“Ty never said anything about an uncle. Things were fine at home as far as I knew. His lacrosse coach caused him problems. But that was back when we were in middle school.”
“What kind of problems?” When Chris shifted uneasily, I added bluntly, “Did the coach molest him?”
“No,” Chris said too quickly. He shot a look at Devlin. “Least, I don’t think he did. He had some kind of power over Ty. The coach had his favorites, who would spend time at his house. Ty didn’t talk about what happened there. He said he went to protect the others.”
“Others? Protect them from what?”
Chris shrugged unhappily. “I don’t know.”
“The coach was probably a perv,” Devlin said around a mouthful of pizza. His off-hand remark made my stomach churn.
“Maybe.” Chris’s furrowed brows looked skeptical.
“What’s the name of the coach?” I asked.
Chris shrugged again. “I don’t remember exactly. Lacrosse was never my game. Rich Something?”
My heart jumped. The uncle (and my client) was Rick Jarrell.
“He might have been the assistant coach.” Chris reached for a packet of red peppers.
I sighed. Teen-aged brains functioned worse than my brain-damaged one.
“I know he’s a lawyer.” Chris sprinkled the last slice with hot peppers and stuffed it into his mouth.
Trying to control my breathing, I looked out the window. I’d assumed Richard Jarrell was a lawyer. He’d said something about heading for court when we finished lunch. My mouth went dry. Maybe he’d gone home to entertain twelve-year-old lacrosse players.
Chris said that Tyler was protecting “the others.” What other kids? How could he protect middle school lacrosse players from the coach? Why hadn’t he reported the problem to an adult? How could a teenaged boy protect these others from an adult who knew how to manipulate the legal system?
I peppered Chris with these questions. “I dunno,” was the only answer I received. I believed him too. I had plumbed the guileless depths of other adolescents. I know the difference between acting ignorant and being ignorant.
I focused on the timeline. Why were we talking about middle school when Tyler started fighting after entering high school, left home when he was fifteen, and his last contact with Chris happened a few months ago when he was seventeen.
“So Tyler stayed in touch with his coach even after he graduated from middle school?” I asked.
“Must have.” Chris’s gaze strayed to the clock above the window. “We about done here? My mother will be home soon. I don’t want to tell her that we’ve been talking about Ty.”
With the clock ticking, I pressed harder. “Why did he stay in contact with the coach, Chris? What did he say to you at the Chino game?”
“East Chino,” he corrected me. Really? He can’t remember the name of a possible pedophile who may have caused his friend to disappear or at least put him at risk for years, but he gets precise about the team he played months ago?
“I don’t remember everything he said.” Chris’s face contorted as he searched his memories. “He asked about one of his sisters, the one going into middle school this year. He asked me for some money. He said he might have to leave town after the game.” His eyebrows raised, hoping I’d be pleased with what he’d retrieved.
Faintly touched that Tyler missed his sister, I leaned forward. “Leave town after what game? The East Chino game?”
His eyes glazed. “I don’t think so. Ty wasn’t much into football.”
He raised a hand triumphantly. “Now I remember. When he ran away from home, it was about a fight at school. He said “Rich’ll kill me if he finds out why, but I gotta stop it when I can. That was the Lacrosse coach’s name. Rich.”
He looked at the clock, and his momentary cheer turned to worry. With a rush, he added, “In high school, he got service credits for working with kids in middle school. You know, helping the coach. When he ran away from home, he said it was because the coach needed help full-time and his parents wouldn’t understand him quitting school to work with him.” Chris looked uneasy again. “‘Cause, you know, it was the only way he could protect the others.”
He exhaled loudly. “I guess I should have asked more questions, but Ty had this thing about being a hero. Not that he called it that, but I think that’s what he meant when he talked about protecting the others. He was kind of like Captain America, helping little guys who can’t help themselves.”
I didn’t know who Captain America was and didn’t want to waste the time by asking. Devlin could explain it later.
“Last question, Chris. What did he need money for?”
