“I was a Physics teacher, Dante. You should remember that as I was your Physics teacher.”
He waved my words away as if they were gnats.
“Or, if you’re up to it, you could work with the clients directly. You gotta a style that meshes well with mine. Me with my knowledgeable but innocent air, and you with your ‘certain style,’ we could get ‘em signing on the dotted line like birds on a wire.”
Between “if you’re up to it” and my “certain style,” I didn’t know whether I should laugh or be outraged.
I decided to be professional. “Give me a detailed write-up, and I’d like to meet this master illusionist. Tell him I’d like to see him do a trick.”
“All right, Ms Graff!” As he pulled up near my complex, he thumped the steering wheel with exuberance. “It’ll be so fine working with you again.”
After getting out of the car and shutting the door, I leaned on the open window. “Thanks for dinner and the backup.”
“Anytime. You know that.” His thumbs happily rapped out a tune. “I’ll call you about the magic show soon.”
The streets were dark, but I could see the taillights of Dante’s car disappear around a curve in the condo complex. Wondering if I’d ever see him again, I trudged up the sidewalk and behind the garage to my place. As my neighbor’s living room lights flashed on and off, sadness weighed on me.
“Pam?”
My neighbor stood in the frame of his front door. We share a porch. A small Meyer lemon tree stood in a pot between our doors.
“Haney.” I used the American sign language for “H” and swept two fingers over the top of my head. Most of his deaf friends called him that. It had something to do with his bushy, grey streaked hair.
He signed, “Want dinner? I got falafels.”
I nodded and sat on the top porch step. I was still full from the fish tacos from hell and the alfajores from the El Salvadoran restaurant, but there’s always room for Haney’s falafels. Or more likely his sister’s.
From the porch, I saw my ladder in the bushes. I wondered if I had time for a climb before bedtime. I’d been at ground level since the fig tree this afternoon and that felt too long.
Handing me a plate with a falafel sandwich and pickled radishes, Haney sat next to me with his own plate and set a bowl of extra hummus between us.
I tucked a napkin in my collar. “Your house lights are too sensitive,” I signed. “They keep coming on when I climb the roof.”
He shook his head with exasperation and signed. “Then don’t climb the roof.”
“Not an option.” I took a break and wolfed down half of the sandwich. Tahini and yogurt dripped down my chin. “Fabulous,” I mouthed. “Jafra make the falafel?”
He pointed to himself and grinned at my amazement. I’d have to get him to show me how to make the fried chickpea patties. Mine always tasted of charcoal.
I spread extra hummus on my sandwich and watched the latest neighborhood gossip in his expressive fingers. Eighty-year-old Ethel Hubbard two doors down was arrested after selling her home-grown marijuana again. The Hernandezes had another baby last week. Their third boy. Haney received a grant at the local college where he taught sociology. He’d put out feelers for grad students to do field work.
He waggled his eyebrows at me, and I considered it. Before the accident, I did contract work with him on the side, mainly monitoring the students doing statistical analysis or checking their algorithms. This was the first time he’d offered work since the accident. Mediterranean food and conversation, yes. Jobs, no.
After thanking him, I told him about my new case. I didn’t tell him about the possible job with Dante. I did mention the Placentia peewee game in the morning. Swallowing the last of his falafel, his fingers danced. “Egrets versus Tigers? I’m going also. Jafra’s boy is the Egret’s pitcher.”
Cold shivers ran down my spine. Another coincidence? From the window next to my door, four egrets peered at me from inside my house.
At the game
I accepted Haney’s offer to drive me to the game. As I dressed that morning, the old woman with the photograph seemed even more luminescent and the egrets had multiplied.
During breakfast, Aunt Ivy called. She would be working funeral arrangements with the church family that evening but wondered if we could have lunch. When I told her about the game, she immediately invited herself and offered to treat me to a meal afterwards. Sounded good to me.
Haney’s driving always made me nervous. We generally went to a farmer’s market on Tuesdays together, and he finger-talked way too much. I’m not sure what bothered me. His attention never strayed from the road. A control thing on my part? I couldn’t watch the road and his hands.
