by Ray Flynt
“We believe that Jeremy was lured into making porn films, perhaps by that woman,” Brad explained. “Is there anything else you can remember about her?”
Susan closed her eyes and pursed her lips. “I wish I could. I had no idea he was up to something like this.”
Brad paused a few more moments; half hoping she might remember a significant detail. Greeted only by silence, he pushed back his chair. “I appreciate your time. If you remember anything else, please give me a call.”
He stood, and Susan rose from her chair and followed him to the door.
With eyes glistening and fear etched in the lines on her face, she said, “Please, Brad. Find my son.”
Chapter Ten
I hadn’t shared the details with Brad, but I’d had a run-in with Karen Matthews when she worked at Maple Grove. When Natalie first asked me if I remembered Karen, the name meant nothing to me, but then the details came flooding back. I’ve always had a hair-trigger temper, with a tendency to shoot off my mouth then worry about cleaning up the mess later. Working with Brad has helped even out my temperament, but I still have my moments.
I dawdled as long as I could that morning, surfing the porn website, calling child welfare to report Wanda Shaw, and renewed my car registration on-line, before I finally called the Bucks County Juvenile Probation Office and asked to speak to Karen Matthews.
“May I tell her who’s calling?” the receptionist sweetly asked.
As I waited on hold, I pictured Karen hearing my name and shrieking, “Bitch!” I used the “hold” time contemplating whether I’d made a mistake agreeing to a date with Oliver Reynolds (probably), and tried to recall the name of the red-headed kid who asked me to our junior prom (Bryan – I’d turned him down), when the line clicked and I heard Karen say, in her most professional voice, “Sharon, how nice to hear from you. Natalie said you might call.”
Oh, yes, she remembered me.
“Thanks for taking my call.” I plowed right ahead. “Natalie may have already given you a few details, but I’m working with a private investigator’s office now, and we’re trying to find a missing person, a young man that was at Maple Grove. He’s gotten himself in a porn video, and we’re concerned that there might be a connection to the youth center.”
From the gasp on the other end of the line, I could tell that Natalie hadn’t provided any specifics.
“Wow. I don’t know anything about that,” Karen said.
“Well, you might be able to provide valuable background information about Maple Grove,” I said, hoping she’d forget that time when I tried to get her fired. “Would you be available for lunch today? I could meet you at Applebee’s near your office.”
“Uh… hold on.” The line went dead.
Minutes passed… well, at least one minute, and I thought she’d hung up, when I heard, “I’ve got a client at noon. I could do a late lunch at say 1:30?”
“That’ll work.”
“I’ll be hungry, so bring your credit card,” she added with a mischievous giggle.
“Of course,” I said, but she’d already hung up. Lunch could be interesting.
When I arrived at 1:20 p.m., Applebee’s parking in Doylestown hadn’t thinned out much from the noon time crowd. I trudged to the entry from the far corner of the lot, hoping to grab a table and keep my eye on the front door for Karen. Our contretemps had happened four years earlier, so the odds of Karen going postal when she saw me were negligible; but still, I wondered if I shouldn’t have suggested the snack shop in the courthouse where we’d have gone through metal detectors. Hell, with my stomach in knots I wasn’t even hungry. There were a couple people ahead of me at the check-in podium, and when it came my turn I asked for a booth, saying someone would be joining me. A pimply-faced kid, young enough to be my son—if I’d had a teen pregnancy—escorted me to my seat, left two menus, and told me that Jeff would be our server.
Between time spent scanning the front door and checking my watch I studied the memorabilia that lined the walls of the restaurant. I was seated below publicity photos of Lando Calrissian and Boba Fett from the Star Wars saga and vinyl records like the ones my parents used to listen to pinned to the walls.
By 1:40 p.m. just when I figured Karen for a no-show, I heard her yoo-hooing as she steamed toward the table wearing a bright orange cowl neck sweater. Halloween wasn’t for six more weeks. She carried a clutch purse too small to hold even a snub nose revolver.