We were back to “I dunno” and a last guileless look. “Everyone needs money, Miss Graff.”
We left just in time. Devlin pulled away from the curb as a white Highlander turned into the driveway. I glanced back. The door of the shabby house was closed. Chris’s mother would remain ignorant of her son helping out a hero.
If that was what Tyler was.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the family circle
Dusk had fallen by the time we arrived at our next interview. The Hinshaws lived in a two-story house in Brea with manicured lawns and a security sign near the garage. An unlocked gate led to an open courtyard that eventually led to the front door. The eerie silence in the atrium, all flagstones in a lake of rocks and bushes, made my few nerves sing. When an egret suddenly loomed from a hedge of guava trees, I yelped and grabbed Devlin’s arm.
“It’s okay, Ms. Graff.” He patted my hand awkwardly. “It’s not real. It’s one of those lawn ornaments. See?” It sounded plastic when he rapped it with his knuckles. “I got an aunt whose got a flock of these flamingos. Not to mention a bunch of gnomes too.”
“Flamingo?” I squinted at it till it morphed from the smaller white bird to something more imposing and pink. I exhaled. “Flamingo.” No longer a question.
“Yeah.” He stepped forward and rang the doorbell.
A short woman with grief lines around her eyes answered. She resembled her son from the picture I’d seen in the case file. Her hair was the same wavy black, the mouth like a pink ribbon in a square face. The noses were different, but I suspected Tyler would have preferred the stronger, more masculine nose when saddled with those girlish lips.
“Mrs. Hinshaw? I’m Pam Graff. Thank you for giving us a few minutes of your time.”
She hung on the knob for several seconds too long before she widened the door and gestured us inside. “To your left. My husband thought you’d be more comfortable in his study.”
Our comfort, eh? I tried to keep the sardonic look off my face, but suspected that I wasn’t successful by Devlin’s curious glance. The mother didn’t notice. At the study a second later, the father didn’t care.
Hinshaw glanced at me before he sized up Devlin with a single look. The office proved that it was less about his comfort than with making a statement. Studying the small room of cherry wood furniture, sage green walls and an even paler green carpet, I knew I’d entered a place less an office and more a shrine. Lacrosse trophies filled a bookcase near the door and lined a shelf that ran along the ceiling on two walls. Framed pictures of Tyler from his baby years to middle school sat on the desk and were clustered on a file cabinet. A lacrosse bat and mask decorated a wall.
Alicia Hinshaw distanced herself by sitting in the window seat. She stared into the side yard which dusk had made inky with shadows.
With an air of suppressed defiance, Kenneth Hinshaw took the chair behind the desk. He waved Devlin and me to club chairs opposite him. Behind him, a yard past his elbow, his wife sat half-turned from us.
Hinshaw assessed Devlin again from his oversized shoes to his wide shoulders. “You play lacrosse, kid?”
Devlin shook his head. “No, sir. Football.”
He grunted, dismissing Devlin as unimportant.
I cleared my throat, and Hinshaw finally turned to me. Again that odd look of defianc
e.
“Thank you for seeing us, sir. I know this is painful.”
His Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed hard. “Talking about my son is not painful. Dealing with the lot of you and your precious misconceptions are.”
I wondered about the “lot of you.” Without turning, his wife murmured, “Please, Ken.”
He shifted irritably in his chair. “Let’s get this over with. I understand you’re an investigative reporter doing a retrospective of missing children cases over the past five years.”
That explained the “lot of you.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hinshaw, there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not a reporter. I’m a private investigator. I specialize in finding missing children.”
Hinshaw’s eyes narrowed. “After the police stopped looking for my son, we hired a private detective. Waste of money. He found nothing. I won’t go through that again.”
He stood. “My wife will show you out.”
With a relieved exhale, Devlin jumped to his feet. When I remained seated, he grimaced and returned to his chair. I noticed that the wife hadn’t moved either.