Haney’s six-year-old niece, the girl twin, leapt on him as soon as we arrived and dragged him to the swing set on the other side of the baseball field. I joined his sister Jafra and her husband in the bleachers. Already on the mound, the boy twin looked small but confident.
“Is good to see you, Pam,” Jafra told me with her musical Egyptian accent. “I did not know you like baseball.”
“I don’t. I come for the peanuts.”
She looked uncertain about the joke, but her husband chuckled so she laughed too. Although she and Haney looked alike, their personalities were different. He got my sense of humor. She thought I was odd.
Jafra suddenly waved. I turned, thinking Aunt Ivy had arrived. My smile soured. In a white pantsuit and dripping with bling, Stephanie, Haney’s on-again/off-again girlfriend—or the Witch of Corsairs as I preferred to call her—climbed the stairs in five-inch platforms. She smiled at me with malignant purpose.
“Ah, Pamela,” she cooed, sitting too close to me. “So good of you to support the community.”
I hated being called Pamela. I hated the sound of her voice and the way she invaded my personal space. I hated the way she attached intention to everyone’s actions.
“Good to see you, Steph.” She hated being called Steph. “I told Jafra that I come for the peanuts.” This time no one laughed.
Haney returned with the girl twin and kissed Stephanie with enough fervor that I knew they were on again. What a waste of a good man.
The bleachers were sparsely filled so I stepped to the row behind the family so Haney could sit next to the witch. It gave me a better view of not only the field, but of those watching the game.
Because it entertained me, I sat behind Steph and poked her at intervals. I pointed to the fifth row at the other end of the bleachers where an older man sat alone. “Hey, do you know him?”
The poking irritated her, but she couldn’t resist showing off. “Mitch Weller. He’s an adoption lawyer.”
That startled me. I jumped and a few peanuts from my bag fell inside her pristine white jacket. She didn’t notice.
“I know people who work for him,” I said.
Of course, she had to top me. “I’ve known him for years.” She arched an eyebrow. “A great humanitarian. We’ve worked together on city projects and several charity boards.”
I hoped I’d be around when she found out that he associated with pedophiles and was my primary suspect in a missing child case.
“Don’t suppose you’d introduce me?” I said. “Since you know him so well.”
She frowned. I thought maybe I’d caught her in a lie and that she really didn’t know Weller. I was wrong.
“Do you really want to meet him wearing that?” She wrinkled her nose at my jeans and scoop neck t-shirt.
I rolled my eyes. “For crying out loud, Steph, it’s a kids’ baseball game, not the governor’s ball. Weller’s dressed worse than me.”
With a martyred sigh, she kissed Haney. He had been watching the game, not us. Exaggerating and half-shouting the words, she told him that she’d be right back. Since he lip read perfectly, I don’t know why that didn’t irritate him. His affectionate gaze followed her as we headed for Weller. Men were idiots.
“Mitch?” Stephanie batted her eyela
shes at him and her hand rested on his bicep.
He looked up from his hotdog. He had a mustard streak on his unshaven chin. A portly man with steel gray hair and a ruddy complexion, he looked comfortable sitting in the bleachers.
“Miss, uh, Buchanan.” Weller spoke with forced heartiness. “Always a pleasure to see you.”
Stephanie didn’t notice the tinge of aversion in his voice or his slight withdrawal on the bench. I did. If he wasn’t top of my suspect list, I would have liked him for it.
“Mitch, this is a colleague of Haney’s. Pamela Graff. She used to be a teacher.”
Mitch noticed Stephanie’s verbal withdrawal of any association with me. With a warm smile, he wiped his hand. “Miss Graff. A pleasure to meet you.”
I liked his firm handshake and the appreciation in his stare as he looked me over. “Call me, Pam.” I hoped fervently that he wasn’t a pedophile.
“I must get back to Haney.” Stephanie glanced at her boyfriend with practiced worry. “He needs me, you know. I hope to see you at Roger’s reception next week, Mitch. Pamela, why not rest here for awhile? Mitch won’t mind.” With a fake grimace of concern at me and a flirtatious hip wiggle at Mitch, she sashayed back to Haney.