“Sorry I’m late,” Karen said as she slid onto the padded bench opposite me and brushed back her long brown hair with her fingers. “Natalie stopped me just before I left and asked me to approve a couple of home visit requests from Maple Grove.”
“Oh,” I said, as nonchalantly as I could under the circumstances. Was she baiting me? Karen sending a juvenile home from Maple Grove for a weekend without securing my approval had been the cause of our dispute four years earlier. I still remembered the kid’s name: Fred Galindo. He showed up at my office on a Friday afternoon, and I thought he’d run away from the institution. After I called, I learned that Karen and Bob Matthews had sent him home in response to a desperate call from his mother claiming that Fred’s grandmother was hospitalized and not expected to live. If they’d checked with the probation office first, they’d have learned that Fred had no living grandparents, and that his mother had milked that excuse once before when they’d missed a court appearance.
“Yeah,” Karen said, as she opened and scanned the menu. “I spotted a name on the list that I had to turn down, and needed to make a few phone calls.” She added, “Their ribs are good here.”
Okay. It sounded like she’d let bygones be bygones, but I found myself watching her warily over the top of my menu.
Our waiter appeared to take our drink orders and tried to foist a greasy appetizer on us. “I’m waiting for the good stuff,” Karen announced.
“I still remember that case of yours,” Karen continued, after turning her menu face down on the table, “you know the one we sent home without authorization.”
Uh, oh… here it comes.
“Now that the shoe is on the other foot, I see how totally right you were.”
I exhaled. “I don’t remember,” I lied, adding, “But knowing me, I may have overreacted.”
She flapped a hand, as if to say don’t worry about it, and I suddenly regained my appetite. “I’m starving. Get whatever you want, Karen. My treat.”
Our waiter returned a few minutes later to see if we had any questions about the menu. We ordered, Karen the ribs and me a medium-well sirloin, and then I launched into my story about Jeremy Young and finding the porn videos. I also recapped my visit to Tim Shaw’s mother and confirmed that we’d found Tim’s picture on the same porn site. “So we’re concerned that there might be a tie-in to Maple Grove.”
“Oh my God.” Karen’s jaw sagged. “Child pornography. That’s terrible.”
“I agree. But it’s not exactly child pornography. Tim’s nineteen, and Jeremy was seventeen when he ran away in July but turned eighteen last month,” I explained. “Not sure how old he was when the video was made. We’d like to locate Jeremy, but if somebody is recruiting porn talent from Maple Grove, I’m sure the institution will have a vested interest in bringing it to a halt.”
“Absolutely!”
“So what can you tell me about Maple Grove?”
Karen cleared her throat. “It ruined my marriage, what else do you need to know.”
“Natalie told me you and Bob had separated. I’m sorry.” I couldn’t help notice that she no longer wore a wedding band, but in its place was an intricately carved agate cameo ring that could have been a family heirloom.
Our food arrived, and we put our conversation on hold while we dug into it like starving sailors on shore leave.
“Natalie never heard the whole story.” Karen dabbed at rib sauce on the corner of her mouth. “I found out Bob was having an affair with Jill Baker.”
My jaw dropped. “Kevin’s wife?�
�
“Yep.”
“We heard the Bakers left,” I said. “The Freeman’s are cottage parents there now. Jeremy was staying in Reflection cottage.”
“Apparently my husband was spending a good deal of time there as well. It turns out Kevin Baker was doing maintenance work at the school during daytime hours—with the blessing of the administration—and Bob started hanging out with Jill while I thought he was in town running errands. We were in Courage cottage.” I nodded that I remembered. “After our split,” Karen continued, “Carolyn Whiting got rid of all four of us, since they wanted only couples managing the cottages.”
“So Kevin and Jill separated too?”
“Oh yeah, Jill and Bob are living together in a clothing-optional commune up in Potter County.”
“What?” I screamed.
Karen cackled. “I had you, didn’t I? I’m sure I sound bitter. You should hear me after two margaritas.”
