by Jayne Blue
“Another job interview?”
I smiled wider than necessary and hoped Old Phil couldn’t read me. My prospects had dried up since word probably got out about my phony criminal record to the other schools in the district.
“Another client,” I said. Doing home-care visits for private clients was just supposed to tide me over until the job at Collingwood started in the fall. Now it might have to be how I survived for a while until I could clear things up with the background check. “I’ll be gone most of the day, so don’t wait up.” I gave Old Phil a wink.
“Oh? Someplace nice, I hope. You know it’s still pretty shitty on the east side of town. You’re not going there, are you?”
“Nope. This one’s on the up and up, Phil. Out of town though. A very rich client in Royal Oak. Don’t wait up for me.” I blew Old Phil a kiss as he pounded on the top of my car and shot me a thumbs up. Young Phil yelled something off color at his father and I waved back at him too.
The drive did me good. Cleared my head. Plus, I was headed to one of my favorite jobs on the planet. Tyler Smith. Tyler was just about to enter the seventh grade, junior high in his school district. He had a severe case of dyslexia and his parents hired me to work with him with language therapy through the summer on the recommendation of one of his teachers. Tyler was sweet, shy, and eager to learn. He was also one of the hardest-working kids I’d ever helped. Still, he had an uphill battle ahead of him come fall. Algebra would be a killer.
Mrs. Smith waited on the front porch, talking on her cell, when I pulled into their gated community. The Smith’s house had a huge circular drive and they liked me to park behind the house. She didn’t like cars blocking the view. At least, that’s what she said. The truth was, she didn’t care for the looks of my older Ford Taurus. But I couldn’t very well afford a silver Mercedes like hers on per diem.
“Good morning!” I waved as I stepped out of the car. I caught Tyler peeking out of the front window. He darted back toward the kitchen as I approached.
“Good luck,” Judy Smith said, holding her hand over the speaker on her phone. “Ty was a pistol this morning. Couldn’t get him to sit still to practice piano.”
Tyler also had attention deficit issues, not at all uncommon for kids like him with reading disabilities. It was kind of a chicken-and-egg proposition. Either he had trouble focusing because it was so hard for him to process words, or it was hard to read because he couldn’t focus. The Smiths tended to try every latest fad with him. This month she had him on a special diet he hated.
“Well, I’ll take it easy on him then.”
“Oh no, you won’t. That’s not what we’re paying you for, Stella.”
I cringed as I walked past her. I knew she meant well, but Judy Smith could be a bit of a stone-cold bitch.
“Ty?” I walked into the kitchen, heaving my messenger bag over my shoulder. “Hey, buddy!”
Tyler sat with his hands folded at the kitchen table. He kept his upper body perfectly still, but tapped his feet wildly. I shot a glance behind me. Judy Smith had moved off toward her rose garden, phone still in hand. I pulled out the small rubber disk I kept in my bag just for Tyler. His wiggle seat. It was a small, rotating disk that allowed him to shift his weight around in the seat while more or less staying still. Without it, our lessons took twice as long because he needed to get up and move. I didn’t mind, but Judy Smith had the kid overscheduled and this helped us stay on task. The seat was really designed for younger kids and Mrs. Smith hated it, but it helped whether she liked it or not.
“I brought more of those math games you liked so much last time. Let’s see how many we can get through.” Tyler’s face lit up. We were working on multiple-step equations. His Achilles’ heel. He had problems tracking from left to right and memorizing numbers so we worked on strategies to help him break things down more simply. Tyler worked quietly throughout the morning, but I could tell something was bothering him. He kept pulling at a patch of hair on his left temple.
“What’s up, buddy?” I finally asked him after he finished my first worksheet. “You’re doing awesome. What’s got you stressed?”
He put his pencil down. “Miss Terry, we had orientation yesterday. At the junior high.”
“That’s right! Exciting. Did you get to meet your teachers?”
“Yeah. They seemed cool.” Tyler’s face fell and his fingers curled back in his hair.