I forgot to govern my tongue. “I loathe her. I loathe everything about her. What about her makes men gaga?”
Looking amused, he shoved aside his cooler and jacket to make room for me. “Not all men. But speaking for my gender, she is easy on the eye and makes a man feel…I’m not sure how to put it …”
“Studly?” I frowned. “Surely men can see through her attempts to inflate their egos?”
His lip quirked. “My wife used to ask me the same question. I told her that men aren’t the sharpest tacks on the corkboard.”
Again the brake slipped off my tongue. I really did like the man. “I sure hope you’re not a pedophile.”
He gaped at me. Behind me, I heard a mortified gasp. “Pam! Apologize at once.”
I jerked and responded automatically to my aunt’s command. “I’m sorry, sir.” My cheeks burned as if I was twelve years old and in trouble again. “I didn’t see you arrive, Ivy. This is Mr. Weller…”
She reached around me. “Mitch. Good to see you. It’s been a long time. Is my niece working for you?”
Now it was my turn to gape at both of them as Mitch Weller clasped Ivy’s hand in both of his. Unlike his quick assessment of me, his admiring survey of Ivy lingered. “Good to see you again, Ivy. Pardon me—did you say niece? This is little Pam?”
At 5’8”, I haven’t been called little since I was in sixth grade. I was more than slightly fazed that Ivy knew him. For a millisecond, I wished we were surrounded by egrets so that I’d know if I was delusional.
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
“Honey, don’t you remember Mr. Weller?” Ivy asked. “He was the lawyer who arranged your adoption.”
No way. Coincidences were piling high on this case. I didn’t remember him or his name. I’d only been twelve and my parents’ death left most of that year hazy.
“Give her a break, Ive,” Ive? “It’s been twenty, no, thirty years. How are you doing, kid?”
“Great.” Still stunned by recent revelations, I forced myself to focus.
“Stephanie said that you needed to rest. Are you sure you’re …?”
Ivy swiftly cut in. “What happened, dear? Are you feeling faint? Mitch, scoot over so Pam can sit.”
“Oh for Pete’s sake,” I growled. “Steph was being …” Seeing Ivy’s expression, I changed what I’d been about to say to … “Steph was being Steph. I’m very okay.”
“You said you were here for a job.” Ivy glanced at Weller. “I’m interrupting, aren’t I?”
“You never interrupt, dear,” Mitch said warmly. Dear? “But I hear Pam is looking into the disappearance of a boy I knew. If you would give us a few minutes alone, perhaps you’ll join me to watch the rest of the game? I’d enjoy some adult conversation.”
I waited till Ivy was out of earshot before demanding, “So what’s with you and my aunt? Were you two involved or something?”
“None of your business.” His attention strayed to the field. Somewhere in the middle of recent revelations, the game had started.
He was right. It wasn’t my business. A fortunate side effect of my brain damage, I rarely felt offended when being told off. He really did seem to enjoy the game. He shouted “Good throw” at the first baseman and groaned when Haney’s nephew didn’t catch it. “You got it, kid,” he yelled when the boy twin returned to the mound with a sheepish hunch to his shoulder that reminded me of Haney.
I’m not sure Ivy dated when I lived with her and her sister Hillary. Even as an adult, I rarely saw her with a man. Her profession didn’t lend itself much to a love life and her discretion was epic. Hill had been indiscriminate in the men she’d known and her affairs were messy, loud with conflict, and histrionic in their endings. She married often and always badly. I’d never needed experience dating bad men with Hill’s romantic life paraded through my adolescence.
Even without the mustard stain on his chin, Mitch Weller didn’t look the type I’d pictured for my aunt. Yet even if they’d just been friends, I’d have to revise my ideas about him. Ivy had a keen understanding of people, critical to her job as a pastor. If he was a pedophile, she would have known it.
