“That’s what I keep telling myself. But I can’t just walk away. Would you be able to?”
“Probably not.”
“So?”
“So you’ve got to be pretty careful, Jake. Any kind of strong-arm stuff is out. So is confronting Darby straight on.”
“I know it. He’d sue me for harassment in a New York minute.”
“You run a background check on him?”
“First thing. Nothing there. His record’s clean except for one speeding ticket and an unprofessional ethics charge that got him a warning from the ABA five years ago.”
A waitress finally showed up to take our order for a couple of Anchor Steam drafts. The interruption gave me time to weigh Runyon’s problem. When we were alone again, I said, “You’ve met the boy, right? Spend much time with him?”
“Not much, no. Bryn only gets him two weekends a month.”
“The next is when?”
“This weekend. She picked him up at school today.”
“Is he easy to talk to, get along with?”
“Shy. Doesn’t say much.”
“Would Bryn let you take him somewhere without her?”
“… She might. But if he won’t tell his mother he’s being abused, he’s not going to open up to a stranger.”
“His mother’s not a detective. You’ve interrogated kids before, same as I have. There’re ways to do it without making it seem like an interrogation.”
Runyon thought that over. “Maybe,” he said.
“Worth a shot,” I said. “I don’t see anything else you can do without risking a lawsuit and jeopardizing your license. Except be there for Bryn and the boy.”
“That’s a given. Thanks.”
“ Por nada. Keep me posted.”
He said he would. The beers arrived then and we shifted the conversation to agency business while we drank them.
Emily was alone in the Diamond Heights condo when I walked in, working on dinner in the kitchen. No real surprise there; she often did the cooking when Kerry had to work late at Bates and Carpenter and it was one of my days at the agency. Emily was thirteen going on thirty, one of those rare kids who were not only intelligent but also good at anything that interested them, from school subjects to the environment to music to Home Ec.
What surprised me a little, and pleased and relieved me, was that she was singing while she cooked.
The unpleasant events of a couple of weeks ago, which she’d been innocently involved in and that Runyon and I had dealt with, had had a rough effect on her. She was a sensitive kid. Lonely and withdrawn when she first came into our lives, the only child of a couple of screwed-up felons who had died separately in tragic and violent circumstances; it had taken a long time for Kerry and me to guide Emily out of her shell, and she still had a tendency, when bad things happened, to retreat into that private little world. She’d been uncommunicative the past two weeks, spending most of her time at home closeted in her room with her computer, her iPod, and Shameless the cat. The cooking and especially the singing were indications that the shell had cracked open and she’d come out into the world again.
She hadn’t heard me, because she went right on singing. I shed my coat and hat, tiptoed to the kitchen doorway. Emily’s ambition is to become a professional singer and there’s no doubt in Kerry’s or my mind that she’ll succeed one day; she has a clear, sweet voice and tremendous range for a thirteen-year-old with a minimum of vocal training. She can sing anything from folk songs to show tunes-rap and reggae, too, probably, when we’re not around to hear her do it. She doesn’t need accompaniment and she wasn’t using any at the moment; her ears were bare of the iPod buds. I didn’t recognize the lyrics or the melody, but what I know about popular music you could put in a disconnected iPod bud.
I stood in the doorway, listening and watching her chop up garlic and onions. And smiling, because she seemed happy again and because I love her as much as if she were my own.
She hit a series of high notes with perfect pitch, finishing the song and the chopping simultaneously, and saw me when she turned from the sink to the stove. She blinked a couple of times, then offered up a shy smile. “Oh, hi, Dad. How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough. What was that you were singing?”
“‘Pointing at the Sun.’ It’s a Cheryl Wheeler song.”
“I’ll bet Cheryl Wheeler doesn’t sing it any better than you just did.”
She said, “Oh, you’re just saying that,” but she was pleased.
“If I didn’t mean it I’d be fibbing. And you know I don’t fib.”
“I know. Mom’s not home yet-she had to work late. She’ll be home around seven.”
“She called me, too. What is it you’re making there?”
“Vegetarian pasta casserole. We eat too much meat and chicken.”
“We do?”
“I think so. Vegetables are a lot healthier.”
“Don’t tell me you’re turning into a vegan?”
“No. Well, maybe. But if I do go vegan, I won’t try to convert you and Mom.”
“That’s good. You can’t teach an old carnivore new tricks.”
That got me another smile. “Don’t worry; you’ll like this casserole. You won’t even know it doesn’t have meat or chicken in it.”
Yes, I would. But I said, “Okay. Need any help?”
“No, I…” But then she changed her mind and said, “Well, you could put some water on for the pasta.”
“Pasta’s my speciality.”
I got a pot out of the cupboard. Emily went back to the cutting board, to chop up a red bell pepper this time. She didn’t do any more singing, but pretty soon she began to hum something up-tempo. Otherwise we worked in companionable domestic silence until the pasta was done and drained and mixed with the vegetables and the casserole was in the oven.
She said then, “Dad? I’ve been thinking and… I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“The way I’ve been acting since… well, you know. It made me so sad and hurt and angry I didn’t feel like talking to anybody.”
“I understand. You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
“Well, I just wanted you to know that I’m okay now. I’m not going to think about it anymore.”
I went over and put an arm around her and gave her a hug. Good kid, practically an anomaly in these days of rebellious, foulmouthed, drug-experimenting teenagers. Lucky kid, despite all the tragedy in her life.
I hoped Bryn Darby’s son had some of the same good fortune. If Bobby was being abused, he was going to need it.
3
JAKE RUNYON
Bryn said, “Bobby has two more bruises, big ones on his left side. He didn’t want me to hug him, flinched when I did-that’s how I found them.”
“How did he explain them?”
“Mumbled something about one of the kids at school punching him. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. Jake, I don’t know what to do.”
Her voice on the phone was low and controlled, but Runyon could hear the angry desperation in it. A faint
