“What’s all this?” he asked, poking through the bags.
“Dinner.” I started unloading the groceries. “Unless you had plans?”
“No plans. I was just going to heat up some soup and watch 60 Minutes.”
“Can I stay the night here?”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to stay at my place.”
“Why? Stop fussing with the damn groceries and tell me what’s going on.”
I stopped and faced him. “I may be in a bit of trouble.” Leaning against the harvest gold countertop, I told him about the stalking at Oak Mountain yesterday.
When I was finished, he stormed,“You know, I’ve never liked your job. I keep saying that I want you to come into practice with me, and I mean it.”
“I know, but I’m not giving up. Not on my job, unless the A.G.’s office presses charges and I get fired. I’m not giving up on this case. I owe it to Ashley. And myself. But most of all to Michael.”
He studied me a moment, then his pastel blue eyes took on a distant expression. He said, “I remember when the other Freedom Riders and I left that May. We knew there’d be trouble, maybe even some of us would be killed. Then, when we got to the bus station and saw that huge mob and no cops in sight, I was sure of it. But we went ahead, anyway. Because we believed what we were doing was right. Your grandfather thought I’d gone crazy. He didn’t believe in desegregation, or understand why it was so important. Maybe worth dying for.”
“Then you get where I’m coming from.”
“I get it. But I’m still worried.”
I kissed the scar on his cheek. “Don’t be. I’ll be careful.” We spent a companionable evening eating and watching TV. Dad drove me over to my house so I could get something to sleep in and something to wear to work in the morning. I went to bed early, snuggling into the concave twin mattress, wrapped in the tattered pink and green floral comforter that I’d dreamt under for so many years as a teenager. Someday, my dad might get remarried and his new wife would turn this space into a fashionable guest room or office. For now, I’d relish the sensation of safety infused from the familiar stuffed animals around me and the cotton candy-colored paint on the walls. I slept deeply and the alarm clock buzzed way too soon. After leaving Dad a thank-you note, I went to my eight thirty staff meeting, then to the court to file my addendum for the one thirty dependency review. By eleven, I was circling the jailhouse, looking for a place to park. No luck. After deciding to spend the three dollars it would cost to put the car in a garage, I made my way into the building and through security. The guard recognized me now, but still made me do the whole routine, walking me through the metal detector and making me leave my things. I went to the second floor as before, perched and waited until Ashley was escorted in.
When she saw me, she rolled her eyes. Whatever sympathy I’d been nurturing toward her transformed instantly into anger. She picked up the handset and said, “What now?”
“How do I get in touch with Jimmy?”
“I told you, you don’t.”
I was pissed as hell, and I didn’t care if she knew it.“Damn it, Ashley. That son of a bitch followed me around Oak Mountain State Park Saturday with a knife. He might have killed me. I want to talk to him. Because now he has a problem.”
“Claire, it ain’t what you think.”
“Then what is it?”
“Just leave it alone. Please. I’m beggin’ you. You’re just gonna get hurt.”
“By Jimmy? I want to talk to him.”
“No.”
“Give me a number. Or an address. I’m going to find him.”
“Don’t. He’s not dangerous.”
“Then why was he tracking me on a hiking trail with a knife? Listen to me. You tell him if I even see him near me again, I’m going straight to the police.”
“But it ain’t what you think.”
I’d had enough of her lies. I slammed the headset down in the cradle a little too forcefully and stood. Through the glass I heard her yell, “Wait, don’t be mad! Please!” The guard, not liking the shouting, came over and gripped Ashley by the elbow. “Please!”
I caught a glimpse of her over my shoulder as I marched for the door. I didn’t stay to watch the guard take her back. I took the stairs to the security station, my heels clicking loudly on the concrete steps. I retrieved my car from the garage. The money I’d wasted to park just so I could get nothing from Ashley was another needle of anger that stuck in me.
