3 Swift Run

by Laura Disilverio

  I looked at her, but she only gestured to the screen. “Watch.”

  Grainy gray-tone images popped up. People, a bit fuzzy around the edges, walked down a hall. A digital clock in the lower right-hand corner supplied the time. Crinkling my brow, I tried to figure out what I was looking at. Just as I realized that it was the Embassy Suites hotel, the hall where Heather-Anne had stayed, a tall figure slouched around the corner, backpack hanging from his shoulders. I felt a tickle of unease. His face was hidden until he reached the door he wanted; then he looked up and down the hall, directly at the camera, before knocking. I gasped.

  Detective Lorrimore looked at me as if she expected me to comment, but I folded my lips in and watched my son disappear into Heather-Anne Pawlusik’s room. He came out five and a half minutes later, turned left, and started to walk away.

  Freezing the image, Detective Lorrimore asked, “Did you know your son was acquainted with Ms. Pawlusik? Did you know he visited her the morning of her death and was, perhaps, the last person to see her alive?”

  “Besides the murderer.”

  “Possibly.”

  My heart thudded in my chest, and I put a hand over it. Thoughts tumbled through my brain. What was Dexter doing at the Embassy Suites? Did he know Heather-Anne? Had Les had the gall to introduce his bimbo to my children? For a split second, anger drove away worry. Then my eyes landed on the TV screen again with its fuzzy photo of my baby boy, my Dexter, leaving a soon-to-be murder scene. Dexter was a sweet boy at heart. Okay, he’d gotten into a bit of mischief in the last couple of years, mostly since Les left, but I knew he didn’t have it in him to kill someone. Not even the woman who took his father away. I didn’t know why he’d gone to the Embassy Suites, but I knew my son, and there was no way on God’s green earth that he killed Heather-Anne “Home Wrecker” Pawlusik.

  “I did it,” I announced.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I did it. I strangled Heather-Anne.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Did I have to spell everything out? “Because she slept with my husband. She broke up my family. She left my kids fatherless and stole all our money. She was a Grade A, world-class, A-number-one, fake-breasted bitch. A tramp. A … a slut!” Boy, it felt good to get that out of my system. I almost smiled until I remembered I was confessing to murder.

  “Uh-huh.” Detective Lorrimore popped the DVD out of the player and turned to face me. She didn’t seem as thrilled as I’d thought she’d be to have my confession. “Where was the scarf when you came into the room?”

  “The scarf? Uh, around her neck.”

  “She was wearing workout clothes.”

  “Accessories can improve any outfit.”

  She just looked at me. “Uh-huh. What did you do with her laptop?”

  “Her laptop?”

  “It was missing. The maid mentioned that she had a laptop computer in the room.”

  Darn, this confessing thing was harder than I’d anticipated. “I took it.” Foreseeing a demand to give them the computer, I added triumphantly, “But then I remembered I couldn’t afford Internet cable anymore, so I gave it away. I … I put it in a Goodwill donation box.”

  “Generous of you.” The detective’s tone was wry. She fixed her gaze on me, and after a moment I began to squirm. “Mrs. Goldman,” she said, her voice surprisingly sympathetic, “I know what you’re trying to do, and I don’t entirely blame you. But you and I both know you didn’t kill Ms. Pawlusik. You don’t have it in you.”

  Why did everyone keep saying I couldn’t kill someone? I was pretty sure I felt insulted. “Neither does Dexter,” I burst out.

  “I haven’t accused him of anything.”

  “Then why—”

  “It’s possible he may have seen something, or that Ms. Pawlusik may have said something, that would help us locate the killer. We need to talk to him.” Her voice was implacable.

  “I’m going to get him a lawyer.”

  Detective Lorrimore gave a tiny shrug. “That’s up to you, of course. I’m going to station a police officer at the school, although it doesn’t appear Dexter spends much time there, and at your home.”

  “What!”

  “Your son seems to come and go pretty much at will; I want to make sure he doesn’t slip in without anyone noticing.” She smiled a thin smile. “We don’t want this to drag on for any longer than necessary, do we?”

