always seemed to crackle and the light to intensify when Tom was around; it was a kind of magic he possessed. Kerry suspected it was what people meant by charisma, and it was going to stand him in good stead when he began his show business career in earnest.
Already Tom had appeared in a couple of commercials and had danced in the chorus for a TV special. In another year and a half, when he graduated from high school, there'd be no stopping him.
The funny thing was that there had never been any sparks between him and Melanie. Most of the other female students had painful crushes on him.
"All present and accounted for, Miss G," he said, executing a grand jeté on his way to the barre.
"Tom!" Melanie was genuinely shocked. "You aren't even warmed up yet."
"When you're hot, you're hot." He winked. "Hey, loosen up, Melissande."
"You won't take it so lightly if you pull a muscle." Kerry had a hard time maintaining her air of authority around Tom; he was so cocky and engaging.
As the two youngsters warmed up, Bella Beltran padded in, rattling her sheet music. She'd already played for the two adult classes that day and had been assisting Myron for the past hour.
She was a precious find, patient and dependable. Kerry had never heard her miss a note, although Bella had explained once that it was simply a matter of knowing how to cover your mistakes.
When everyone was ready, they launched into a rehearsal of a pas de deux Melanie and Tom were to perform in a few weeks at the school's annual Ballet Fair, a fund-raising event that also gave the students performing experience.
Kerry had choreographed the dance to music by Gershwin. It was a modern ballet with a strong element of show dancing. She'd devised it carefully to emphasize both dancers' strong points.
Rehearsing absorbed her attention so completely that she didn't notice when the boy came to stand in the doorway.
It was a glance from Bella that caught Kerry's attention. Carefully, so as not to distract Melanie and Tom, she turned to see who was there.
The boy was about sixteen, not much younger than Tom, but there was no resemblance between the two.
Where Tom was broad chested and expansive, the newcomer was wiry and guarded. He had dark, brooding eyes and hair of such a deep brown it was almost black. On his navy sweatshirt loomed a deadly looking skull and crossbones, and the same insignia was printed on a band wrapped around his forehead.
What on earth was he doing in a ballet studio?
He didn't seem to notice Kerry, so intent was he on watching the dancers. No, not the dancers; Melanie. The boy stared at her as if she were some magical being that had materialized out of the ether.
Kerry was about to speak to him when a smaller figure appeared at his side. Suzie sidled up and slipped her hand into the boy's.
So this was her brother, the one Mrs. Ezell had been so worried about. What had she said exactly? That he ran with a bad crowd?
Wonderful, Kerry thought. That was just what Leaps and Bounds needed, a gangbanger hanging around. On the other hand, he had come to pick up his sister. She supposed it wouldn't hurt to give the boy the benefit of the doubt.
The music ended, and the two dancers swept into their bows. Suzie and her brother applauded enthusiastically.
Tom took another bow for their benefit. Melanie looked confused.
"Thanks," Kerry said. "That was terrific, guys. Can we do this again Thursday? I'd like you to try a new lift."
Both of them agreed. Tom swept out, tugging teasingly at Suzie's ponytail on his way and leaving her wide-eyed with hero worship.
Kerry went to the piano. "I guess he won't do any harm," she muttered.
Bella gazed over the music, her dark eyes rimmed with skepticism. "I'm glad we have locks on our lockers. But who knows? Kids these days—they all look like rebels."
From where she stood, Kerry could barely make out the boy's muttered, "Hi. I'm Jamie. Who're you?"
"Melanie." Her always soft voice had faded to a mere whisper.
"Wanna go out for a Coke or something?"
Kerry didn't need to see the girl's face; she could hear the panic in her voice. "I can't. I have to get home." Without waiting for an answer, Melanie dashed by Jamie and raced for the dressing room as if for dear life.
He stared after her and shrugged. To Suzie, he said, "Is she always like this?"
"I don't know," said his sister. "It's my first day, remember?"
Jamie glanced over as if becoming aware of Kerry and Bella's presence for the first time. "See you guys," he said, and ambled out with a show of indifference.
"Uh-oh," Bella said.
"You don't think he's going to hassle her, do you?" Kerry asked. "I won't allow it."
"A little hassling might not hurt her. Depends on what kind." The older woman gathered her music. "I'll see you this evening " An intermediate class was held on Tuesday nights.
"Thanks, Bella." Kerry checked her watch. She had two hours, plenty of time to go home for dinner.
Melanie studied herself in the dressing room mirror, which was ringed with light bulbs. What had that boy been staring at, anyway? She wasn't particularly pretty; at least, no one at school seemed to think so. Her face was too thin, and there was nothing very exciting about light brown hair and eyes.
Maybe she'd seen him at school; it was hard to be sure, with so many kids. But if he went there, he must know she wasn't the
kind of girl that boys asked out. The other kids seemed to think Melanie came from another planet, and, frankly, she had a hard time understanding their chatter about rock bands, video games and wild parties.
She wouldn't even know what to do on a date.
In her mind, Melanie summoned the dark, intense face. Jamie, that was his name. His sister was a cute little girl, awestruck about ballet like most of the new students. Melanie wouldn't mind helping her a little, giving her a few tips. But she didn't know what she was going to say to Jamie if he asked her out again.
Well, that wasn't likely to happen.
What had Bella meant, a little hassling wouldn't hurt Melanie? Kerry wondered as she walked to her office to change clothes. Was she agreeing with Chris that the girl needed more normal teenage experience?
And was it possible they were right?
Kerry supposed she should have listened to Chris more sympathetically. Then maybe they wouldn't have ended up on such a strained note the previous evening.
The problem was that he kept intruding into her thoughts. He'd made it clear he was interested in her as a woman; why had that intimidated her?
She didn't know much about Chris, really, she reflected as she strolled down the hall, scarcely noticing the posters advertising performances by the New York City Ballet and the Kirov. From what Melanie said, he was a loving father but often had to work long hours.
A policeman. Kerry hadn't known anyone like that when she was growing up. Her parents' friends were all performers or artists of one sort or another, and now that she could view them objectively, she realized it had been a rarefied environment.
It wasn't until coining to Brea that she'd gotten to know ordinary people. The folks who sent their daughters and sons to ballet school were a real cross section—truck drivers, engineers, lawyers, fire fighters, secretaries, teachers—some highly educated, some fighting their way through life with what little training they had.
By Leaps and Bounds Page 3
