Dad completed a front snap kick and a couple of punches. He was in better shape than me.
“Hi. What’s up?” he asked.
“One of my clients died today.”
Dad stood up out of his stance. “Shit.”
“You’re not kidding. Do you have any aspirin?”
“Sure. Hang on.” He walked down the hall toward the bedrooms. I waited, massaging my temples, until he returned with two Tylenol.
“Thanks.” I headed for the kitchen and swallowed them with a sip of water.
Dad followed and asked, “What happened?”
“I don’t know yet. His mother found him dead this morning on the kitchen floor. She just got him back two months ago.”
“You think she killed him?”
“There weren’t any immediate signs of abuse. They’ll do an autopsy, then we’ll know more.”
“What’d Mac say?”
“We spent the whole afternoon going over everything. All the policies were followed correctly.”
“So you didn’t do anything wrong?”
“I don’t think so. I need to watch the news. They were already camped out at the office when I left.”
The den was a sunken room three steps down from the kitchen, paneled in dark wood. A sliding glass door led to a patio with a view of Oxmoor Valley and the Robert Trent Jones golf course below. I sank into one of two enormous recliners and reached for the remote.
“Do you want a drink?” Dad asked as he walked to the built-in bar in the corner.
“No, thanks. It’d probably make my headache worse.”
He poured himself a shot of Gentleman Jack over ice and joined me. We watched the last ten minutes of the national news, the usual stuff about the economy and foreign policy, then I switched to FOX for the six o’clock newscast.
We were the second story, right after a homicide in north Birmingham. My jaw clenched as the pretty anchorwoman began with, “Police were called to an apartment in Avondale today to investigate the death of a twoyear-old boy. Fox Six has learned that the child may have been involved with the Department of Human Services. We go to Jeffrey Vale for the story.”
The picture changed. In the background was our office building, the windows reflecting the late afternoon sun. The camera focused on the impatient young man I had escaped from earlier. In one hand he held a microphone, in the other his notes. “Thank you, Kathleen. Fox Six has indeed learned that Jefferson County DHS may have been involved with this child’s family. However, County Director Dr. Teresa Pope issued a statement earlier that they are unable to confirm or deny their role in this case, or to comment on an ongoing police investigation.” He consulted his notes. “Furthermore, a Birmingham Police Department spokesperson said that a cause of death has yet to be determined and is still under investigation. An autopsy scheduled for tomorrow will give the police more information about what could have led to this terrible tragedy. Back to you, Kathleen.”
I muted the sound as Kathleen went to a story about the City Council. My jaw relaxed. Okay, so far so good. My name wasn’t mentioned, and they weren’t verbally crucifying Ashley. Yet.
Dad interrupted my thoughts. “Did I ever tell you about the time one of my clients committed suicide?”
I looked at him, surprised. Dad was a psychologist, semiretired. His practice, founded when I was about Michael’s age, had thrived for years, but now he kept only a few clients in his caseload. “When?”
“Oh, about twenty years ago. You were about ten or so. Your mother was still living. The thing was, I knew this guy was going to do it. I got him committed to a psychiatric hospital and he stayed three days. The day after he left, he wrote a note to say good-bye to his family and shot himself in the head.”
“God.”
“I was terrified I could’ve done more to prevent it. Terrified his family was going to sue me. They never did, but I stayed up nights going over everything, making sure I’d done everything I was supposed to.”
“Yeah, but my kid didn’t kill himself. He was only two.”
“I know, but my point is that sometimes you do everything right and things still go horribly wrong. Things you don’t have control over.”
“Tell me about it.”
Dad got up and lifted me with two hands out of the chair. He wrapped his arms around me in a reassuring hug. “So don’t beat yourself up about this too bad, okay?”
“I’ll try. I’m going home. I’m sensing a bubble bath in my near future.”
“You don’t want something to eat? I’ve got some veggie burgers in the freezer or some tofu.” Dad was a part-time vegetarian. Vegetarian until someone mentioned the words “bacon cheeseburger.” Either way, his cooking was atrocious.
“No, thanks, I’ve got stuff at home.” I did feel better. Dad’s talk helped. That and the Tylenol.
At home I sank into a peony-scented tub for an hour. I tried to read, to distract myself from thoughts of Michael and Ashley and what could have caused this tragedy. It didn’t work. Visions of Michael’s body, lying on the cold linoleum, crept into my mind between every paragraph. I gave it up and went to bed, tossing and turning myself into a nightmare world where I was in a sailboat with drowning children all around me. And I didn’t have a single life preserver.
I snapped awake at five thirty, and despite the sleep my eyes felt gritty and tired, like I hadn’t rested at all.
I went to work and as my fellow caseworkers trickled in, managed to focus on my court reports and filing. As soon as it was nine o’clock I called Nona. She said Ashley had a rough night, but she was trying to find things to keep her busy. Then I left and went to Dazzle’s.
Dazzle Martin’s house was within walking distance of East Lake Park, named after the large body of water in the center, and I remembered as I drove past how Michael had loved to feed the ducks. I could feel my eyes start to sting. Falling apart now would do no good. I buried my feelings about his death as I turned onto Dazzle’s street and shut the car off in front of her house.
