Russell knew me too well. “It’s about the case.”
“Saw the article. You talked to Mac yet?”
“Yesterday. He and Pope brought me in.”
“Ugh. On Sunday? And?”
“They almost fired me.” I summarized the meeting for him. “Thank God they didn’t.”
“Yeah. Anyway, remember the guy Ashley was with when we got Michael? Flash?”
“Yeah, sorta.”
“He said this is where a lot of people get GHB.”
He laughed. “So you thought you’d come down here and see if you could score some?”
I was annoyed at him for laughing at me. More annoyed that he was right. “Oh, shut up. I don’t know what else to do. Something funny is going on and I’m grasping at straws.”
“Stay out of it, like they said.”
“No.” I sounded like a petulant child. Marilyn Manson’s version of “Personal Jesus” began to thunder in my ears.
He put his arms around my waist and said, “Okay, okay. In fact, a lot of people here are into the alphabet drugs. X, G, Special K. You might want to talk to Lucas, the bartender. His brother Donovan owns this joint. Not tonight, though. He’s busy.”
“Thanks.”
“Just don’t get fired. I’d miss you.”
We said good-byes all around and Grant and I left. He was yawning on the way back to the van. “Sorry,” he said.
That got me started. After I yawned, I said, “No, it’s okay. It’s late. Thanks for indulging my whim.” He really had been remarkably easygoing on this little adventure.
The crowd at Fuel had grown even bigger. Grant opened the van’s door for me, as he had before. The atomic clock on his dashboard said ten-fifteen. He cranked the engine and we started back to my house.
“Are you going to tell me why we went to Kaleidoscope?”
So I did. All of it. About my history with Ashley and Flash, how my tires were knifed, and how Ashley’d gone to treatment with Nona and done so well, and about the GHB in the juice and her pleading guilty and the mysterious Jimmy. And Dee and Al and his founded allegations and gambling and drinking. I had to leave most of the names out, but it felt good to lay it all out there, even if it was a bit jumbled.
He was a good listener. Giving the case some thought, he said, “You’re right. Something doesn’t seem logical. Not if she was really doing well.”
“That’s what I think.”
Grant pulled into my driveway and killed the engine. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think I’d like to kiss you.” He reached a hand to the side of my face and gently brought mine to his. His kiss was soft, tentative. An invitation.
And to my surprise, the geek was a good kisser. Something inside me melted, and just as I was going to ask him to come in, he stopped.
“What?” I asked.
“There’s a man sitting on your — porch.
`
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sure enough, I could see the silhouette of a man sitting on the top step, backlit by the porch light, a small, flat package beside him. He had short, spiky hair.
“Son of a bitch,” I said into Grant’s clean-smelling neck. “Boyfriend?” His tone was concerned.
“No.”
“Ex-boyfriend?” His tone more hopeful.
I laughed. “No. That’s the damn reporter who’s been writing all
the articles about me.”
“Want me to take care of him?”
That also made me laugh. The vision of all-arms-and-legs Grant
wildly taking swings at Kirk the Jerk. “No, thanks, I’ll handle it.” “I should go. I gotta work early.”
“Yeah, me too.” I gave him one final peck on the cheek and eased
out of the van. “Thanks for everything. I had a great time.” I realized after I said it that it wasn’t a lie.
“I’ll call you.”
I shut the door and watched as he backed out of the driveway, then turned to Kirk, who was now standing at the base of the steps in cargo shorts that showed off his muscular legs. A T-shirt with tight bands edging the sleeves did the same for his arms. A cellophanewrapped mix of flowers was in his hand.
“Hi,” he said, goofy grin in place.
“What are you doing here? How’d you find out where I live?”
“I’m an investigative reporter. I have sources.”
I pulled my keys out and strode past him to the front door. “What do you want?”
“I wanted to know if you’d seen the article Sunday, so I thought I’d drop by.”
“I saw it.” I unlocked the door.
