Cherish Daney said, “What do you need, Valerie?”
The girl’s return stare seemed resentful.
“Val?”
“Help with my math.”
“Of course, bring it over.”
The girl hesitated before walking over. Her wavy black hair trailed past her waist. Plump build. Her face was dusky, round, her gait stiff and self-conscious.
When she got to Cherish Daney, she alternated between looking at us and pretending not to.
“These men are police officers, Val. They’re here about Rand.”
’’Oh.”
“We’re all very sad about Rand, aren’t we, Val?”
“Uh-huh.”
Cherish said, “Okay, show me what the problem is.”
Valerie opened the book. Sixth-grade arithmetic. “These ones. I’m doing them right but I’m not getting the right answers.”
Cherish touched the girl’s arm. “Let’s take a look.”
“I know I’m doing them right.” Valerie’s fingers flexed. She rocked on her feet. Glanced at Milo and me.
“Val?” said Cherish. “Let’s focus.” Touching Valerie’s cheek, she guided the girl’s eyes toward the book.
Val shook off the contact but stared at the page. We stood there as Cherish attempted to unravel the mysteries of fractions, speaking slowly, enunciating clearly, skirting the line between patience and patronizing.
Not losing her patience during Valerie’s lapses of concentration. Which were frequent.
The girl tapped her feet, drummed her hands on various body parts, wriggled, craned her neck, sighed a lot. Her eye contact was hummingbird-flighty and she kept glancing over at us, shooting her gaze to the sky, then down on the ground. The book. The house. A squirrel that scampered up the redwood fence.
I’d gone to school for too long to resist diagnosis.
Cherish Daney stayed on track, finally got the girl to focus on a single problem until she achieved success.
“There you go! Great, Val! Let’s do another one.”
“No, I’m okay, I get it now.”
“I think one more’s a good idea.”
Emphatic head shake.
“You’re sure, Val?”
Without answering, Valerie ran back toward the house. Dropped the workbook and cried out in frustration, bent and retrieved it, flung the screen door open and disappeared.
“Sorry for the interruption,” said Cherish. “She’s a terrific kid but she needs a lot of structure.”
“A.D.D.?” I said.
“It’s that obvious, huh?” Now she stared at me with wide blue eyes. “I know who you are. The psychologist who saw Rand.”
“Alex Delaware.” I held out my hand.
She took it readily. “We met at the jail.”
“Yes, we did, Reverend.”
“I guess,” she said, “our paths cross at sad junctures.”
“Occupational hazard,” I said. “Both our occupations.”
“I suppose . . . actually, I’m not a minister, just a teacher.”
I smiled. “Just a teacher?”
“It comes in handy,” she said. “For homeschooling. We homeschool the kids.”
Milo said, “Foster kids?”
“That’s right.”
“How long do they stay with you?” I said.
“No set time. Val was supposed to be with us for sixty days while her mother was evaluated for detox. Then her mother O.D.’d and died and all of Val’s relatives live in Arizona. She barely knows them— her mom ran away from home. Top of that, they weren’t interested in taking her. So she’s been with us nearly a year.”
“How many fosters do you care for?”
“It varies. My husband’s shopping over at Value Club. We buy in bulk.”
“What was the arrangement with Rand Duchay?” said Milo.
“The arrangement?”
“With the state.”
Cherish Daney shook her head. “That wasn’t a formal situation, Lieutenant. We knew Rand was being released and had nowhere to go so we took him in.”
“The county had no problem with his being here?” said Milo. “With kids?”
“It never came up.” She stiffened. “You’re not going to cause problems for us, are you? It wouldn’t be fair to the kids.”
“No, ma’am. It was just a question that came to mind.”
“There was never any danger,” she said. “Rand was a good person.”
Same claim he’d made. Neither Milo nor I answered.
Cherish Daney said, “I don’t expect you to believe this, but eight years transformed him.”
“To?”
“A good person, Lieutenant. He wasn’t going to be with us long term, anyway. Just until he found a job and a place to stay. My husband had made inquiries with some nonprofits, figuring maybe Rand could work at a thrift shop, or do some landscaping work. Then Rand took the initiative and came up with the idea of construction. That’s where he went Saturday.”
“Any idea how he ended up in Bel Air?”
She shook her head. “He’d have no reason to be there. The only thing I can think of is he got lost and someone picked him up. Rand could be very trusting.”
“He never phoned you?”
“He didn’t have a phone,” she said.
