Petra said, “We found Kevin’s car.”
Franklin Drummond blinked. I’d hung back, kept most of my body concealed behind Milo’s bulk, but I was studying Drummond intently. He must’ve sensed it because his eyes fixed on mine, and his mouth worked.
“Where?” he said.
“It was impounded, sir,” said Petra. “Parked illegally near LAX. We’re canvassing various airlines, right now, to find out where Kevin’s gone. If you know…”
“LAX,” said Drummond. Sweat broke at his hairline. The brown eyes were seized by a clutch of rapid blinks. “Goddamn.”
“May we come in, please?”
Drummond rolled his meaty shoulders and stood taller. Snapping back into litigator stance. “I have no idea where Kevin is.”
Petra said, “That must concern you, sir.”
Drummond didn’t answer. She went on: “At this point, Kevin’s disappearance is being regarded as a criminal matter.”
“You people are ridiculous.”
Petra edged closer to Drummond. Milo and I followed. Full-court press. “If you know where your son’s gone, it’s in his interest and yours that you tell us.”
Drummond’s jaws clenched.
A voice behind him called out, “Frank?” Rapid footsteps. Muffled, yet percussive.
“It’s all right,” he said. But the footsteps continued, and Terry Drummond’s face appeared over her husband’s right shoulder. Half her face. She was an inch or so taller than him. Boosted by high-heeled backless sandals. Four- inch heels, not much thicker than darning needles. The percussion.
Plush carpeting contributed the muffling.
I looked at the heels again. Putting herself through foot agony in the privacy of her own home.
“Go back in,” Frank Drummond ordered her.
“What?” she insisted.
Petra told her about the Honda.
“Oh, no!”
Frank said, “Terry.”
“Frank, please-”
“Ma’am, Kevin could be in danger,” said Petra.
Frank wagged a finger in her face. “Now, you listen-”
“Frank!” Terry Drummond reached around, grabbed his hand, pushed down, and lowered it.
“This is inexcusable,” Frank Drummond said.
“May we come in?” said Petra. “At this point, it’s either that or the station.”
Drummond pressed his fists together and grimaced. Isometric exercise; no gain without emotional pain. “What do you mean ‘this point’?”
“We found evidence in Kevin’s car of criminal intent.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Let’s talk inside,” said Petra.
Drummond didn’t respond.
His wife said, “Enough, Frank. Let them in.”
Drummond’s nostrils flared. “Make it short,” he said.
But all the fight had been taken out of him.
The living room spoke of financial success acquired through achievement rather than legacy. The coffered ceiling was several feet too high for the modestly proportioned space. A faux-marble finish glossed the walls. Prefab moldings were slathered like whipped cream. The furniture was heavy, machine-carved, blond, bleached by too many crystal light fixtures. Machined copies of Persian rugs were arranged haphazardly over a bed of thick, beige wall-to-wall.
Three paintings: a harlequin, a ballerina, a too-bright rendition of an imaginary arroyo under a salmon pink sky. In the landscape, flecks of silver paint passed as reflection. Dreadful. Kevin Drummond hadn’t grown up with fine art.
And he’d escaped. The dingy Hollywood flat was less than an hour away, but for all intents, we were talking different planets.
His father dropped heavily into an overstuffed sofa. Terry settled herself a foot away, crossed long, dancer’s legs encased in skintight capris, tossed her flame-colored hair, and displayed no self-consciousness as her unfettered breasts bobbled.
High heels, no bra. The smell of canned spaghetti wafted from the kitchen.
I wondered more about Kevin’s childhood.
Frank Drummond exhaled, sat up straight. Terry Drummond’s face was heavily made-up but cosmetics failed to mask her grief. Yet, her body posture remained languid- Cleopatra-on-a-Nile-barge.
A handsbreadth between them. No touching.
Petra said, “I know this is hard for you-”
“And you’re making it a lot harder,” said Frank Drummond.
His wife tilted her face toward him but kept silent.
“What would you have us do, sir?” said Petra.
No answer.
Milo said, “Looks like Kevin flew somewhere. Any guesses where?”
“You’re the detectives,” said Frank Drummond.
Milo smiled. “If I was in your situation, I’d like to know where my son was.”
More silence. I scanned their faces for the slightest hint of deception. The errant eye blink, the facial twitch, the merest shift in body language.
All I saw was anguish. A pain I’d seen far too often.
Parents of seriously ill children. Parents of runaways. Parents living with adolescents whose behavior had long since stopped being predictable.
Terry Drummond’s eyes caught mine. I smiled, and she smiled back. Her husband didn’t notice, sitting stiffly, eyes dulled- off in some lonely place.
Milo said, “There is one good thing. For us, and maybe for you. Kevin never got a passport, so chances are he’s still in the country.”
Terry Drummond said, “This can’t be happening.”
“Honey,” said Frank.
“This just can’t be
“Information about Kevin’s whereabouts,” said Milo.
“I don’t
She ignored him, shifted her buttocks, and showed him her back. “Don’t you people think if I knew where he was I’d tell you?”
“Would you?” said Petra.
Terry regarded Petra with contempt. “You’re obviously not a mother.”
Petra went white, then she smiled. “Because…”
“Mothers are protective, young lady. Do you actually believe I’d want Kevin to be hounded by you people? Maybe God forbid get