“I brought you flowers. Can I come in?”
A few neighbors were still outside, lighting fireworks and shooting bottle rockets in the street. I didn’t want to get into it with him in public, but I didn’t necessarily want him in the house, either. I deliberated.
“Come on,” he said. “We need to put these in water.”
I shrugged, and he followed me inside.
“Nice place.”
“Thanks.”
I stomped through the living room into the kitchen, opened the fridge and got a bottle of Ultra. Kirk followed, watching as I twisted the cap off and lobbed it into the trash can. I took a big swig.
“Sure, I’d love a beer, thanks for asking. You’re welcome for the flowers, too. Got a vase?”
I nodded and fetched one out of the cabinet over the refrigerator. As I filled it with water, Kirk helped himself to a beer. I unwrapped the flowers and plunked them into the vase. Some of the petals fell off the daisies.
Kirk watched from across the kitchen, then asked, “What’s with you?”
I slammed my beer down on the counter. “That fucking article of yours almost got me fired.”
He stopped midsip, his eyes wide. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“Why?”
“My bosses think your article made it look like we were shifting the blame. Trying to take the heat off of DHS.”
“That’s not what I meant. You made some good points at the courthouse. I was just bringing them out.”
“And you had to put my name in the damn thing, didn’t you? I’m not allowed to talk to you, but there’s my goddamn name in the paper.”
He looked confused. “I thought you’d be happy with it. You know, someone telling your side of the story.”
“They sure as hell didn’t see it that way.”
“I’ll fix it. I’ll talk to Dr. Pope again.”
“No! Christ, what part of I am not allowed to talk to you don’t you understand!”
He set his beer down and was next to me in two strides. His cologne was musky and sweet. He grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me against the stove. The knobs that controlled the burners pressed into my lower back. His kiss was rough. Grant’s had been an invitation, Kirk’s was a demand. My hands lingered on his chest a moment, then I pushed him away. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’ve wanted to do that since I met you.”
“Get out.”
“Go out with me.”
“Ha! Sure, that’s going to happen. I thought I made myself clear.”
“Come on.”
“Kirk, you’re going to cost me my job. My career. Just drop it, please.”
He studied me for a moment, hurt blue eyes so intense I couldn’t stand it, so I looked away. He picked up his bottle and toasted me. “Thanks for the beer.” He took the drink with him, slamming the front door.
His five o’clock shadow had pinpricked my chin, leaving a stinging sensation. I rubbed it but it didn’t go away. I turned off the lights, locked the doors, and went to bed, listening to the faint explosions from still-reveling patriots and feeling frustrated in more ways than one.
Tuesday. Michael had been dead one week, and today he’d be laid to rest. I wondered if there was ever going to be a Tuesday in my future when I wouldn’t think about him. I searched
through my closet to find something appropriate to wear. Settling on a navy pantsuit and a cream silk shell, I added some conservative jewelry and clipped my hair into a large barrette at the nape of my neck.
A storm front was closing in and high, gray clouds moved across the sky, pushed by waves of warm wind. I grabbed my umbrella and briefcase and inched to work in the traffic.
It had been a busy weekend for my voice mail. I spent a frantic two hours trying to arrange a placement in a mental health facility for a kid, updating Mac, filling out forms, and returning calls. I got as much done as possible, and at ten fifteen put it all aside and drove to Harris and Sons Memorial Chapel. I was early, but I wanted to make sure I had time to talk to Ashley before the Sheriff ’s deputies whisked her back to jail immediately after the service.
Harris and Sons was all about comfort. A young valet was waiting to park my car as soon as I made the turn into the drive. A long green canopy covered the L-shaped sidewalk all the way to the front door. The funeral director met me in the lobby, shook my hand solemnly, and showed me to a reception room where coffee and water service was set up. I poured myself a cup of the bitter java. A framed picture of Michael sat on a table, the familiar blue steps of St. Monica’s in the background. Nona must have taken it.