  My stomach felt like it did that time when we went to the u-pick-’em peach farm when I was a girl and I ate more peaches than ended up in my bucket.

  “Does your son have a car? I’ll need the license plate number. I’ll also need your son’s cell phone number, Mrs. Goldman. In fact, why don’t you try calling him right now.”

  Her eyes bored into me, and I sensed “No” was not an option. Reluctantly, I pulled out my phone, feeling somehow as if I were being asked to help trap my son. I didn’t see any way out of it, though. I dialed. His cell rang, and with each ring my hope and my fear built. Finally voice mail kicked in, and I let out a long breath. “Dexter … honey, this is Mom. Um, if you get this, please call me right away. It’s important. I love you.” I hung up.

  Nodding, Detective Lorrimore said, “Well, I guess we’re done for now.”

  Somehow, I found myself on Nevada Avenue outside the police station a few minutes later, disoriented, unsure where I’d left the Hummer, afraid I’d burst into tears on the sidewalk and be mistaken for a crazy homeless person. Of course, most homeless people weren’t wearing Hilfiger with True Religion jeans, but still.

  I really wanted to go shopping. There were some cute boutiques nearby on Tejon … No. Dexter needed me more than I needed a shopping fix. I pulled out my phone and called Charlie.

  * * *

  We met back at the office. Sick with worry about Dexter, I’d cried all the way from downtown to our office, except for when I drove through Starbucks and got a pumpkin cream cheese muffin with a Cinnamon Dolce Crème Frappucino. I had to duck into the small restroom to repair the damage to my makeup. With my face back on, I felt a bit braver. Charlie listened carefully as I told her everything about my visit to the police station. “They want to put my baby boy in prison and throw away the key,” I finished, swallowing hard.

  “It was bound to happen,” Charlie said. She kept going before I could object. “First things first: Call a lawyer.” She handed me a business card, and I studied it. “He’s the best criminal defense lawyer in town. He owes me a favor. Don’t let Dexter talk to the police unless he’s with him.”

  “Okay,” I sniffed. “Thank you, Charlie.”

  “This makes it doubly important that we find out who really killed Heather-Anne. It seems to me we’ve got two tracks to follow. First, we need to locate Les, because he’s got to know something. I can’t believe his fleeing Costa Rica and Heather-Anne’s death aren’t related. Second, we find Heather-Anne/Lucinda’s husband—ex-husband?—in Gatlinburg and see what he has to say. Heather-Anne’s roommate, Alan, made it clear the husband was his nominee for murderer. He says Heather-Anne was still scared to death of the guy. So I’ll see if I can get a line on the hubby while you call the lawyer and do what you can to find Dexter before the police do. Call his friends. Send him a message on Facebook.”

  “That’s a great idea.” I didn’t even know Charlie knew what Facebook was.

  I plunked myself down at my computer, slurping up the last of my Frappucino, and immediately logged on to Facebook. Neither of my kids would let me friend them, but I could still send Dexter an e-mail via the site. As I typed, the door opened and Albertine came in, her gold and coral and orange tunic like a blast of sunshine in our dim office.

  “Geez, Albertine,” Charlie complained, shading her eyes. “Can you dial down the wattage? You’ll scare the bears into thinking it’s time to emerge from hibernation.”

  “No can do,” Albertine said with a lazy wave. “It’s my natural state. You might try upping the wow factor yourself, girlfriend,” she added, studying
Charlie’s sweatshirt and blue jeans. “Although that purple is more color than you usually manage.”

  “I was undercover, sort of,” Charlie said briefly, fingers clicking rapidly on the keyboard. I don’t know how she can talk and type at the same time.

  “Anything interesting?” Albertine asked.

  “Nah. Just a guy who looked like the offspring of Clark Gable and Angelina Jolie, walking around bare-chested. He asked me out.” Charlie kept her gaze on the computer screen, but I could see her fighting to keep back a smile.

  “Hot damn,” Albertine said, pulling up the uncomfortable wooden chair we keep for visitors. Charlie won’t let me replace it with anything comfy or even put a cushion on it; it would encourage clients to linger, she says. Albertine sat, her generous curves overflowing the chair’s sides. “Tell me all about it.”

