Could anything appear further removed from the brutal and bitter world of battered children?
“Hey, Sophie!” said a girl busily banding up masses of chin-length black hair into two stubbypigtails. “Don’t give him Goldfish! Last time we got Beanie home from a meet, you guys had been stuffing him full of junk and he yakked all over my mom’s Oriental carpet. Come here, Beanie boy,” she cooed, finishing confining her hair to reach out for her dog.
Beanie the schnauzer looked up at the sound of his name, an expression of utter innocence on his face. Sally wondered how any animal that looked that much like a photo negative of Groucho Marx could also appear the soul of guilelessness. All black, with white eyebrows, white whiskers, and fluffy white shins, he was, she had to admit, adorable. Very useful, Sally thought, if you were the kind of dog who thought being stuffed with Goldfish and Fritos and Cheez-Its was heaven enough to put up with a bit of barfing later on, if indeed you had a big enough brain to make the connection. Beanie looked intelligent enough, but he probably had a brain the size of a walnut.
Sally’d had a black Lab. They loved people as much as schnauzers, but theyhad a little more dignity, she thought. A spear of longing for that dog, struck down by a speeder on Hilgard Avenue in L.A., stabbed through her. She shook it off.
Mike Stark caught sight of them. “Hey, Sally, Hawk. Are you guys big track fans?” he asked.
“Actually,” Sally told him, “we were hoping to get a chance to talk with your daughter.”
The girl with the pigtails raised enormous brown eyes. The dog whimpered in her lap, wagged his stumpy tail, licked her hand. “I’m Aggie,” she said. “And you’re Sally Alder.”
“Wow!” said a freckle-faced girl with mile-long legs and a mouthful of braces. “You’re the one who got her hat shot off at the Wrangler Bar!”
Sally took a moment. It wasn’t the sort of thing one put on one’s résumé, but as claims to fame went, it wasn’t half bad. “Yep,” said Sally, “guess so.”
“She’s also the professor who lived in Miss Dunwoodie’s house and writes all those books, Jenny,” Aggie told her friend. “It’s not like people go around getting their hats shot off every day or anything.”
“You know about my books?” Sally asked.
“Duh!” said Aggie. “Like, my aunt Maude worked for Miss Dunwoodie for about a thousand years. And she’s your boss now, right? If you don’t write books, don’t they fire you or something?”
“Not hardly,” Aggie’s freckled friend retorted. “Once you’re a professor, you have to be a serial killer or something to get fired.”
“Julie just called me on my cell, saying you all were coming down here,” Mike interjected. “Ag, why don’t you give me the dog, and go over there and talk to Sally and Hawk for a few minutes. Your next event isn’t for half an hour anyhow.”
Sally gave him a grateful smile. “We won’t be long,” she said, as they walked up the steps and found a vacant bench.
Sally got right to the point. “Aggie, I just wanted to let you know that I’m really worried about Charlie Preston. She’s my student,” Sally explained. “She came to see me right before she left town. I gave her some money and a black wool coat.”
Aggie nodded, saying nothing.
“Any chance you already knew that?” Hawk prompted.
Aggie cocked one eyebrow, then nodded again.
“Feel free to use your words,” Hawk said.
Aggie laughed. “Sorry. I don’t like to talk to adults about Charlie. I mean, my mom and dad are cool and all, but Charlie has enough problems without me ratting her out to some grown-up who comes on all well-meaning, but who’ll just get her busted and sent back to her dad...oh.”
Aggie looked down at the ground, shook herself. “I guess she won’t be getting sent back to him anymore.”
“Aggie,” Sally said, putting a hand on the girl’s arm. “Charlie could be in danger. At the very least, she’s in a lot of trouble. Somebody beat her up before she left.”
Aggie looked up now, her face fierce. “For a change! Do you know how many times they did it to her? She told me it used to be a weekly thing. She didn’t say much more than that. But I figured some of it out. Her shoulders were all scarred from where they’d used a belt on her, buckle end out.”
Sally closed her eyes, took a slow breath.