I drove north and found a spot at a meter two blocks away from the Top of the Hill Grill. It was busy, full of lunch patrons, and I had to wait until I could get a seat at the counter. Brandi flew from the window to the counter to the tables and back. Another waitress, a new girl, was doing the same thing. So the manager had replaced Ashley. Life was going on without her.
An elderly couple paid their tab and left, and I slid onto one of the vinyl-covered stools they’d vacated. Brandi saw me, nodded, and a few minutes later took my order. “I need to talk to you,” I said.
“Way busy. Can you wait?”
I checked my watch. It was five to twelve. I had court at one thirty. “For a while.” I ate, then bought a newspaper from a box outside the restaurant and read it while the surge of diners receded. Kirk didn’t have an article in the paper today. I skimmed the editorial page, which was full of comments about rising water prices and, mercifully, not entirely full of criticism of DHS.
Brandi finally had a few minutes of down time at one. I had to leave for court within fifteen minutes, so I made it quick. “I need to talk to Jimmy. Do you know where I can find him?”
“He hasn’t been in here since Ashley went to jail. Didn’t you ask her for his number?”
“I just came from the jail. She won’t tell me how to reach him.”
“Weird.”
“What’s weirder is that he followed me out to Oak Mountain Saturday, and he had a knife on him.”
Her eyes widened under the royal purple-streaked hair. “No shit? Why?”
“I don’t know. I need to know what he’s up to. You said before that he worked in one of the buildings around here. Did he or Ashley ever say which one?”
She fiddled with one of the earrings in her right ear as she thought. “I don’t think so. If they did, I can’t remember. I know it’s close to here, ’cause he walked over for lunch. He used to come in his uniform. A burgundy shirt, something blue on the pocket.”
I nodded. It was the same shirt he was wearing when I first saw him at the jail. However, it didn’t help me much. I prompted Brandi again. “Anything else you remember? Anything at all?”
She thought some more.“Sorry. Ashley was like, real private about him. She never really talked about him, you know?”
“Okay. Thanks anyway.” I paid my check and once again left her a big tip. She promised to call if she remembered anything. Out on the sidewalk, I looked around. The Top of the Hill was on a busy street. Within blocks of here were a hundred huge buildings, including the art museum, the Alabama School of Fine Arts, Boutwell Auditorium, the courthouses, BFB Bank, the jail — the list went on and on. As much as I’d love to canvass all of them in search of Jimmy, it was impractical.
I hoofed it back to the Honda, and arrived at Family Court in West End three minutes late. I wasn’t worried since most of the judges didn’t start the afternoon docket on time anyway. I hung my badge around my neck, cleared security, and climbed the large marble staircase to the courtrooms on the second floor. Judge Myer was hearing my case today. The family I was working with sat in the waiting area. The ten-and eight-year old siblings who were in my custody were ecstatic about seeing their mom. The foster parent kept a watchful eye from a distance.
I pulled the family into one of the glass-fronted conference rooms to talk to them confidentially. For the biological mother, I outlined the contents of the report I’d submitted to the judge, reminding her that although I was proud of her progress, the kids would likely be staying in foster ca
re for another few months. It was a little too early for them to go home, and I didn’t want her to be blindsided when Judge Myer ruled. Mom took it well, said she understood, and the family went back to the waiting area while I sat in the courtroom, whispering with my colleagues who were there on other cases. Finally, at ten after three, the clerk called my case. Judge agreed with my recommendation to leave the kids in their current placement, and as he ruled, the kids’ mother started to bawl. Then the kids started, too.
Judge Myer signed his order, and I shooed the family into the hallway where I attempted to calm everyone down. I praised Mom again for her progress, telling her it wouldn’t be long until the kids came home. She needed to stay sober and away from the man who had sexually abused her daughter. The kids needed to mind their foster parents and do well in school. I’d just about gotten the situation stabilized when one of the D.A.s stuck her head out of the courtroom door.
“Claire? Judge wants you in chambers.”