  Charlie gave her a three-sentence version of meeting Alan Brodnax—I don’t know how she does that; it always takes me much longer to tell a story—and Albertine pushed her coral-painted lips forward thoughtfully. “He doesn’t sound like your type,” she finally said.

  “What’s my type?”

  “Not the screw-around-with-married-women type,” Albertine said.

  “I think she goes more for the law-enforcing type,” I put in.

  Charlie pretend-scowled as Albertine and I laughed. “Some of us have work to do,” she said, making a show of turning back to her computer.

  Albertine stood, muttering something about putting on beignets.

  “I’ve got to get hold of Dexter before the police catch up with him,” I said, pulling out my cell phone in hopes the phone numbers of some of Dexter’s friends would be in there. I’d only ever called a couple of his friends’ houses once or twice, needing to talk with their parents about one thing or another.

  “The police are looking for Dexter?” Albertine paused, her hand on the door. “I saw—”

  “They think he killed Heather-Anne,” I said, blinking rapidly so I wouldn’t tear up.

  “Say what?” She shook her head violently, threatening to topple the tower of curlicues and braids that rose a good four inches above her head. “There is no way that sweet, sweet boy killed anyone.”

  “‘Sweet’?” Charlie asked. “Are we talking about the same kid? No offense, Gigi, but—”

  “I saw him this morning,” Albertine interrupted.

  I leaped from my chair and ran around my desk. “You did? Where?”

  “Here.” She pointed to the floor. “He was rattling the doorknob of your office when I came in, oh, it must have been fifty minutes or an hour ago.”

  Only a little bit before Charlie and I arrived. I’d missed him by minutes. “Did you see where he went?”

  “Sorry, sugah,” Albertine said. “I’ll certainly holler if I see him again.” She left.

  “Charlie! He was looking for me. He needs me.”

  “Gigi. Dexter’s not a nine-year-old. And he’s not dumb, even if he is—”

  I saw her bite back a sharp comment.

  “If he’s done something—and I’m not saying he murdered Heather-Anne,” she hastened to add when I opened my mouth. “We know he talked to Heather-Anne. If she said something that upset him, something about Les, maybe, he might need a while to process it. Maybe that’s why he took off. He might even be trying to find Les. We just don’t know until we talk to him, so stop acting like—” She broke off again. “He’ll be in touch.”

  I blew my nose into a tissue. “Thanks, Charlie.”

  “Why don’t you go home, in case Dexter shows up there. You can call his friends from there, and I’ll let you know if I come up with anything. Don’t forget to make a list of places Les might be. It’ll be okay.” She gave me a reassuring look.

  I wanted everything to be okay now. I wanted Heather-Anne alive—far away, but alive. I wanted Dexter in school where he belonged, without policemen lurking about to arrest him. I wanted Les … I wasn’t sure where I wanted my husband, my ex-husband. I knew where I didn’t want him: in Costa Rica, in jail, or dead. I wrapped a fluffy pink chenille scarf around my neck and put on my Prada sunglasses, the ones that would make me look like Jackie O if I were brunette and sixty pounds thinner. “I hope so.”

  18

  Outside, I had to loosen the scarf because the temperature must have been in the midfifties. In February! The sun glared off the Hummer’s chrome, and I was grateful for the glasses. I clambered up onto the seat and started the car once I’d found the keys in my purse. My friends keep telling me I should get a smaller purse, but it’s so convenient to have everything I need with me—flashlight, nail file, extra hose, snacks. I used to watch Let’s Make a Deal when I was younger, and I just knew that if I ever got on the show I’d win something by being able to pull out a boiled egg or a staple remover or whatever else Monty was after.

  Merging into traffic on Academy Boulevard, I had made it to the intersection with Woodmen—the new exits confuse me—when a head popped up behind me. I caught a glimpse of blond hair in the rearview mirror, screamed, and ran the Hummer’s driver-side wheels onto a concrete traffic island. I was fumbling at the door, planning to run for it, when a man’s voice said, “Jesus, Mom, it’s me! Get a grip.”

