The Canary List: A Novel

by Sigmund Brouwer

“Jaimie?”

  “Don’t ask me anything. I just need to hide. Here. He was talking to Nanna and I heard him. It’s the same man from last night when I felt his Evil. I ran here because I know he is hunting me. Help me, Mr. G.”

  That’s when the doorbell chimed.

  All Crockett wanted was coffee.

  Crockett opened the door to a bland man, so little he almost qualified for petite. Maybe Crockett’s age, dark hair slicked back, parted in the middle. Gray suit, cheap shiny material, like something bought at Wal-Mart. Shoes to match.

  “I’m Nathan Wilby,” he said. “I’m from Social Services. Brad Romans sent me. May I come in?”

  Nathan’s voice, deep and strong, surprised Crockett. Nathan extended a hand. In reflex, Crockett shook it, discovering a surprisingly powerful grip too.

  Over the man’s shoulder, Crockett saw a Ford Taurus, a couple of years old, parked at the curb. Crockett backed up enough that Nathan Wilby could stand inside the house.

  “Horrible thing last night. Just horrible.” Nathan dropped his voice to a whisper. “I think it’s going to be rough on her. You made the right decision last night, but we’ll need to take over from here.”

  “Last night.”

  “I saw you there,” he said. “With her. I’d been called over by the police. By the time I could get over to you, you’d already left in that Jeep.”

  Crockett’s head throbbed. He really wanted his coffee. He could smell it, freshly brewed, just waiting. Ten minutes, the house would be all his again. Coffee. Newspaper. Time to recuperate, then off to the zoo with Mickey to be a weekend dad. Usually he picked Mickey up at 8 a.m. and they went for breakfast at Denny’s, but Crockett knew ahead of time he would be hurting because he knew it would be the morning after the anniversary of Ashley’s death. He’d arranged to get Mickey later in the day, and his ex-wife, Julie, pretended not to know why Crockett would be late when all the other times, he was there five minutes before the permitted time to get Mickey.

  Nathan must have misinterpreted Crockett’s headache frown for an unspoken question.

  “It took some time first thing this morning to track you down after that,” Nathan said. “You really should have stayed and let the police know she was with you.”

  “So that someone could take her away?” Crockett said.

  Nathan gave Crockett a tight smile. “But there is the unavoidable creaking of bureaucracy. Someone at the top could look dimly at this. After all, she is a minor. You had no authority to make the decision.”

  The accusation didn’t surprise Crockett, but it was nonetheless frustrating. “I didn’t have the authority, no. But it’s what a decent person would do.” He held his ground against the smaller man’s stare. “I’m sure someone at the top wouldn’t like any bad publicity either. A respected teacher of troubled kids helps out one of his students in need, then gets hassled? And someone at the top might not like a person in the middle of the bureaucracy who forces the issue upon the top.”

  The bland little man coughed slightly. “Good. Then we see it the same way. I’m not interested in paperwork either. You would be welcome to come downtown with me and Jaimie. She is here, right? I just saw her go into the house. From next door.”

  “No,” Crockett said. “I mean, yes. No, I don’t need to go downtown with you. Yes, she’s here. She spent the night next door with my neighbor, an older woman.”

  “Of course,” Nathan said. “Understandable.”

  “I’ll get her,” he said. “Wait here. On the couch, if you like. Help yourself to coffee.”

  “Certainly.” But as Crockett walked the few steps to the bedroom door, the bland dark-haired little man remained where he was, smile plastered as securely across his face as his hair was plastered against his skull.

  Ten

  rockett knelt beside the bed. When he ducked his head to look underneath, a tsunami of queasiness washed over him.

  “Don’t send me out there,” Jaimie whispered. “Please.”

  “Jaimie,” Crockett said. “We don’t have a choice. Where else can you go?”

  “Anywhere. But not with him. He is Evil.”

  “Jaimie,” Crockett softened. “Listen to me. You might not like Social Services, but it’s a fact of life. We don’t have a choice.”