Judge Myer’s office was behind his courtroom. He was seated behind a traditional wooden desk. He had a head full of blond hair and a round face, which often fooled people into thinking he was younger than he was. I knew he was pushing fifty. He had slipped off his black robe, and was now in shirtsleeves with his tie loose. The robe hung on a hanger on the back of the door to the courtroom. A crimsonmatted degree dominated the wall space behind his desk, and Tide memorabilia decorated the room here and there.
“How are you?”
“Fine, Your Honor, thanks.”
“You sure? Teresa called me last week about the A.G.’s office requesting the Hennessy records.” Judge Myer was one of the few people who’d earned the right to call Dr. Pope by her first name. “She also mentioned you were a little worried about your job.”
“Well, yeah, a bit.”
“Don’t be. It seems like there isn’t a day that goes by that someone doesn’t question my rulings. If it isn’t the attorney general, then it’s the appellate court. They usually hold up. I reviewed the Hennessy record before we sent it to Montgomery. We did a good job on that case. You do a good job on all your cases. I heard you outside a minute ago, talking to that family. You know how to relate to people, and you treat them with respect. We need more social workers like you.”
For some inexplicable reason I was almost moved to tears. “Thanks,” I said, hoarsely. Judge Myer was a good judge. He didn’t let emotion cloud his rulings. He was fair. He listened to those around him and took everything into consideration, even if he disagreed. What he’d said meant a lot.
He came around the desk to give me a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about the A.G.’s office. It’ll blow over.”
“I hope you’re right.”
I sat in my Honda in the parking lot for a few minutes, enjoying a warm sense of pleasure at the judge’s words. He didn’t think I was a failure. Now I just had to prove it to myself.
I checked my office voice mail remotely, to make sure there wasn’t anything urgent that needed to be taken care of before I left for the day. Twenty minutes later I parked my car in front of Ashley’s apartment.
Connections, Mac said many years ago while he was training me. Look at who the family knows. Most child abuse is committed by someone familiar. A stepparent, an uncle, a coach, a family friend. Talk to everyone who spends time with that child, and get a feel for them. In other words, do what I do best.
Michael’s death was no different. Ashley knew who did this. I thought about my list, sitting by the phone at home. Who on that list had done this to him, and what was I missing? It was time for a more thorough look around the crime scene.
Mail overflowed out of the box next to Ashley’s door. I collected it and brought it inside. The apartment was still clean, as it had been when Al and I were here, which meant Zander hadn’t been back.
The only sounds were the faint hum of the refrigerator and the click and whir of the AC cutting on. I surveyed my surroundings, deciding what to do. I started in the kitchen, looking through the drawers for an address book. Nothing. I wandered to the hallway, searched a small closet that produced nothing but sheets and mismatched towels. In Ashley’s bedroom, I went first to her closet. Clothes, shoes, a shoe box of junk that revealed souvenir Mardi Gras beads, a get-wellsoon card, a pen, some old photos of herself, and a broken watch. I put it all back and rummaged through the nightstand.
In the nightstand’s drawer were vitamins, a bottle of lotion, some ibuprofen, and some expired children’s cough syrup. No address book. Damn. Talk to me, Michael, I prayed. Help me out here, angel.
I went back to the living room, my gaze settling on the framed collage of pictures I’d seen the day Michael died. I studied them closely. Especially the second set. There was the picture of Dee, as before, and of Brandi. But now I could look at the photo of the three guys on the couch and put names to faces. Zander was the one at the end, laughing, a plastic cup raised in a toast to no one in particular. Next to him was —
Whoa. Lucas Grayson. I almost didn’t recognize him with hair. It was dark and straight, like his brother’s, but not as receded. It’d been shoulder length before he shaved it all off. If it wasn’t for the Icarus tattoo, I wouldn’t have recognized him at all.
Next to Lucas was another young man I’d seen before. But where?
With Lucas. Sitting at the bar at Kaleidoscope. The blond guy with shaggy hair, dressed in business attire the day I met Lucas and Donovan. Drinking a cocktail while Lucas stocked the bar. I wondered who he was.