He’d called me from a pay booth.
Milo said, “How close is the construction site?”
“Up a few blocks on Vanowen.”
“Not very far, in terms of getting lost.”
“Lieutenant, Rand spent his entire adolescence in prison. When he got out he was extremely disoriented. His world was a buzz of confusion.”
“William James,” I said.
“Pardon?”
“Pioneer of psychology. He called childhood a blooming, buzzing confusion.”
“I probably learned that,” said Cherish. “I took psychology in seminary.”
Milo said, “So you kept in regular contact with Rand while he was in custody.”
“We did,” she said. “Right after Troy died, we initiated contact.”
“Why then?”
“Initially, we were more involved with Troy because we knew him before the trouble.”
“The trouble being Kristal Malley’s murder,” said Milo.
Cherish Daney looked away. Her stoop became more pronounced.
“How’d you know Troy before, Mrs. Daney?”
“When my husband and I were students, part of our community service seminar involved identifying needs in the community. Our apartment wasn’t that far from 415 City, so we knew its reputation. Our faculty adviser thought it would be a good place to find kids with needs. We talked to Social Services and they identified several prospects. Troy was one of them.”
“Rand wasn’t?” I said.
“Rand never got his name on any lists.”
“Troublemaker lists?” said Milo.
She nodded. “We met with Troy a couple of times, tried to get him involved with church or sports or a hobby, but we never really connected. Then, after . . . he must’ve mentioned us to his lawyer because she contacted us and said it would be a great time to start counseling him spiritually.”
Bible in a cell. Smooth talk about sin.
“Why didn’t you connect initially?” said Milo.
“You know how it is. Kids don’t always take to talking.”
She looked to me for confirmation. Before I could offer any, Milo said, “Being arrested help Troy’s communication skills?”
She sighed. “You think we’re naive. It’s not that we were unaware of the enormity of what Troy had done. But we recognized that he’d also been victimized. You met his mother, Doctor.”
“Where is she?” I said.
“Dead,” she said. Snapping off the word. “After Troy’s body was ready for burial, the Chino coroner’s office contacted us. They couldn’t find Jane and we were the only other people on his visitor list. We contacted Ms. Weider but she no longer worked fo
r the Public Defender. Troy’s body sat at the morgue until our dean agreed to donate a plot in San Bernadino where some of the faculty members are buried. We conducted a service.”
She touched her crucifix. Suddenly, tears streamed down her face. She made no effort to dry them. “That day. My husband and myself and Dr. Wascomb— our dean. A beautiful, sunny day and we watched cemetery workers lower that pathetic little coffin into the ground. A month later, Detective Kramer called us. Jane had been found under a freeway ramp, one of those homeless encampments, wrapped up in a sleeping bag and plastic tarp. Which is the way she always slept, so the other homeless people didn’t think anything of it until she still hadn’t budged by noon. She’d been stabbed sometime during the night. Whoever killed her wrapped her back up.”
She shuddered, pulled out the tissue paper bookmark and wiped her face.
Milo said, “How long was that after Troy’s death?”
“Six weeks, two months, what’s the difference? My point is, these were lost boys. And now, Rand.”
“Any idea who’d want to hurt Rand?”
She shook her head.
“What was his mood like?”
“Disoriented, as I told you. Reeling from freedom.”
“Not happy at all about getting out?”
“To be honest? Not really.”
“Did he have any plans other than getting a job?”
“We were taking things slowly. Helping him settle in.”
“Could we see his room?”
“Sure,” she said. “Such as it is.”
* * *
We followed her through a compact, tidy living room; a dim galley kitchen and eating area; then a low, narrow corridor. One bedroom, the master, with barely enough room for the furniture that filled it. A single bathroom served the entire house.
At the end of the hall was a windowless space, eight-foot square. Cherish Daney said, “This is it.”
Cheap paneling covered the walls. Capped off pipes sprouted from the vinyl floor.
Milo said, “This used to be a laundry room?”
“Service porch. We moved the washer and dryer outside.”
A framed Bible scene— Nordic Solomon and two Valkyrian women claiming motherhood of the same fat, blond infant— hung over a foldable cot. A white plastic lamp sat on a raw wood nightstand. Milo opened the drawers. Well-thumbed Bible on top, nothing in the bottom.
A dented footlocker served as a closet. Inside were two white T-shirts, two blue work shirts, a pair of blue jeans.
Cherish Daney said, “We never even got a chance to buy him clothes.”