“If somebody did that to me, I’d get as far away as possible, and cover my tracks,” Hawk said quietly.
“If they did it to me, I’d bust a cap in ’em,” said sweet little Aggie.
Sally swallowed an inappropriate laugh, composed herself for a serious question. “Aggie, do you think somebody did?”
“You mean,” she asked, “do I think that Charlie killed her dad? No! Well... I don’t know . . . it’s pretty hard to believe. I mean, with everything he did to her and all, you’d think she’d want to. But mostly she just seemed sad and scared all the time. Like she thought everything bad that happened to her was her own fault.”
“It’s like that a lot with people who’ve been hurt the way Charlie’s been hurt,” Sally told the girl. “Get beaten on and belittled enough, you start to believe you deserve what you get.”
Aggie pressed her lips together, scratched at a scab on her knee.
“But you didn’t think she deserved it, did you, Aggie? You’re her friend,” Hawk said.
Aggie nodded again, eyes intent on her knee. Then she looked up. “Nobody deserves it. That’s what Billy kept telling her.”
“Billy?” Hawk said.
“Billy Reno,” Aggie told them. “He’s Charlie’s boyfriend. He’s got this really sick tattoo of a dragon that winds from his wrist up across his shoulders and around his neck.”
“That does sound sick,” Sally said.
“ ‘Sick,’ ” Hawk told her, “means ‘cool.’ Try to keep up, Sal.”
Sally leaned in. “Aggie,” she said, “I don’t want to keep you. I know you’ve got to get ready for your race. But is there the slightest chance you know where Charlie is?”
Aggie’s face went blank. “No,” she said.
“But you’ve heard from her?” Hawk pushed.
“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I know where she is. That’s her business.”
This was one tough fourteen-year-old; there was a lot of Maude in her. And there was no point pushing so hard that she’d clam up permanently. Better to hope for more, another day. “Okay. Fair enough. How about this? Do you have any idea where we might find Billy Reno?”
Aggie considered. “The police probably know already, since he’s on probation. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you. My aunt Maude is the sickest person I know, for somebody who’s like a hundred years old, and she thinks you’re okay.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Sally. “I think Maude’s the best, myself.”
“Okay,” said Aggie. “I gotta go.” She stood, shaking out her long legs. “You can probably find Billy at this apartment he shares with some roommates. It’s up on North Fourth.” She gave the address, started to head down the steps, and turned. “Actually, you might be able to leave a message for Charlie with Billy. I think she might be in touch with him.”
“Can I maybe leave a message for her with you, in case I don’t connect with Billy?” Sally asked, following Aggie as she strode down the steep stadium steps, already putting on her game face.
Aggie turned. Frowned. Shook her shoulders. The pigtails bobbed.
“Come on, Aggie!” yelled one of the long-legged girls, now jogging in place on the grass inside the oval, down on the field. “We need to warm up!”
“What’s the message?” Aggie asked, getting her own legs going.
“Tell her I’ll do anything I can to help. Here.” Sally dug in her pocket, produced a business card. “That’s got my work phone and email on it. I wrote my home and cell phone numbers and my home address down too. Anywhere, any time. Charlie knows they’re looking for her. And I’m not just talking about the cops. It’s possible t
hat she could be in danger from whoever killed her father.”
“And if she’s driving that Miata, she’ll be pretty easy to spot. It’s not like they’re everywhere in Wyoming,” said Hawk.
“Tell her she needs to come back. I can’t protect her, but I’ll do everything in my power to help her out. If she stays out of sight, nobody can do a damn thing for her.”
“Nobody you know,” Aggie said, thrusting the card in the rear pocket of her shorts, impatient to get going.
“You think anybody’s protecting her now?” Hawk asked.
“Do you think,” said Aggie, “anybody ever has?” and took off at a dead run down the hard concrete steps.