Dee and Al arrived. She was in the same mismatched outfit I’d noticed in court, hair again rolled into curls at the ends. Al had traded his raunchy T-shirt for a more appropriate black shirt and black jeans. After greeting me, Al left us standing near the door and went for coffee.
“How’re you doing?” I asked Dee.
“Okay, I guess.”
“And Al?”
“All right.”
“How long have you been married to Al?”
“Just about two years.”
“Was he married before?”
“Yeah. Once. He has a daughter a little younger than Ashley. Him
and her never see each other.”
“How come?”
“Her momma, she done poisoned her mind against him. Told her
a bunch of lies about her daddy, so now she don’t want to see him.” Interesting. Al had out-and-out lied to Dee about why he couldn’t see his daughter.
“How long did you and Al date before you got married?”
“About a year. Why?”
“I was just trying to remember when I first met him.”
“It was after Michael went to the first foster parents. You arranged that visit for me.”
That’s right. Al and Dee had requested a visit, which I set up at the agency. She’d introduced him as her boyfriend. Michael was already in foster care, and the visit was supervised at the office, which might explain why I never did the background check. It wouldn’t have affected Michael’s safety. I made a mental note to tell Mac.
Al had been stopped by the funeral director, who was shaking his hand and expressing his condolences. I moved on to my next question.
“Was Al home the night Michael died?”
“I dunno. I was at work.”
“Does he usually stay home while you’re at work?”
“Sometimes he goes out to the dog track. Or to see his guy.”
“His guy?”
“The guy he bets with.”
Ah, his bookie.“Does he owe him a lot of money?” I already knew the answer, from Ashley. She’d told me a long time ago that Al had a problem and that he’d lost a lot.
“Not as much as before. He only owes him about thirteen now.”
“Thirteen thousand?”
“Yeah. Really, he’s doing better.”
So who knows where Al was the night Michael died. For some reason, that made me nervous. And what about this bookie? Was he the type to threaten someone’s family? Like in the movies? It sounded outrageous. Didn’t it?
Other people were starting to arrive. Nona walked in with Dazzle, both in pretty church clothes. All of Michael’s former foster parents showed up, and I spent time chatting with them, one eye on the door. Nona greeted several women I didn’t know. I assumed they were women Ashley had gone to treatment with, or who were in her aftercare group. Finally, the elusive Jimmy walked in, soon followed by Ashley.
They’d allowed her to change out of her orange striped jumpsuit into a plain gray dress with a white collar. Her hands were cuffed in the front, her ankles chained together. Her gaze strayed to the picture of Michael but didn’t stay there. Moments after she entered, the director announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are ready to begin the service. Please follow me to the chapel.”
We filed into the church-like room. I sat in the back row where I had a pretty good view of all the mourners. Al and Dee sat in the front row on Ashley’s right. Jimmy was on her left, looking awkward in a white dress shirt that had seen better days. The rest were scattered here and there throughout the chapel. No sign of Flash. A lanky grayhaired black man in a clerical collar approached the podium.
“Good morning. Thank you all for coming today. Let’s begin with a prayer.” All heads bowed. Reverend Croft offered a short prayer for Michael, then thanked God for the support of everyone present and prayed for help for the family during this difficult time. His voice was a sing-song down comforter.
He finished with “Amen,” and walked to the small casket in front of the lectern. It was draped with Michael’s blanket, the fleece one printed with lambs that Ashley had taken with her when we left the apartment last week. The reverend stroked the soft cloth.
“When I first met Ashley last week and learned about Michael — when she showed me this blanket and talked about his favorite toys — I was reminded of the eighteenth-century poem by William Blake, ‘The Lamb,” from Songs of Innocence.” He went back to the podium and read it, ending with “Little lamb, God bless thee!