I stared at her in disbelief.
“Well, they’re together; that part’s accurate.” She sipped ice tea and rolled her eyes. “Living in a house with solar panels on the roof, a stove that burns wood pellets, and a composting no-flush toilet—monasteries have more comforts!” Karen must have seen the shock on my face as she crossed her heart and said, “No lie. Bob’s always been a real eco-friendly-outdoorsy-tree-hugging kind of guy. Me: I couldn’t survive more than ten miles from a Target store.”
I suppressed a chuckle.
“Go ahead. Laugh. It’s true. They say opposites attract, and Bob and I were polar opposites. I keep asking myself what I saw in him.”
I thought about Oliver Reynolds and my questioning of what he saw in me. I didn’t think we were opposites; time would tell. But, like Karen just said, I needed to discover what I see in him.
Karen popped a French fry in her mouth, and chewed as she said, “I keep telling myself it’s for the best, before we had any children.”
“You stay in touch with him?” I asked, adding, “I might want to talk with him and Jill about my missing person.”
“It’s been a few months. But I have his cell phone number.”
I scrambled in my purse for a piece of paper and a pen, and shoved them at her so she could write the number. “Are they employed?”
“Part-time jobs mostly. Bob’s pretty handy with cars, and picked up two or three days a week at a Ford dealership handling alignments and tire rotation. Last I heard Jill was trying to start her own house cleaning business. Kevin Baker and I were the spouses with the social work credentials Maple Grove wanted.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“He’s at the Lancaster County Jail.”
Karen was full of surprises.
“I mean he works there. Kevin has an MSW, and they needed a social worker. He’s from that area, and his parents have a home there. We jilted partners landed on our feet.”
“Do you have his contact information?”
“Not with me.” Karen handed back the paper with Bob’s cell phone number. “I can e-mail you.”
As I tucked that paper in my purse, I retrieved the photo of the woman from the porn video and handed it to Karen. “Recognize her?”
She stared at the photograph for a few moments, scrunched her mouth into a crooked line, and then turned the paper sideways as if that might produce a spark of recognition.
“‘Fraid not. Natalie showed us this picture at our staff meeting.”
Oh, right. I’d forgotten.
“Who is she?” Karen asked.
“The woman in the porn video with the young man we’re trying to find.”
Karen glanced at the picture again. “Kinda old to be having sex with a teenager isn’t she?”
“Well,” I explained, “the video is called Cougar Dreams.”
“Ha,” she scoffed. “Honey, to an eighteen year old you and I are cougars. Her sell-by date expired a few years ago. Why would anybody pay good money to watch that?”
“You’d be surprised.” I finished the last of my steak.
“Oh nothing surprises me anymore. Working with juvenile delinquents and their families I feel like I’ve seen it all, and I just turned thirty. I have to work hard not to get jaded.”
“I know what you mean,” I muttered on automatic pilot, while I contemplated the fact that 1) she already sounded jaded, and 2) I hadn’t gained very much from this conversation.
Our waiter appeared. “Will you ladies be having dessert?”
“None for me,” Karen said, clutching her stomach. “I’m stuffed.”
“Just the check,” I said, and turned back to Karen. “What are your impressions of Carolyn Whiting?”
“The woman who fired me?” Karen countered.
“Okay. I’ll take whatever you say with a grain of salt.”
“Martha Amendola hired Bob and me five years ago. I liked her. We’d been married less than a year; she took us under her wing and made sure we understood the pressures of living in a fishbowl with a dozen teenage boys. She urged us to get an apartment for our days off, which we did.”
“Carolyn Whiting,” I repeated, trying to refocus the conversation.
She held up her index finger. “I’m getting there. Martha made it a point to circulate, visit the cottages, she knew almost every boy by name. Carolyn on the other hand tends to stay in the ivory tower. You see Carolyn on her turf, and she uses spies to ferret out rumors. Except Carolyn never uncovered Bob’s infidelity. I did that, and by then it was too late.”