I tried a friendly smile. “Another misunderstanding, sir. My fee has already been paid. I’ve been contracted to look into several missing children cases that occurred in the month of April two years ago. Your son is one of them.”
This was the cover story I mentioned to Richard Jarrell.
The defiance that tightened the sinews of Hinshaw’s shoulders and neck suddenly loosened. Confusion furrowed his brow as he sat down slowly. “Contracted by whom?”
“That is confidential,” I said. “I can tell you that it is a foundation interested in child welfare and patterns of similar disappearances in Orange County.”
The wife turned so quickly that I thought she might slip off the seat cushions. “There are others that vanished like Tyler?”
The shared jolt of their son’s name reverberated between the parents.
“Yes, but so far the cases and outcomes have been unrelated.” I said this to relax them. Even with unfettered impulse control, I knew when to lie. Both my damaged brain and my teaching profession allowed me to do it well.
“Most of the children were taken because of divorce custody issues.” I crossed my legs and tried to look professional. “Some of the children were runaways and returned home of their own accord.” I paused delicately, hoping the parents would take the bait.
Quivering near the window, Alicia asked, “Even after so long, these runaways would come home?”
Ah hah. So there may have been a family dispute or worse to drive Tyler away.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Some kids take longer than others. Was Tyler a difficult child?”
Hinshaw cut through his wife’s hesitation. “Tyler was the perfect son.” His face flushed with anger. “Don’t listen to what his teachers or the press said. None of those fights were his fault. He was a disciplined athlete and student. Look at his grades. Talk to his coaches.”
For the first time since we arrived, Alicia stepped close to her husband and rested a hand on his shoulder. “He truly was a wonderful son and so good with his sisters. He saved Rachel’s life …”
She went into the rambling story about the time Tyler saved his sister from being hit by a car. I tuned out as it was the same one his uncle told me and because most of what parents believe about their children wasn’t true.
As a teacher, I’d heard a fair amount of whoppers. Mostly about kids I’d already put in the Dead Before Thirty bucket because they were thugs or victims, both of which limited life span. I wondered if Tyler was a ruffian that only looked like a champion to his family and friends.
Many psychopaths have friends and family who believe them to be heroes, too.
“He does sound perfect,” I said when the mother finally finished. I flashed them my practiced teacher smile. “I was a high school science teacher for twenty years. Even the best kids have their off days. It’s normal. My aunt has a few stories about me that I wouldn’t want made public. I bet you do also.”
Alicia glanced at her husband who studied me uncertainly and then her. “Of course, he was normal,” Hinshaw said. “He complained about taking out the garbage, about wanting his allowance increased, and about some of the kids on the team. All teenagers gripe, right?”
I grinned encouragingly. “Absolutely. Wait till your girls reach puberty. They’re worse than the boys.”
Hinshaw finally cracked a grin. “Too late. Laney’s already there.”
Alicia smiled too, one that reached her eyes, and tapped his back. “Now, Ken, you know she’s no worse than her friends.”
“Which is why she needs better friends.” They exchanged a comfortable look. Now I saw the Hinshaws as they really were: a nice couple trying to cope with the tragedy of losing their son.
“It impressed me that after high school, Tyler continued to work with his middle school coach,” I said.
With their previous stiffness tempered by a growing ease with me, Hinshaw said, “He received credits for volunteering, but he liked doing it. You know, helping with the younger kids. Ty had a lot to give.”
Unlike his wife who hoped that Tyler would come home one day, I suddenly realized that Hinshaw believed his son was dead. Hearing him speak of his son in the past tense made my throat tighten and for a moment, I couldn’t speak. Someone more empathetic than me would have wept.
“What was the coach’s name?” I asked.
“Not the coach, dear,” Alicia said. “The middle school assistant coach, yes?”
Hinshaw nodded. “Yeah, the volunteers reported to the assistant coach. Weller worked close with Tyler when he was in middle school. Really developed his passing skills.”
Alicia smiled sadly. “Mitch was a volunteer himself. Didn’t he give you his card, Ken?”