I took the picture frame down, placed it on the worn table, then pried up the little metal tabs holding the mat in place. I untaped, carefully, the picture of the three guys. I went back to the shoe box and retrieved one of the old pictures of Ashley. I used the tape to fix Ashley’s picture to the mat and replaced the mat in the frame, then hung it back up.
I had just slipped the photo into my purse and was heading for the door when it opened and in walked Zander.
`
CHAPTER TWENTYTHREE
Zander saw me, purse on my shoulder, and his expression went cold. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Checking on things for Ashley. What about you?”
“That’s none of your damn business.” He noticed the mail on the
table, walked past me, and began to sort through it.
“What’s with you?” I asked.
“You sold me out, bitch. Told my parents where I was.” “They’re worried sick about you.”
“So? What do you care?”
“They care. That’s what matters.”
He was flipping through a sales circular but listening to me
nonetheless.
“C’mon, Zander. You know you can’t go on like this forever.
Sooner or later, you’re going to kill yourself, or, God forbid, someone
else. Your parents want the best for you, to get you help.” “They’re dragging me to some shrink.”
“So take advantage of that. Use the help to try and figure out
where your life is going.”
“I know where my life is going.”
“It’s up to you.”
“Fuck you.”
I couldn’t think of a thing to say to that, so I left.
On the way home, my mind was occupied with Zander. I felt for his parents. The struggle ahead of them was going to be a long one, trying to get him straight. In order to focus my thoughts elsewhere, I called Grant on my cell.
“Hey,” he answered. “How are you? Any sign of that guy?” “I’m okay, and no, no sign.”
“You want me to come over tonight?”
I really didn’t. I was tired after the long day, and I wanted some
peace and quiet. A long bubble bath and a good book. “I’m pretty tired.” “Oh, all right then.” A note of hurt colored his voice. I felt a twinge of guilt.
“I tell you what,” I said, “How about a date Friday? Maybe we can go for that dinner and a movie we mi
ssed Saturday.”
“That sounds good.” We small talked until I pulled into my driveway, and he stayed on the line as I went inside, just to be safe. The house was undisturbed, but I checked it carefully, as before. I spent the night soaking my still-sore body in the tub and slept lightly with a butcher knife within arm’s reach.
On Tuesday morning Mac plopped a new case on my desk that had come in overnight. Interviews with the parents and three children ate up the morning. I decided to leave them with their family with some intense counseling services in place. I made the therapy referral, and, stomach growling loudly, went to find some lunch.
It was quarter to two when I got to the Top of the Hill Grill. Brandi and her new coworker were chatting companionably, wiping tables. I knew the grill stopped service at two, and the girls washed dishes until four.
“Hey,” Brandi greeted me.
“Hey. Is it too late to eat?”
“Nah, you’re fine. What can I get you?”
The special was a patty melt, which sounded delicious. But my
clothes were getting tighter so I decided to be good and ordered the grilled chicken salad with light dressing. Brandi stuck my order in the window and rang the little bell. I pulled the picture of the three guys on Ashley’s sofa out of my purse and laid it on the sticky countertop. Pointing to the blond mystery man, I asked, “Do you know who that is?”
She glanced at the photo. “Oh, sure, that’s Trey.”
“Trey who?”
“Dunno. All I know is his name’s Trey. He’s a friend of … of, of
Ashley’s.”
“And he’s also a friend of Zander’s.”
Her gaze went everywhere but to my face. “I’m not sure who you
mean.”
“Yes, you do. I know about Zander. I met him at Ashley’s apart
ment.” I lowered my voice to barely above a whisper and added, “He
was Michael’s dad.”
Brandi, knowing the game was up, nodded slowly. “I always told
Ashley she should tell you. She felt real bad, not telling you. She hated
lying to you. But Zander, and Zander’s daddy, they didn’t want no
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