Chapter 6
Code Violations
On Monday Sally sat contemplating the menu at El Conquistador, waiting for Edna McCaffrey to arrive for their monthly lunch date. Why she was bothering with the menu, she didn’t know. She always ordered the same thing. Edna always ordered the same thing. They had beer if their afternoons didn’t include any classes, or appointments with people smarter than they were. Sally had a class to teach, and planned to go looking for Billy Reno after that. She was nursing an iced tea.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Edna, dashing to the table. She was wearing a lime-green silk suit that Sally was pretty sure had come from Armani...in Milan. “The provost is on a tear about fund-raising. All us deans are supposed to show balance sheets at the end of the year, with at least twenty million in outside funding in the plus column. It’s one thing if Halliburton is bankrolling your petroleum engineering students to practice their skills for drilling the Alaska National Wildlife Refuge. It’s another thing to try to figure out who wants to be the millionaire to give some English professor a big bunch of money to write about how The Virginian is just another version of Tristan and Isolde.”
The waitress arrived with chips and salsa. Sally and Edna ordered the usual.
“So,” said Sally, loading up a chip with salsa hot enough to take the skin off the roof of her mouth. “I presume you’re about to get on my case about fund-raising.”
Edna grinned. “Obviously, you’ve developed an understanding of how universities work.”
“How all institutions work,” said Sally. “The big boss gets a bug up his ass, and pretty soon, they’re passing the Preparation H down the line.”
Edna raised one eyebrow. “You do have a way with a metaphor, Professor.”
“I merely state the obvious,” said Sally, “and then bend over to take my medicine.”
Edna dipped a chip. “I am eating,” she said.
“Okay. No more metaphors. Who do you want me to—I almost said ‘grease’—approach?” Sally asked.
Edna looked down, drew a little circle with her fingertip on the paper placemat festooned with Wyoming cattle brands. “I’m thinking about corporate gifts to the Dunwoodie Center.”
Sally gave her a one-sided grin. “I don’t think we’re exactly in line for contributions from the oil, coal, and gas guys. And we’re not a military base, so that rules out the government. Who else has big bucks in Wyoming?”
“It’s not about Wyoming, or not exclusively,” said Edna. “Look, Sally. You started with Meg Dunwoodie’s bequest, and you’ve gotten some Hollywood money. You need to enlarge the circle, as they say in the development biz. Think ‘liberal money.’ What Wyoming lefties have the national prominence, and the connections, to bring in bigger money from outside the state?”
Sally thought a minute. “Golly,” she said, “I ought to be able to come up with both their names.”
“You’re so amusing today,” said Edna.
“I live to entertain,” Sally replied.
Their plates arrived. “I’m talking about Dave Haggerty. He’s already given you a nice contribution. He’s not afraid to support the sisterhood. He might be willing to up his own commitment, especially with what happened at that doctor’s office last week. Get him to be your point man, and maybe he can hook you up with people who might be good for a whole hell of a lot more,” Edna said, tucking into her flautas.
“He’s wired to people with that much money?” Sally asked, loading her steaming chicken taco with salsa and biting in.
“He’s the grid,” said Edna. “First of all, he’s on the boards of half the progressive organizations in the U.S. Second, the guy’s got some big bucks himself. Three years ago, he won a huge settlement in a product liability case, which meant that he gets brought in on all kinds of similar suits—on both sides. Sometimes the plaintiffs want his expertise, and sometimes the manufacturers hire him to cover their asses.”
“You mean, he’s on retainer with tobacco companies and the like?” Sally asked.
“I don’t know. There was a piece about him in Mother Jones—the interviewer asked him what he thought the major problem with big business was, and he answered, ‘Big greed.’ And since he does so much pro bono work, it’d be out of character, to say the least, for him to sell out to the biggest greedheads. But the people in the universitydevelopment office, who keep track of charitable giving, tell me he’s started handing out money like somebody who’s got something to prove. He’s not making that money representing the broken and busted. Draw your own conclusions,” Edna answered.
Sallysneered. “And I liked him when I met him,” she said. “Does he also go hunting with Supreme Court justices?”
“No. But I hear he plays chess with Paul Allen from time to time.”
“Microsoft Paul Allen?” Sally gaped.
Edna grinned.
“So, maybe I should set up a meeting with him,” said Sally.