Hinshaw nodded and pulled a binder from a shelf. He flipped through it and extracted a card, which I handed to Devlin. Mitch Weller. Sounded a little like Rich, the name Chris Dutton remembered.
While Devlin entered the data into his phone, I asked, “Did Tyler say or do anything before disappearing that you wished someone had followed up on?”
Hinshaw shook his head, but Alicia offered, “I’ve always wished I knew why he was so nervous that day. He had a math test, but when I asked him if he studied, he said, ‘I’m not worried about the test, Mom. It doesn’t matter.’”
She clasped her hands again. “At the time, I thought he meant the exam wouldn’t affect his grade. But he disappeared before he took the test. I think he knew he wouldn’t be taking it. I wish I’d asked more questions.”
“This isn’t your fault, Mrs. Hinshaw.” I skated a glance at Hinshaw. Too late for him to cover the expression on his face. He had blamed his wife, and she most likely knew that.
I added, “Often the family points the finger at themselves or someone else, and 97 percent of the time they are wrong.”
Mrs. Hinshaw twisted her necklace. “Do you know something about our son that you haven’t told us?”
I shook my head. “I just started today. I should know more soon.”
Her hands whitened as she squeezed the pearls. “Will you tell us? Even the little things? Even if it’s bad news?” Her husband looked at her quickly, and then ducked his head.
The naked need in her face made me waffle. “I report all findings to the foundation …” Seeing Hinshaw taking her hand in resigned acceptance caused me to change course. “Of course. I’ll call you even for a little thing.”
Both Hinshaws walked with Devlin and me to the door. As we passed the staircase, I glanced up. “Are the girls home?”
“Yes.” Alicia bit her lip.
“I don’t want them interviewed,” Hinshaw said.
“Of course.” I glanced at the closed doors with regret.
“Would it be okay if I used your bathroom?” Devlin asked.
Alicia pointed to a powder room across from the study. “Just there, dear.”
&nbs
p; I didn’t want to stand there awkwardly with the parents. “I’ll wait outside. Thank you again for your time.”
I refused to linger near that plastic flamingo especially in the darkness, so I headed for the car. When I heard the bushes rustle near the garage, I changed direction, moved up the driveway, and squinted at the jittering leaves.
“Is someone there?”
At my question, a ten year-old girl emerged from the hydrangeas. Periwinkle petals scattered when she planted herself in front of me. As if covered in fairy dust, she sparkled in the strong light from a flood lamp on the garage and the streetlight at the end of the driveway. Besides the dusting of glitter, glow-in-the-dark paint swirled in her tunic and tights. She wore dozens of bangles and barrettes festooned with birds. Put a turban on her and she could be a miniature Madame Pythagoras.
Her silvery eyes slitted. “My name’s Rachel. Leah and I listened to you talking to my parents about Tyler. You gonna find him?”
I heard skepticism in her voice and saw misgiving in her mesmerizing face.
“You don’t think he wants to be found?” The question startled me. What made me think he didn’t want to be found? Hypnotized by the glitter and her unblinking stare, I swayed like a cobra to a flute I couldn’t hear.
My vision blurred, but I think she shook her head. “He’s working undercover.”
“What?” Did my voice sound slurred?
“He works covertly for the good guys.” She sounded impatient. “That’s what he told Leah the day he left and never came back. And she told me.”
“Do you know what covert means?” Except for my nieces, I didn’t hang with ten-year-olds. I’d never heard them say that word, and their father was an FBI agent.
“I know what covert means.” Again I heard impatience in her voice and was that a chirping sound? Her bird barrettes seemed to watch me broodingly as she tossed her hair.
“You’re going to the game Saturday, right?” she asked. I heard the front door open, and she stepped backwards into the dark hydrangeas.
“Is there a lacrosse game Saturday?” I had no intention of going but wanted to stop her retreat.
Egrets, I've Had a Few (Deluded Detective Book 2) Page 3