“The apostle John called Jesus the Lamb of God. Lambs are often associated with sacrifice, just as God sacrificed his only son so that the sins of the world would be forgiven. Because of God’s sacrifice, we shall all be welcomed into the kingdom of Heaven, no matter what our age, or sins.”
He continued preaching as my mind wandered. I studied the people in the chapel to avoid looking at the small box that held Michael’s body. Ashley’s head was bent. Jimmy was close to her, his arm resting on the back of the pew and his hand patting her shoulder gently from time to time. Nona and Dazzle rocked and nodded to the cadence of the Reverend’s voice, occasionally adding “Amen” to something he said. Dazzle was crying, streams of tears fell down her cheeks and were caught in a tissue. Al’s gaze wandered the room, Dee sat rigid.
Reverend Croft concluded his eulogy and nodded once to a staff member in the wings, who turned to a control panel and hit a button. An instrumental recording of Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven” played through the barely hidden speakers in the ceiling. I felt emotion rising inside me and stuffed it down, quick. It was harder this time. Every time.
Sacrifice. The Reverend had nailed that one right on the head. That’s what Michael’s death was about. Ashley had sacrificed her son. And her freedom. For someone or something. What was I willing to sacrifice to find the truth? My career? Maybe so. To prove I wasn’t wrong about Ashley. To protect the belief that my instincts were right. And to assuage my own guilt that I could have done something more.
The song ended, and Reverend Croft concluded the service with the Twenty-third Psalm and another prayer for Michael. He invited us all to accompany the family to the cemetery for the interment. As everyone filed out, I hurried to my car. In the warm vehicle I watched the funeral staff load the tiny coffin into a hearse and drive out. The sheriff ’s deputies placed Ashley in the backseat of their car and followed. Jimmy went to a battered black pickup with a silver truck box in the back. Dee and Al were in her Chevy, and Nona and Dazzle had come together in Nona’s Kia. I turned my headlights on and joined the caravan, led by a Birmingham police officer on a motorcycle, blue lights flashing.
We paraded to Elmwood Cemetery, through the massive iron gates,
and onto a narrow paved road that wound through acres and acres of headstones. At the southwest corner of the graveyard, another green canopy awaited us, a few chairs underneath on an outdoor carpet. The deputies walked Ashley to the front row, where she sat between her mother and Jimmy. She clutched the blue lamb blanket as the little casket hovered over the grave. Others filled in the rest of the seats, and the deputies and I stood respectfully in the back. The burial was brief. Trees around us swayed as the reverend struggled to be heard over the rushing breezes. He prayed again, then quoted Genesis. “Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return.” The casket was lowered, and Ashley sprinkled a bit of earth on it. In my mind, I said good-bye and apologized to Michael. Reverend Croft thanked us again for coming, and it was over.
The mourners hugged Ashley, one by one, and walked to their cars. The reverend left. Dee and Al left. The deputies gave Ashley some space, standing twenty feet or so away. Jimmy went back to his truck, leaned against the door and waited. I walked toward him, looking back over my shoulder to see Ashley, alone, standing over the open grave and talking to her dead son.
I approached Jimmy, who was watching Ashley with his hands in his pockets. His hair and beard were whipping in the wind. “Mr. Shelton?”
“That’s right.”
I held out my hand and he shook it. “I’m Claire Conover. I was Michael’s social worker.”
He nodded. “Ashley told me about you.”
“I saw you at the jail that day. You’re Ashley’s boyfriend.” “You could say that.”
“Mr. Shelton —”
“Jimmy.” His voice was deep.
“Jimmy, you know how Michael died?”
“Yes.”
“I’m having a hard time believing that Ashley was using drugs again. Or that she would have them where Michael could get into them. Am I wrong? She seemed to be doing so well.”
Both of us watched Ashley, still speaking in earnest to the wooden box in the grave.
“Leave it alone,” he said.
“Leave what alone?”
“Ashley. Everything.” His dark brown eyes focused on mine as he leaned close. “You’ll get hurt. Understand?”
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