  “Send him away,” Jaimie said. “Then I promise I’ll go. I have some money. I’ll find a way to make it on my own until I reach Dr. Mackenzie. She will help me.”

  Crockett vaguely remembered Jaimie mentioning the doctor last night. “Who is Dr. Mackenzie?”

  “A friend. I know how to get to her. I can go on my own.”

  “You are twelve. On your own is not going to happen. Especially after the foster home burned down. People need to know where you are.”

  Crockett extended a hand beneath the bed. “Come on. I’ll help you out from under there, Jaimie.”

  “Don’t try to make me go out there, Mr. G. I’ll bite. You can’t give me to him.”

  Without warning, something slid past him on the floor. It took him a second to realize it was a bracelet. From under the bed.

  “I’m staying until I know he’s gone,” she said.

  Crockett sat down, his back against the bed. He heaved a long sigh.

  As he was deciding how to handle this, Jaimie wiggled out from under the bed. She looked forlorn and so small in Nanna’s spare pajamas.

  “He’s gone,” Jaimie said. She retrieved her bracelet and slipped it back on her wrist.

  “What? Jaimie, he’s …”

  “Out the back door.”

  Crockett pushed himself to his feet. He glanced at the backyard. The gate at the rear fence was just swinging shut.

  And the doorbell chimed yet again. He decided then and there that the first thing he would do when all this dust settled was rip out the wiring to the doorbell.

  Eleven

  wo people this time. An Asian woman in tan pants and a sweater introduced herself as a homicide detective, Pamela Li, and a tall man, thick dark hair cut short, relaxed smile, jeans and an untucked light blue shirt, told Crockett he was from Social Services.

  Before Crockett could ask, and that was the first thing he had intended to do this time, they offered identification.

  He only glanced at the ID long enough to confirm their names. Pamela Li. Thomas Blearey.

  Even with that casual glance, Crockett knew it was like closing the barn door after the horses were gone. He should have asked Nathan Wilby for identification. These two were legit. Why else would Nathan Wilby have bolted? From the living room window, he would have seen the unmarked police cruiser pull up in front of the house. If he was legitimately from Social Services, he would have stayed. He would also have offered identification.

  Concluding that Wilby had been posing as someone from Social Services was one thing. The bigger question was why.

  “Hold on,” Crockett told them both. It was beginning to feel like the night before. Tossed into waves of events that made no sense, getting rolled by the uncontrollable. He hadn’t asked for this. A psychologically troubled kid on his doorstep in the middle of the night. Same kid who had dived under his bed. It briefly occurred to him that Jaimie’s resemblance to his dead daughter had clouded his judgment, but he told himself that he would have acted the same despite her appearance. What else could he have done?

  Now it seemed like the chain of events was beyond choice. Or maybe he felt like this because he wasn’t sober yet. At this point, he needed to cling to one sure thing.

  “I’m getting coffee,” he told them. “Either of you want a cup?”

  “Black,” Thomas said. “Thanks.”

  “No,” Pamela said. Not, no thanks. Crockett’s acuity was dulled by his aching head, but not so much that he missed the unfriendliness.

  He went to the kitchen, knowing it wasn’t good that Jaimie was in the house. In the bedroom. Would be stupid to try to hide it. Too bad they hadn’t seen her leave Nanna’s house on the way to his house.
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  Crockett returned to the living room with two full mugs, thinking that he should lay some groundwork before telling them where Jaimie was. A quick glance out the front window showed that Wilby’s Taurus was gone from the street.

  Pamela and Thomas were already sitting, a clear indication that this was going to be a long conversation. But Thomas rose politely to accept the coffee before joining the detective on the couch.

  That left the remaining armchair in the living room for Crockett, his back to the bedroom where Jaimie had insisted on hiding when the doorbell rang.

  “Jaimie’s a frightened kid,” Crockett said. “Frightened kids don’t always act rationally.”

  A frightened kid in his bedroom. Didn’t look good, and he knew it.