Technically, I suppose Dazzle’s little enterprise could have qualified as a day care. During the morning she watched four preschoolaged children, and a couple of older kids joined them in the afternoon. Getting her day care license, however, would have meant renovating her nearly one-hundred-yearold house to meet the building and fire codes, not to mention all the inspections to keep her license. It would have been too expensive. Since most of my clients couldn’t afford commercial day care centers, without sitters like Dazzle — who got her toys donated and charged just above what was necessary to feed the children — they certainly wouldn’t be able to get jobs and do all the things DHS asked. So we turned a blind eye. I was more than a little worried that if whatever killed Michael had come from her home, they were going to shut her down.
Dazzle was a slightly stooped woman in her mid-sixties. Her skin was a smooth, dark black and she had the most perfect, polished white teeth I’d ever seen. When she smiled, those teeth were framed by deep dimples and it was easy to see how she’d gotten her nickname as a teenager.
Today, however, there was no smile, just Dazzle standing at the door, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a paper napkin. “Come in,” she said. “I just got done sittin’ down with the chil’ren, tellin’ ’em about Michael. I tol’ them that he died and wen’ to heaven, and now he’s an angel. We prayed for him. Do you think I did right?”
“Exactly right.” “Some o’ their mammas was asking about the funeral. Asking if they should take ’em. What do you think?”
I followed her into the family room. “I wouldn’t. Kids that age don’t understand the service, and the burial, if there is one, would just terrify them. I’d have a separate ceremony for them and their parents. Maybe at the park. I’ve heard of one ritual where the kids release balloons with good-bye messages tied to them. That I think they’d understand.”
“That’s a good idea.”
Three children entertained themselves in the colorful family r
oom, which looked as though someone had dumped a giant toy box into the middle of it. Clustered on the walls were a half century of photographs of Dazzle’s family, including her deceased husband, her three kids, and seven grandkids. One of her grandchildren sat on the couch, mesmerized by Big Bird on the television. Another girl about the same age was deeply engrossed in the play kitchen set. A younger, Hispanic-looking toddler made quite a racket with a singing keyboard. “Let’s go in the kitchen,” Dazzle said.
An enormous wooden table dominated the kitchen that served as both dining area and craft headquarters. A naked Barbie lay face down on the paint-stained surface. Dazzle positioned herself where she could see the kids through the door.
“Did the police say anything yesterday?”
“Nothin’, just took a lot of pictures and asked me what he done yesterday. And what he ate.”
“What did he eat?”
“Bless his heart, he was goin’ through a peanut butter phase. Wanted it on everythin’. So for lunch he had peanut butter crackers an’ an apple, and for dinner a peanut butter sandwich with jelly and some string cheese.”
“I was thinking he might have had an allergy. How was he after he ate? Any complaints about not feeling well or anything?”
“No, not at all. He was jus’ normal.”
“Was he more tired than usual?”
“No. He went down on the couch about nine, and his mamma picked him up a little after ten, like always.”
“He didn’t hit his head yesterday, that you know of?”
“No, he never said nothin’ about that. I watch ’em close, and I didn’t see no accident or fall or nothin’. ”
This wasn’t allaying my fears. Michael’s death seemed less and less like an accident. The small girl who had been play cooking wandered over and patted me on the leg. She couldn’t have been older than four. She was a beautiful girl of mixed race, with soft, curly black hair and caramel-colored skin.
“Michael died. He’s in heaven.”
“I know.”
“He’s an angel. He has wings. I want my Barbie.” I handed her the doll, and she skipped away.
I said good-bye to Dazzle and left for my ten o’clock home visit. As I descended the concrete steps in front of the house, I noticed something was wrong with my Civic.
She was sitting lower than she should have been. I crept forward, scanning the street left and right. No one around. A dog barked in the distance, but that was the only sound from the wide, tree-lined street.
I crouched to look at each of the tires. All four of them bore a two-inch wide slit, near the rim.
“Damn it,” I swore out loud. “Son of a —”
“You awright?” Dazzle called from the stoop.
“Somebody slashed my tires.”
“Oh Lawd, Lawd. What next?”
No kidding. What had I done to deserve this? I had trouble believing it was a random thing. In my experience, these types of attacks were deliberate. I’d been the victim of vandalism before, three years ago, when one of my clients spray painted “bitch” in orange on the side of my car. At the time, I’d had a pretty good idea who’d sent the message. Not this time. The thought scared me.
“You want to call the police?”
I debated. Whoever had done this was long gone, and it was doubtful that anyone would be caught. Dazzle’s neighbors were mostly widows and retirees, and it was unlikely any of them saw anything. Still, I’d probably need the police report to file the insurance.
I pulled out my cell. “Yeah, I’ll do it.”
Dazzle went in to watch the kids, and I waited until an officer arrived. I gave a quick statement to a young policeman who said I could pick up a copy tomorrow at his precinct. I called my client to cancel our meeting. Then I called a tow truck, and a chatty old guy transported me and my vehicle to the Tire Warehouse. An hour, and two hundred and twelve painful dollars later, I was on my way.