I nudged him with my shoulder. “But what? Do you have any of your friends in your classes?”
He raised a brow and sighed. “I’m in Resource Room for everything. It’s the same kids every year.”
“Right. So what gives? Last time we talked you were super stoked about starting school.”
He put his head down on the table and looked up at me, his wide brown eyes blinking furiously. “Lockers,” he finally said.
“What, too small? Do you have to share again?”
“No.” Tyler smashed his forehead against the table. With no other options, I rested my head on the table next to his and tapped his shoulder.
“Spit it out, buddy. What’s got you stressed?”
“They had us try those combination locks. I was the only kid who couldn’t open mine. Some of the kids laughed at me and said I’m going to flunk seventh grade if I don’t know my left from my right. But I do. I just don’t get it. I kept forgetting which side the thirty-seven was from the thirty-five. Why can’t they just put numbers on those things instead of all those little lines?”
I rubbed his back. “Well, let’s add that to the list of things to practice. We’ve got six weeks. And I’ve got a couple of tricks up my sleeve.”
I’d worked with another kid with similar deficits as Tyler’s. We’d come up with a relatively easy fix that only slightly defaced school property. As it happened, I had a combination lock in my messenger bag along with a change of gym clothes.
“Find me a Sharpie,” I told him. “Any color.”
Tyler raised a brow and went to the kitchen. He smacked a red Sharpie into my outstretched hand like it was a surgeon’s scalpel. I marked the stopping points on the combo lock by filling in the lines with the red Sharpie, then I wrote down the combination. “Give that a try. I’m guessing your eyes are playing tricks on you. It can be hard to remember what those little lines mean on either side of the numbers for anybody.”
Tyler’s forehead creased as he concentrated on opening the lock. His first two attempts didn’t work, but the third one did. Big smile. My heart just about burst. Screw math problems. This was a breakthrough.
“Will they let me do that at school?”
I shrugged. “Worst-case scenario, what they don’t know won’t hurt ’em. Just find a wing man. Somebody you trust to stand in front of you while you mark up your locker. And if it’s a problem, you call me. We’ll figure it out.”
Tyler hugged me. I laughed and smoothed a hand down his back.
“All right, buddy, don’t get soft on me now. That could have been beginner’s luck. I’ll bring a couple more of those next week and see how you do.”
“Is time up already?”
“Afraid so. And you’ve got a piano lesson after lunch, haven’t you?”
“I fucking hate piano.” Tyler’s eyes went wide and it took everything in me not to burst out laughing.
I put a finger up to my lips. “Easy. I’ll let you off with a warning on that one.” I reached out and messed with his hair. “I better get going. I’m late for another appointment. You can keep that lock. Work with it this week and we’ll see what’s what.”
“Thanks,” he said.
Judy Smith appeared in the hallway tapping her foot. She didn’t like Tyler going even a minute over schedule. It was good for him, even though he hated it. I packed up my supplies and gave her a smile as I passed her in the hallway. She didn’t return it but just held a check out in front of my face. I gritted my teeth as I took it and headed out the door.
Judy Smith’s resting bitch face notwithstandin
g, I was in a damn good mood. Seeing Tyler’s face light up would be enough to keep me going for a long time. Working with kids like him was usually a one-step-up-two-steps-sideways proposition. It wasn’t every day we could claim a solid, legitimate breakthrough. But when they did happen, I felt like I could conquer the world and I knew he did too.
Maybe I got a little overzealous. I opened the window and sang to the latest Tory Kelly song at the top of my lungs. I’d forgotten where I was for a second and maybe hit the gas a little too hard. I made the turn onto the main road heading into town. After passing the second streetlight, a siren bleeped behind me.
A patrol car pulled in behind me and flashed his headlights twice. Shit. I looked at my odometer. I was doing fifty. What was it? Forty-five? I waved my hand and pulled to the curb.