  Pamela didn’t give him room to follow up on that opening as an explanation for why Jaimie was in Crockett’s bedroom. “Yes, we know you were at the fire with her last night.”

  Crockett nodded as he took his first sip of coffee. Few things had tasted better. “You see—”

  “I presume it was after the party, right?” Pamela pointed at the nearly empty bottle of scotch. “Hope you took a cab.”

  “Neighbor drove. Nanna. Where Jaimie spent the night. She—”

  “Very responsible. We like citizens like you.” Her tight smile suggested otherwise. Why was she so surly? And so insistent on keeping him off balance? He didn’t need this. What he did need—with a degree of desperation—was a pair of sunglasses because the light through the front window was going to remain painful until at least a third cup of coffee. Crockett attempted to fix that small problem by drinking more coffee before answering.

  “Jaimie was terrified last night,” Crockett said. “Maybe I made the wrong decision, taking her away from the fire, but I wasn’t thinking very clearly last night, and I was trying to do what seemed best. And this morning—”

  “Best being a drunk teacher out with a young female student?”

  “I’m not sure why you’re ripping me like this,” Crockett said. He had no energy to fight. “I know a bit about Jaimie’s background. Tough life, being a foster kid. Can’t you understand that when she asked for help, I couldn’t just walk away? And this morning—”

  “I’m not in a mood to mess around,” Pamela snapped. She noisily blew air through her mouth, as if venting frustration. “Two kids in that house almost died. Smoke inhalation. And the foster dad is dead.”

  Dead. Crockett hated that word. It never seemed real, until it was far too real. Another one toppling into the eternally deep chasm of silence.

  Pamela continued. “Early investigation shows that the fire started in Jaimie’s room. We’ve got Social Services here for a reason. I’ve seen her file. No one’s going to be surprised if Jaimie’s the arsonist.”

  It began to sink in for Crockett. “When did the fire start?”

  Pamela gave him the time.

  Crockett slowly did the math. Slowly, because it was all he was capable of at the moment.

  “It wasn’t her,” Crockett finally said. “She told me she snuck out before the security system at the house was set. She was here already when the fire started.”

  “The house didn’t have a security system,” the detective said. “If it did, the foster dad might still be alive.”

  Crockett was trying to process Jaimie’s lie when Pamela gave Crockett a look of scornful pity. “And you don’t have to be there to start the fire,” she said. “Any kid with a computer can Google a dozen ways to delay it. And if she wanted the one place in the house where a timer would wait for half an hour, her bedroom would be it.”

  “She’s a good kid,” Crockett said. And at this moment, under his bed. He had to get that out there, but couldn’t just blurt it. “When kids are frightened—”

  “She lied to you about the security system,” Pamela continued. “The fire in her room wasn’t an accident, and that makes this a homicide investigation. So let’s get back to the fact that you’re the guy who showed up last night and left in a hurry. A guy who showed up intoxicated.”

  “I’m the guy who left my name with a cop.”

  “Intoxicated.”

  “With nothing to hide. Which is why I admitted to the cop last night that I was intoxicated. If you don’t believe me, let’s go next door and ask my neighbor. She’ll tell you that Jaimie spent the entire night with her.”

  “Funny how last night you didn’t mention your neighbor to the cop. Or the fact you had the girl with you. Instead you took off in a hurry. That leaves me with questions.”

  What was frustrating to Crockett was that the detective was so wrong in what she was implying. Crockett wanted to clear this up and have the house to himself. But he was highly aware that Jaimie was in his bedroom right at this moment. How was he going to explain that? Especially with the detective pushing him so hard.

  “When Jaimie showed up here last night and this morning,” Crockett explained, “she told me she was scared and wanted a place to stay. Last night, the first time she came to me, I tried calling the house. No answer. I thought it would be responsible to get her home. We showed up at the fire, and, to repeat, I made a judgment call that it would be best for her to spend the night with my neighbor. Then, just before you got here, for the second time when Jaimie—”

  “Makes me wonder about your motives.” Pamela cut him off before he could tell them that Jaimie was in his bedroom, then turned to Thomas. “Any thoughts on this?”