I picked up a late lunch on the go, went to Family Court for a hearing that was continued, then on two more home visits. By four o’ clock the stress and the lack of sleep were catching up to me.
I was back at my desk, yawning and writing case notes, when my cell phone sang its little tune. Nona, from St. Monica’s. She spoke low. “That detective just called looking for Ashley. I think he’s on his way over. I got a bad feeling about this.”
“I’m on my way.” I slapped the phone shut, snatched my stuff, and bolted for the car. Traffic creeped and the stoplights seemed in some giant electronic conspiracy against me. By the time I got to St. Monica’s, a white Ford Taurus and a Birmingham police car were in the alley beside the house. The lime green Charger was parked across the street.
I left the Civic behind the patrol car and was halfway up the steps to the porch when Detective Brighton came through the door, followed by a uniformed officer and Ashley, in handcuffs. Nona was behind Ashley, wringing her hands.
“Miss Conover.” Detective Brighton nodded once to me and shot Nona a look. “Imagine finding you here.”
Ashley’s head was down, her long, straight hair hiding her face like a curtain.
“What’s she under arrest for?”
“Right now she’s charged with negligent homicide, child endangerment, and possession of a controlled substance. That’s to start with.”
Then he said the words I’d been dreading for almost two days. “Michael died of a drug overdose.” He paused to consult the small spiral notebook in his pocket. “Gama hydroxybutyrate.”
`
CHAPTER FOUR
As we stood on the steps of St. Monica’s, Brighton continued reading from his notebook. “GHB was found in significant quantities in the victim, in a sippy cup, and in a pitcher of frozen concentrate orange juice taken from the refrigerator at the residence of Ashley Hennessy.” He closed the notebook with a triumphant look. It pissed me off.
“Ashley?” I said. Her head bent lower and she wouldn’t look at me. “Ashley?” I turned to Brighton. “I can visit her in jail, right?” “Tomorrow. Now, you gonna move that car or am I gonna radio to have it towed?”
I moved my car into the street and watched as the police officer led Ashley by the arm and placed her in the backseat behind the cagelike divider. Brighton’s Taurus sped off after them. The green Dodge was gone.
I pulled back into the alley and joined Nona on the porch, sinking slowly onto one of the blue-painted steps. I could hear the women inside the house gossiping like crazy about Ashley’s arrest. Nona lowered her large frame beside me and patted my back as I pressed my fists to my eyes. Ashley had killed her son. She was on drugs again, and had fooled me totally. How could I have misjudged her so completely?
“Damn,” I said.
“I know.”
“I really thought she was clean.”
“Me too.”
“GHB. Damn. How could I have missed it?”
“We both did.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“How?”
“Ashley did crack mostly, right? Some pot. And booze. She never told me she did GHB.”
Nona’s comforting strokes continued. “Girl, you know what addicts will do to get high if they really want to. If they’re desperate enough, they’ll snort, shoot, or smoke just about anything. What they did before don’t much matter.”
“But GHB? Why now?”
“I don’t know. She certainly didn’t tell me she was using again. Maybe we’ll never know what triggered this.”
“Do you suppose she’s back with Smash or Trash or whatever his stupid street name was? The guy she was living with when we took Michael away?”
“Flash. I don’t know.”
“That was it.” Flash, real name Gregory Bowman, was Ashley’s boyfriend at the time I’d first met her. And her pimp. And her dealer. Although as dealers went, he was pretty small-time. I remembered him as a skinny, pale guy with platinum-dyed spiky hair. He was big into rap, a gangster wannabe, usually dressed in baggy basketball jerseys
and matching shorts. With lots of jewelry. I couldn’t stand him. He’d stalked Ashley when she first came to St. Monica’s to the point where Nona eventually had to get a restraining order. Now that I thought about it, he was the type of guy who would drive a lime green Charger with chrome rims. He was also the kind to slash someone’s tires.
“Now,” Nona said, pushing herself up off the step and helping me stand, “you go home and get some rest. I got some things I gotta do. We’re taking up money for Mikey’s funeral, and I got some calls to make.”
“That’s sweet.” I retrieved my purse from my car and gave her a twenty, the last of my cash. “Here. For Michael.” She took it and put her arms around me as I inhaled her sweet, musky scent. “You take care.”
“You too.”
Thirty minutes later I parked the Honda in my carport. Before changing clothes, I went into my half-painted home office. My computer was there, on a cart in the middle of the room, under clear plastic. It was a twenty-first century contrast to the rolltop desk I’d inherited from my maternal grandmother that sat next to it, also under plastic. But what I wanted was in the closet.
As a licensed social worker, I was required to get thirty hours of continuing education credit every two years. Last year I’d gone to a workshop put on by a local police officer in the Youth Services Division in conjunction with a program designed to intervene with kids at high risk for substance abuse. It was informative, mostly because the officer had spent nearly all of his time going over what drugs were popular these days.
Since I was cursed with an obsessive need for organization, it was easy to find the crate file where I had put the handout and my notes from the conference. I pulled it from the folder marked “CEUs,” sat on the floor, and refreshed my memory about gama hydroxybutyrate.
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