Waiting with my hands on the steering wheel, I took a deep breath and blew it out. Had I remembered to put my current registration in the glove box? My insurance card was in my wallet along with my driver’s license. I hit the window button as the officer approached. He was big, solid like a bodybuilder. He peered down into my window.
“You know why I pulled you over, ma’am?”
“Was I going too fast?”
“You’re in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone. Did you know that? You were twenty over.”
Dammit. It was so careless of me. I gave him a weak smile and motioned toward my messenger bag. He let me get out my wallet and I handed him my identification.
“Sit tight,” he said as he walked back to his vehicle.
So much for everything I’d told Mitch about driving like an old lady. I deserved a ticket if he gave me one, but I was hoping maybe this guy would let me off with a warning. Points on my license was the last thing I needed. I was trying to cut my monthly bills, not add to them.
It seemed to take forever as he punched my information into his dashboard computer. Finally, he started walking back. His posture was different. Straighter. From my side mirror I saw him put his hand over his weapon.
“Ma’am,” he said, taking a wide stance at my window. “I’m going to need you to step out of your vehicle and put your hands behind your head. Now.”
“ hat?” My heart thundered in my chest. How the hell fast had I been going?
“Out of your vehicle. Hands on your head.”
A mistake. Just like the letter from the Collingwood principal. Had he pulled the false record the same way the State Police did?
“You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent …”
The staccato beat of the pulse in my ears drowned out the rest of his words. The ground in front of me seemed to wave from side to side as if I were looking at it from underwater. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t me.
He got to the end and asked me if I understood. I nodded stupidly and tried to turn. The officer’s hands came up and he pushed me against the hood of the car. He didn’t hurt me, but moved quickly and put my wrists in handcuffs. In some back corner of my brain I knew how important it was for him to keep me secure. I could be anyone. Except I wasn’t. I was me. This was happening to me. He put a hand on my shoulder and helped me upright. He called for backup into the radio on his shoulder.
Arrest. He was placing me under arrest?
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He put a firm hand on my upper arm and started walking me back to his patrol car. He was going to put me in that thing? Cars slowed as they passed us. Gawkers. Fingers pointing. I tried to look away. Oh God. What must all of these people think? I’ll admit it. I’ve done something similar a thousand times. You pass by as you see a car pulled over. Drugs? Were they speeding? Thank God that’s not me. Except this time it was.
And then Judy Smith’s silver Mercedes slowed to a crawl as she passed by. Tyler was in the front seat beside her. His eyes went wide as he recognized me. Judy’s did too. I shook my head then looked down. But it was too late. Both Judy and Tyler Smith watched as the officer placed a hand over my head and put me in the back of his patrol car. They saw everything. Handcuffs and all.
Chapter Five
Mitch
Sitting in traffic. A proctology exam. Getting my thumb smashed with a hammer. I ticked off a list of all the places I’d rather be than where I was, sitting outside Dr. Ken Bardwell, PhD’s office on a Tuesday afternoon at four o’clock. His secretary, a girl almost young enough to be my daughter if I’d had her right out of high school sat behind a circular desk with a wide, red-lipped smile. She’d just got done telling me how lucky I was Dr. Bardwell had a cancellation and could get me in. Yep. Lucky. That was me all right.
“Detective?” Ken Bardwell poked his head out of his office and motioned for me to follow him in. A shitty little building this was. Used to be a strip mall if memory served. The walls were dingy white with water stains on the ceiling. By contrast, his inner office was painted bright yellow with colorful copies of famous Impressionist paintings on every wall. Bardwell motioned toward a sitting area in the corner. I half expected a couch, but he just had two comfortable chairs around an end table, his desk on the opposite wall.
“Thanks for being flexible,” he said, his tone light, casual. Dr. Ken Bardwell, PhD wore a navy-blue suit with a paisley tie. He was bald, but it looked intentional. The shadow of stubble covered his head where the light caught it. I’d put him in his mid-fifties. Five ten, athletic build. He regarded me with deep-set blue eyes and a non-threatening smile as he waited for me to pick a chair.