  “It’s not a black-and-white world,” Thomas answered. “We’re here to get the girl now. Maybe it wasn’t so bad that she didn’t have to spend the night dealing with bureaucracy.”

  “Why would the girl come to you in the first place?” Pamela asked Crockett.

  “I’m her teacher. She trusts me.”

  “All your students have your address? You give them an invitation to show up at all hours of the night?”

  “I don’t know how she had my address. Can you stop treating me like the bad guy here?” It was a plea, not a challenge. Crockett should have reacted with anger, but he was too exhausted.

  “Maybe you are the bad guy here,” she said. “I had a look at your employment record.”

  “Huh?” If his blood wasn’t moving through his veins like sludge, maybe he could make sense of what was happening.

  “You know what I’m talking about. Sierra Rhimes. Thirteen at the time.”

  “Huh?” Crockett had felt stupid saying it the first time and no less stupid the second time. But he knew what the detective was implying. “That has nothing to do with this.”

  He felt, though, as if he were struggling through a swamp. Sierra Rhimes. Four years earlier, the student had been a nightmare for all three of her male teachers. Including Crockett.

  “From my perspective it has a lot to do with this,” Pamela said. “Think cops don’t have access to computer records?”

  Crockett needed to dilute the sludge in his veins. He drank more coffee before answering the question. “It was established that Sierra Rhimes made false accusations. You know as well as I do that this happens a lot. All the teachers involved were cleared. Completely cleared. She made her claims against us in retaliation for bad grades. You did see that, too, on the computer records. Right?”

  “It’s time to speak to Jaimie,” Pamela said. “You said she’s next door?”

  “You’ll remember I said she came over twice. Once last night. And once this morning. She’s not next door.” He wished he’d been more forceful earlier, when he tried to tell the detective about Jaimie’s immediate location.

  “Where is she?” Pamela said. “Much as we appreciate do-gooders who help scared kids, it’s called aiding and abetting when the kid is a murder suspect.”

  Before Crockett could answer, the bedroom door opened.

  “I’m here,” Jaimie said. “But Mr. G didn’t aid and abet me or whatever. And I didn’t start the fire.”

  Twelve

  amela Li didn’t hide her disgust. “I thoug
ht you said she stayed overnight next door.”

  Although Crockett had done nothing wrong—in fact he had done everything possible since Jaimie’s knock on the window to ensure none of his actions could be misinterpreted—he knew he was walking through a minefield. “Yes, she was next door. With Nanna. I was trying to tell you that she came over, but you were cutting me off every time I—”

  “What was she doing in your bedroom?” Pamela said.

  “See. Again.” Crockett said, trying to tame—and mask—his feelings of panic. “You going to give me a chance to talk?”

  Pamela gave a rolling forward motion with her hand.

  Crockett wanted to lash out at the detective’s arrogant presumption of his guilt but didn’t see that doing any good. The important thing was to establish that he was blameless of anything except being in the wrong place at the wrong time and showing compassion to a troubled student.

  “Jaimie came here from next door. She said she was afraid. I let her into the house and—”

  “He’s right,” Jaimie said. “I was afraid and—”

  “Not talking to you,” Pamela told Jaimie. “This is between me and Mr. Grey.”

  Anger finally overcame his exhaustion, and Crockett snapped. “Hey, lady, if you’d step back for a second and quit thinking the worst, I’ll have a chance to explain.”

  “Call me lady again, and your day is going to get a lot more miserable.”

  “Talk to Jaimie like that again, and I’ll welcome the chance to stand up to your bullying.”

  Thomas finally stepped in. He walked over to Jaimie, knelt, put a hand on Jaimie’s shoulder, and looked at Pamela and Crockett.

  “Whatever happened last night, let’s not forget how terrifying it must be for a twelve-year-old. How about we focus on getting through this right now in the best way possible for her?”

  Jaimie kept her head tall. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”

  That lack of self-pity perhaps swung the detective away from being a pit bull.