  Dexter.

  I turned around, openmouthed, to stare at my son. “Dexter! What are you—?”

  “Just drive, okay?” He gestured out the window to where traffic was backing up as cars slowed to look at us stranded on the median.

  Waving apologetically to the people behind me, I reversed the Hummer, and it thudded onto the roadway. I put it in gear and eased back into traffic. The car seemed okay, thank goodness, since I couldn’t afford repairs. Dexter had ducked down again. I made the turn onto I-25 and risked a glance in the rearview mirror. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Oh, Dexter, there’s—”

  “The police are looking for me, Mom.” He didn’t sound so sure of himself now. “They were at the house and—”

  “What were you doing at the house? You’re supposed to be in school.” It was strange talking to him when I couldn’t see him.

  “I had stuff to do,” he said.

  I wasn’t letting this slide, not this time. “What stuff? I’ve been to the school and seen the note you got Kendall to turn in. You forged my signature!”

  “Yeah, well.” He had a shrug in his voice like it was old hat.

  “You can’t—”

  “Mom, the police want to arrest me.” I heard fear in his voice, underneath the exasperation, and I turned half around, trying to peer into the backseat.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said, echoing Charlie. A honk made me face front again.

  “You don’t know—”

  “I do. Detective Lorrimore showed me a video of you visiting Heather-Anne’s room at the Embassy Suites the day she was killed. Oh, Dexter, what were you doing there?”

  “They have a video? Shit.”

  “Shit” seemed like the right word in these circumstances, so I didn’t say anything to him about his language.

  “Why?”

  There was silence for a moment. “I heard you and Charlie talking about her on the phone. I thought maybe Dad was with her, or she’d know where Dad was.” His voice cracked the tiniest bit, and for a moment he seemed more like my little boy than the grown man he almost was.

  “What did you say to her?” Curiosity tickled me. What had my son said to the woman who lured his dad away?

  “I’d met her before and—”

  “You had? When? How?”

  “Dad introduced us. We went to Cold Stone and—”

  “Kendall, too?”

  “Yeah. Does it really matter now?”

  It did, and if I caught up with Les I was going to have it out with him. How could he introduce my children to the woman he was running around with? It wasn’t the most important thing now, though. “Tell me what she said.” I realized I’d missed my exit and edged right to take the next one.

  Dexter seemed to catc
h on to what I was doing. “You’re not going home, are you? You can’t. There are cops there.”

  I’d forgotten. If I pulled into the driveway with Dexter in the backseat they’d haul him off to prison. Unsure what to do, I pulled into a Safeway parking lot, parked as far from the store as possible, and twisted around to face my son. He was lying on the backseat, but he slowly edged up, casting hunted looks out each window. Not seeing any cop cars nearby, he straightened up.

  “So Heather-Anne asked me in, being real nice, and even offered me a soda. She asked me if I’d seen Dad, and when I said no, that I’d been hoping he was there—in the hotel with her—she got all snotty and told me to get out. She said he didn’t want to see me, that he had a new life, and that he was much happier without us ‘millstones’ dragging him down and keeping him from achieving his true potential.”

  I wished Heather-Anne was alive so I could kill her. Detective Lorrimore might not think I was the murdering type, but right then I was.

  “Then she kicked me out.”

  “Did you see anyone as you were leaving?” I looked at him hopefully, hoping he’d say he’d run into a murderous thug carrying a scarf in one hand.

  “Nah.” His brows came together slightly. “But I kinda thought there might be someone in the other room while I was there.”

  “The other room?”

  “Yeah, Heather-Anne and I were in the living room kind of area, with the TV. The bedroom door was shut. I don’t know why, but I thought there might be someone in there. I thought it was Dad, but he’d have come out when he heard my voice, so it wasn’t him. And the way Heather-Anne asked me about him, I knew he wasn’t in there.”

  I tried to read my son, but I couldn’t. His blond bangs fell across his eyes, and his mouth was set in a straight line. His hands were tucked into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, and he kept his gaze on the floor. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or hurt or worried, or all of the above. “We need to tell the police,” I said.