I knew this routine. Put me at ease. Make me think I had some level of control over this interview. Shit, I’d been doing crap like this for probably longer than he had his shingle. I raised a brow and took the chair facing the door. I didn’t figure that surprised him. He knew who I was. He knew what I did for a living. His salary came from my union dues.
“No problem,” I said. That’s all I wanted to say. I wouldn’t pretend otherwise. We both knew I wouldn’t be here if Chief Lewandowski and my steward hadn’t forced me. I’d been told in no uncertain terms that Judge Pierce was a bigger problem than I’d realized. That I’d picked the wrong hornet’s nest to kick. I disagreed. But Stan called my bluff. I wasn’t ready to lose my badge over it. So eight therapy sessions with the union shrink it was. It would have been six, but I’d won a small battle. The union refused to make me apologize in writing or verbally. Good on me.
“Look,” Bardwell started, “we can get a few things out of the way. I know you’re not here of your own volition. If you had your way, we’d probably never cross paths. As much as I hate to say it, a lot of my clients come to me that way.”
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my leg at the knee. Build a rapport. Put the subject at ease. Don’t talk about anything that matters in the first few minutes. Yeah, I knew this routine too. I was better at it.
“We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about.”
I bit back the answer I wanted to give him. What if I don’t want to talk about anything? He could play the Good Will Hunting routine if he wanted to. I could almost write his report for him. Subject is evasive. Defensive. Deflects with humor. Well, I hadn’t done the last bit yet, but give me time.
“Well, that doesn’t leave us much room,” I said.
“Detective, do you mind if I call you Mitch?”
I shrugged. “I don’t mind.”
“Good. And I’m Ken, okay?”
I nodded.
“Let’s just get a couple of things out of the way. What happens in this room stays in this room. I’m not here to trick you. I don’t work for or report to IA. I’m here for you. And I get that you’d probably preferred they sent you to a proctologist than to me.”
I couldn’t help it, he got a genuine laugh out of me. “Yeah. Well. Anger management, is that what they told you? I suppose you got the same marching orders either way. Probe the asshole.”
Ken laughed. “Something like that. But you need to know something. I was a cop first. Before I became a therapist, I mean. Twent
y years with Toledo Police. I worked the streets for ten of that. The rest as a homicide detective.”
I gave him a nod and leaned back in my chair. Yeah, it mattered a little. Not a lot, but a little. At least I knew he hadn’t spent his life behind a desk or in a textbook.
“So how does this work?” I asked.
“Don’t you already know that?” Bardwell reached over and grabbed a brown file folder off his desk. He licked his thumb and flipped the pages. “You’ve been through this routine before, haven’t you?”
Bam. Less than five minutes and he got to it. He was smooth. He would have been an asset in the room down with TPD, I was sure. And yeah. I knew how this worked. After Brian’s death, they made a lot of us work with grief counselors. I hated it then, and I hated this now. But in both cases, there wasn’t a fat lot I could do about it.
“They gave you my personnel file?”
Bardwell put a hand up in surrender. “No. Nothing like that. But you were referred to grief counseling before. And you’ve had a couple of critical incidents.”
“Pretty standard fare.” Bardwell’s eyebrow went up. He closed the file and set it in his lap.
“Well, I guess that all depends. So tell me what a computer crimes detective does. You feel comfortable starting there?”
I shrugged. “A little bit of everything. If you’re working a homicide and the victim had a cell phone on him, you send it to me and I let you know what’s on it.”
“Huh. Yeah, I guessed that much. But I recognize you from the news a few months back. You’ve been involved with some pretty nasty cases. Online predators. That sort of thing?”
“There’s a lot of that involved too.”
Bardwell whistled low. “You know, I think homicide sounds better. Sorry, man. But you get to spend your days looking at all the depraved shit people put on their phones and their computers. I don’t think I even want to know.”
“You’re right. You don’t.”
“So what do you do for fun? Got kids? A wife?”