“Spies?” That would be the first question Brad would ask me when I recounted her story.
“Her administrative assistant, people like that.” She gave a wave of her hand, like I should already know the complete list.
“I’m sure we’ll be having another meeting with Carolyn Whiting about the porn videos.”
“Good luck with that.” Karen swiveled in her seat, apparently checking to see who might be within earshot, then whispered, “You know she’s a lesbian?”
How am I supposed to deal with that? Pretend I heard thespian? I hate it when people dump their prejudices out in the middle of the table and try to suck me into a maelstrom of bigotry. I’d witnessed that with parents of the probationers I worked with who tried to blame their kid’s inopportune circumstances on a black judge or a gay teacher. I ought to ask Karen how good Carolyn is in bed and see if that shut her up. I opted for a different question. “And you know that how?”
“Well… uh,” she sputtered. “I mean everyone talked about it. They say her lover works in the cafeteria, and Carolyn stays late and picks her up every night on the way home.”
They say? “I thought the director had a furnished house on the grounds?”
Karen nodded. “But Carolyn doesn’t use it.”
“How long have you worked in the probation office?”
“Just about six months,” Karen said, proudly.
“And how many juvenile court hearings have you attended in that time?” I asked.
“Let’s see… three or four a month. Maybe twenty.”
“In how many of those hearings did you see attorneys allow a witness to get away with using ‘they say’ in court testimony?”
Karen’s eyelids fluttered. I’d left her speechless.
Chapter Eleven
Derek Young slipped off his jeans and stuffed them into his gym bag, then pulled on a pair of well-worn gray sweatpants. That Thursday afternoon he’d stayed a few minutes late in the warehouse waiting for his second shift replacement. The shop operated 24/7 and management wouldn’t tolerate any downtime; rather than park his forklift and have the foreman asking questions, he waited for Neil to arrive.
Exiting the locker for the weight room, Derek first smelled the coconut oil then heard Manford Taylor huffing and puffing amidst the thrum of the elliptical.
“Hey,” Derek said as he rounded the corner. Manford’s head bobbed in greeting, and the grunts continued.
“Take it easy man. You don’t have to set any re
cords.”
Sweat glistened on the black man’s bare chest, and when Manford reached to grab his left wrist with his right hand, Derek feared he might be having a heart attack. He double-checked the pocket of his sweats to make sure he’d brought his cell phone with him.
“Slow down, Manford,” Derek repeated. “Come on I’ll spot you on the bench press.”
Manford eased the elliptical trainer to a stop, dismounted and sat on the bench. He wiped his face with a towel, and stared toward the exit door. “You’re late. Wasn’t sure you was comin’.”
“I waited for Neil.”
“Man that dude fucks you over all the time, makin’ you wait.”
Derek shrugged. “It’s okay.”
Manford drew in several deep breaths and huffed them out before he said, “Did you hear they might hire women to work in the warehouse?”
“Yeah.” The rumor had floated for weeks, and a lot of guys were angling to get jobs for their wives, girlfriends, and sisters.
Manford snorted. “That means they’ll restrict the weight room.”
“How so?” Derek asked.
“We only got one locker room. The women will want equal time in here.
“I’m sure they can find space for a women’s locker room.”
“Yeah. But they ain’t gonna build another shower room.” Manford winked. “We gonna have to share.” A broad grin crossed his face. “I’d be down with that.”
“I’m sure you would.” Derek slapped him on the shoulder. “Lay back old man. I’ll start you with one-hundred pounds. It’ll take your mind off sex.”
Manford groaned as he lay back on the bench. Derek was relieved that his breathing seemed more regular. Derek added twenty pound weights to either end of the bar, securing them in place.
“Take a lot more than a hundred pounds to stop me from thinking about sex.” Manford reached up, rolled his fingers around the bar and lifted, pressing it toward the ceiling twice in quick succession.
“Take it easy man,” Derek said. “This isn’t a race. Ten reps, then rest, followed by ten more. Then it’s my turn.”