We walked back to the front of the house. She peered through a window. “Here’s my husband. I’d better go help him.”
CHAPTER 14
Drew Daney came through the gateway gripping two large bags of groceries in each arm. An even larger mesh sack filled with oranges dangled from his right thumb.
Cherish took the fruit and reached for one of the bags.
Daney held on. “I’m okay, Cher.” Dark eyes sighted us over the groceries. He stopped and placed the load on the ground.
“Dr. Delaware.”
“You remember.”
“It’s an unusual name,” he said, coming forward. His wrestler’s frame had taken on fifteen or so pounds, most of them soft, and his thick, wavy hair was graying at the temples. He wore a beard now, a stubbly silver thing, neatly trimmed around the edges. His white polo shirt was spotless and pressed. So were his blue jeans. Same color scheme as his wife.
“Also,” he said, “I read your report to the judge, so your name stuck in my mind.”
Cherish looked at him and went inside the house.
“How’d you come to read it?” I said.
“Sydney Weider wanted my opinion, as Troy’s counselor. I told her I thought it was a careful document. You didn’t want to go out on a limb and say something unscientific. But you clearly weren’t willing to give the boys a pass.”
“A pass on murder?” said Milo.
“At the time we were hoping for a miracle.”
“We?”
“The boys’ families, Sydney, my wife, myself. It just seemed that putting the boys away forever wouldn’t solve anything.”
“Forever turned out to be eight years, Reverend,” said Milo.
“Detective . . . what’s your name, please— ”
“Sturgis.”
“Detective Sturgis, in the life of a child, eight years is eternity.” Daney ran a hand through his hair. “In Troy’s case, a month was eternity. And now Rand . . . unbelievable.”
“Any idea who might’ve wanted to hurt Rand, sir?”
Daney’s lips puffed. His toe scuffed one of the grocery bags and he lowered his voice. “I don’t want my wife hearing this, but there probably is something you should know.”
“Probably?”
Daney eyed the front door of his house. “Could we find a place to talk later?”
“Sooner’s better than later, sir.”
“Okay, sure, I see your point. I’ve got a youth council meeting in Sylmar at two. I could leave a little early and meet you in, say, ten minutes?”
“Sounds good,” said Milo. “Where?”
“How about at the Dipsy Donut on Vanowen, a few blocks west.”
“We’ll be there, Reverend.”
“Both of you?” he said.
“Dr. Delaware’s consulting on the case.”
“Ah,” said Daney. “Makes sense.”
* * *
“Told you,” said Milo, as we drove away. “You’re still the opposing team.”
“And you?”
“I’m the sleuth assigned the honor of clearing Duchay’s murder.”
“Want me to wait in the car while you two bond?”
“Right. Wonder what the rev wants to keep from his wife.”
“Sounds like something that would scare her.”
“Scary,” he said, “is always interesting.”
* * *
The doughnut stand was a flimsy white booth on a cracked blacktop lot, topped by a six-foot, partially eaten doughnut with humanoid features. Brown plaster, chipped in several spots, tried to resemble chocolate. Wild-eyed merriment said the deep-fried creature loved being devoured. Three grubby-looking aluminum table-and-bench sets were scattered on the asphalt. The signage had lost a couple of letters.
DI SY DON T
Milo said, “And here I was thinking she did.”
The place was full of customers. We went inside and breathed fat and sugar and waited in line as three harried kids bagged and served oversized fritters to a salivating throng. Milo bought a dozen assorted, finished a jelly and a chocolate in the time it took to get back to the car.
“Hey,” he said, “it’s part of the job description. And chewing’s aerobic.”
“Enjoy.”
“You say that but you’ve got this disapproving thing going on.”
I took a hubcap-sized apple Danish out of the box and got to work on it. “Satisfied?”
“Creative people are never satisfied.”
We sat in the Seville where he polished off a jelly-filled.
I said, “Wonder what Rand did between six-thirty and nine.”
“Me, too. Forgot coffee, want some?”
“No, thanks.”
He returned to the doughnut shack just as the Reverend Drew Daney drove up in an older white Jeep. I got out of the car and Milo came back with two coffees.
He offered Daney the doughnut box.
Daney had added a blue blazer to his ensemble, had his hands in his pockets. “Any crèmes?”
The three of us sat at one of the outdoor tables. Daney found a raspberry crème, bit into it, exhaled with satisfaction. “Guilty pleasures, huh?”
“You got it, Reverend.”
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