“Sort of lay out my vision for the center, ask his advice.”
“If it were me,” said Edna, “I’d buy him dinner at the Yippie I O first, just to get acquainted. It wouldn’t be a big chore. From what I’ve seen, he’s a pretty fascinating guy.”
From what Sally’d seen, Dave Haggerty had tiger eyes and an interesting mouth. “I don’t know about that.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Sally. You think he’s never been out for a business dinner? Or are you worried Hawk will object?”
“Hawk understands the demands of business,” Sally said. “I’m sure he’s done his share of working dinners with attractive women.”
“If I’m not mistaken,” Edna said, “Professor Green’s job requires him to spend days at a time camped in remote locations with graduate students, some of whom are females. Some of whom are triathletes who enjoy exhibiting their muscle tone. And you don’t seem to have any objection to those professional responsibilities.”
“Professor Green,” said Sally, “is a free man in a free country. I don’t inquire about muscle tone.”
Edna smirked. “So why would he have a problem with a business dinner? Or is it you who has the problem? Just do it. You’re getting way ahead of yourself.”
She was right, Sally reflected. Better slow that Mustang down. “All right,” she said, “I’ll give Haggerty a call.”
“It’s not as if I’m asking you to suck up to somebody really odious,” Edna said. “Although I certainly reserve the right to do that. In fact, maybe I should give you a long list of loathsome people to court. Might keep you out of trouble,” she finished.
Okay. All right. Right away. Sally told herself she’d just take a stab at finding Billy Reno, then she’d get down to business and make the call to Dave Haggerty.
Maybe it was the size of the town; maybe it was just that, as Lorelei Lee, the gentleman’s favorite blond, had observed, fate kept on happening. When Sally pulled up in front of the dilapidated two-story duplex at the address she’d gotten from Aggie Stark, a small crowd was gathered on the sidewalk. A sheriff’s deputy was stapling a notice to one of the front doors. Three young men in baggy pants and limp T-shirts stood smoking cigarettes and watching morosely as another deputy tossed a motley assortment of gear on top of a heap of similar stuff in the front yard. But the crowd on the sidewalk was focused on Dickie Lang-ham, sucking on a Mar
lboro of his own, leaning against his truck, getting an earful from none other than Dave Haggerty, casually dressed in jeans and a fleece jacket.
“Come on, Sheriff,” Sally heard Haggerty say as she worked her way into the midst of the onlookers. “My clients paid their rent on time. And what about their right to be safe in their own home? Broken light fixtures, appliances with shorts, bare wires hangin’ out all over the place—it’s no wonder they had a fire in here! I thought you people were public safety officers.”
“ ’Course we are, Dave,” Dickie told him in a soothing voice. “The building inspector’s been here a time or two and cited the management company for code violations. According to the paperwork I’ve got, the place has been brought up to code. It’s not clear who’s responsible for those broken light fixtures, I’ll grant you, but I might mention that your clients,” he said, gesturing toward the young men, “appear to have done some damage to the place themselves. There’s trash everywhere, spray-painted graffiti on the walls; hell, somebody ripped the bathroom door right off the hinges! It don’t exactly look like these lads have spent their time in this place memorizing Bible verses and polishing their Eagle Scout badges.”
“They’re entitled to the protection of the law,” Haggerty retorted. “This morning at seven A.M., the apartment manager came into their apartment without knocking, waving a forty-four, yelling, ‘If you punks don’t get the hell off this propertyin fifteen minutes, I’ll blow everydamn one of you to Kingdom Come!’ No prior notice of eviction, not to mention the threat of bodily harm. What do you plan to do about that?”
Dickie contemplated his cigarette, flicked the ash. “Maybe tell him to watch his language?”
“Come on, Sheriff. The guy manages half the slum properties in town. The owners rent to kids who don’t know jack shit about their renters’ rights, and half the time they end up getting evicted, taken to court, and charged for enough repairs and renovations to build the Trump Tower. We get a case like this every day at the university law clinic. It’s a slumlord’s racket, and you know it!”
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