“You’re going to be OK,” Mac said, liking the woman. “You’re smart, and you see things clearly. And your artwork is really good. So, contact my aunt. You’ll like her. She’s a take-no-prisoners kind of woman. And be careful?”
She nodded, and looked at the business card clutched in her hand. “You think she’ll like them?” she whispered anxiously.
Mac looked at his phone in his hand. He grinned. “Yup,” he said. “I think she likes them.”
Angie looked at him curiously as they walked back down the sidewalk to the car. “You always that helpful?”
He started the car before answering. “My aunt raised me through my teen years,” he said slowly. “A single mom with a son and a nephew. She’s a magnificent artist, and she’s really intelligent. So now she’s got a PhD in art — which isn’t traditional for practicing artists even in higher ed — and she teaches. But getting there wasn’t easy. She gives back to women, especially single moms, who have artistic talent. Especially the ones who don’t realize what a gift they have. I’ve learned to send women her way.”
“You’re a nice man,” Angie said smiling. “You don’t let people see it much, though.”
He snorted. “I’m not a nice man,” he denied. “I’m a bastard who occasionally does something nice. Don’t confuse the two. Where are we headed next?”
She smiled at him, and then gave directions to the former Mrs. Norton. “Her name is Anne,” she added.
Anne Norton lived in a ranch style house in one of the cul-de-sac suburban neighborhoods. Within the city limits, Mac noted.
She opened the door when they knocked. “Come in,” she said before they even introduced themselves. “Carole called. I’ll talk to you, but I think he watches sometimes, and I’d just as soon he didn’t know you were here.”
Mac raised his eyebrow at Angie as they stepped inside. But she seemed to leave this one in his hands. He introduced them. She nodded.
“Would you like something to drink? I have iced tea,” Anne Norton said.
“Sure,” Mac said. He’d learned to say yes, it seemed to calm people — especially women — down a bit. He didn’t understand it. He just filed it under weird shit about people and went about his business.
Anne Norton poured iced tea for the three of them and led the way to a dining table off the kitchen. It was a pleasant home, far from the abject poverty of Carole Jorgensen’s home. But Mac noticed things. Until he was 12, Mac had grown up with a single mom who lived on the edge between homeless and poverty. He was finely attuned to the markers. There were repairs to the house that should have been made. When she got the tea out of the refrigerator, it was nearly empty. And she had kids? He frowned.
“How old are your children?” he asked.
“Two boys, 10 and 13,” she replied. “They’ll be home soon. Baseball games this evening.”
“So, I’m up here to do a profile on your husband,” he began. “My editor is interested in how he might have changed since the school shooting. But I’m allowed to follow the story as it goes, and it’s led in a couple of strange directions. Wilderness survival training and his less-than-protective stance toward women with abusive husbands. You seemed like someone we should talk to.”
Anne snorted. She twisted her hands, and then said, to his surprise, “Those damn weekends. I’m not sure what they’re doing out there, but it isn’t healthy. Brings in money, though, not that I see any of it.”
She sighed. “Pete Norton is a first-class domineering asshole. And he’s furious that I’m out from under his thumb, and worse, might be able to leave here and go to Seattle, and take the boys. You’d think it’s to the ends of the earth the way he’s carrying on instead of an hour drive, on I-5 no less. I’ve even said I will bring the boys up on his weekends, and that’s not acceptable to him. My attorney doesn’t think he’ll prevail in the end, but he’s able to delay and delay. And that’s expensive, money I don’t have because he won’t let me go to Seattle where I will make better money.”
“What do you do?”
She shrugged. “I’m a social services administrator. I work for Children Services Division here, and they’ve promised me a job in Seattle. It’s a good raise, but mostly it would get me out of here. Don’t get me wrong. I love Mount Vernon, but I have to get away from my ex.”
“Anne,” Angie said slowly, “Your husband said he was raised in California, came up to WWU to play baseball, fell in love with the area, and stayed. Something seemed off. Is that the truth?”
Anne smiled at her. “Smart girl,” she said. “It’s not a lie, but there are some things missing. I’m not sure what, because that’s all he says. No reminiscing. He’s never gone back to California to visit family or friends in the 15 years I’ve known him. Calls his mother on special occasions, but that’s it. Wouldn’t tell me about it, and once when I pressed him, it was the first time he hit me. I didn’t ask again.”
“Well that seems like a red flag,” Mac muttered, jotting it down. There were so many red flags with this man.
“One I ignored, unfortunately,” she said. “But I knew him to be a well-respected police officer who was good with child victims. And CSD right? What better way to my heart?”
“Is that a false image?” Mac asked.
“No, he is well-respected among male officers,” she said, stressing male. “And he is great with children who are victims. He’s not with women, however; he thinks they deserve it, that they ask for it. And that they’re bitches who try to take the children away from their fathers.”
“And