Which reminded me … “Why do you keep a convicted pedophile around your office? Where you’ve got kids coming in and out?” There may have been some heat in my tone.
His attention shifted from the game to me for only a microsecond, but his lips quirked with amusement. “Do you find using Attila the Hun tactics in interviews to be effective?”
Actually I did. I didn’t answer his question, and waited not-so-patiently for a response. “Twenty years ago, Lance was one of my cases.” He exhaled loudly. “I can talk about it now as his history was part of the record during his trial. He’d been repeatedly raped by his grandfather between the ages of four and eleven till my client, Lance’s uncle, was awarded custody. I’ve seen plenty of kids from the worst situations you can imagine who thrive when they’re put into a safe home. Lance was one of the few who didn’t.”
Jaws clenched, Mitch reached into the cooler, popped the tab of a diet Coke, and took a long draught. “He served eight years for molesting a little girl. When he got out, he couldn’t get a job. No surprise. So I gave him a second chance. He knows I’ll fire him if he misses one appointment with his probation officer or one appointment with his therapist. And I make sure that anything he does on any of my cases won’t involve children. He’s worked for me almost five years, and he’s proved himself a good employee and diligent about fighting his demons.”
“Recidivism among pedophiles …”
“I know the statistics.” He pulled a cold water bottle from his cooler and handed it to me. “I use ‘em in court every week.”
“You let him drive Tyler Hinshaw home. Alone.” I meant to sound questioning, but we both heard the hard edge of accusation in my voice.
“I did.” Shouts of excitement rolled through the bleachers. A kid made a hit. Yeah, this is what constituted applause in kids’ baseball. The ball tipped off the bat and rolled a couple of yards towards home base. Three East Placentia Egrets scrambled for it while the hitter loped to first base with a bemused look on her face. Both coaches were yelling. One urged his Egret players to stop fighting for the ball and throw it. The Tustin Tigers coach urgently encouraged the girl on first base to run to second. She stubbornly stuck fast.
With the unopened water bottle dripping condensation on my jeans, I wondered if the game played on the day of my accident happened in a similar fashion. Long hours of mind numbing boredom with little kids milling about the field in a confused fashion and then a moment of frustrating chaos. On the bleachers, parents and friends laughed and cheered and yelled encouragement. They must be better actors than me.
As I had for the past few months, I
wondered what these two teams had to do with the accident. I felt the beginnings of a headache.
“Lance’s condition is an obsession with little girls,” Weller said. “Yes, I know there are pedophiles who trade one obsession for another. Lance was micro-chipped voluntarily. Driving Ty home was a one time thing and only a half hour trip. Ty sat in the back seat. I didn’t believe I was putting the boy in danger at the time. I still don’t.”
I didn’t agree, but his precautions somewhat mollified me. “May I have a coke?” I offered back the water in exchange.
“No. It’s bad for you.” He chugged down more of his diet soda.
I wasn’t going to get the upper hand with this man so best to finish the interview. “Do you know why Tyler disappeared?”
Finally I had his full attention. “I’ve thought about it every day for the last twenty months. Kid had an avenging angel complex mixed with being a self-ordained protector of innocents. For my part, I was sorry. When I coached his lacrosse team, I stopped bullies by making them walk in the shoes of their victims. I only had marginal success in reforming them. Tyler was different. A good kid from the get-go, he made it his life mission to protect victims. He’d put himself between any tyrant and little guy. He got into fights—giving bullies a taste of their own medicine.”
Weller’s eyes reddened. He was too sentimental. How could he work with at-risk children and not develop a thick skin? I wouldn’t have survived my first year in teaching if I cried over every sad thing.
“I talked to him, of course.” Weller blew his nose with a wad of napkins. “He was just a kid after all. Some fights you wage only when you’re old enough. That’s what I told him, but he was stubborn. Refused to get out of the way when it came to protecting others.”
“Do you think that got him killed?”
Funny that he could go mushy talking about Tyler, but the look he gave me was level and calculating. “Who said he’s dead?”
“You know different?”
Egrets, I've Had a Few (Deluded Detective Book 2) Page 5
