Did that describe Trevor? Probably not. Angie’s characterization of him as a “stalker” was teenage hyperbole. A stalker was anyone whose attentions you didn’t welcome.
It was pretty clear Angie didn’t want me interfering, talking to him. Angie probably didn’t want me to talk to any of her friends ever again.
I reached for the paper that I’d pushed to the far corner of the table, glanced again at the article. “Police said that while the boy had been ostracized by his peers on occasion, no one thought him capable of bringing a gun from home and executing youngsters he’d sat with in school.”
I tossed the paper aside a second time. It was a curse to have an imagination that allowed you to envision worst-case scenarios so vividly.
It was time to think about something else. Like women in leather.
I had Trixie’s number in an address book in our study. I got it out, found the number, and dialed. She had two phone lines, one personal, another for work. I called the former.
“Hello,” she said cheerfully. This was definitely her personal line. I’d called her business line once, by mistake, and it’s a bit like getting Eartha Kitt. Your whole body temp goes up a degree or three.
“It’s Zack.”
“Hi! Long time no hear! How’ve you been?”
“Good, pretty good. You?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Business good?”
“I think I’m recession proof. No matter how bad the economy gets, there are guys who need to be tied up and spanked. You called the wrong line if you want to book a session.”
“No, this is personal.”
“You think spanking isn’t personal?”
“Point taken.”
Trixie and I don’t exactly occupy the same worlds, and I don’t mean that to sound judgmental. She’s in a line of work my kids would call “sketchy” and maybe even a little bit dangerous, not to mention very possibly illegal. But her straightforwardness, honesty, and willingness to help me when I was in trouble once, made her a friend.
“Listen,” I said, “I haven’t touched base with you in a while, and thought I’d call. It was nice, when you were next door, we could have a coffee now and then.”
“Usually when you were having some sort of crisis,” Trixie said. “Does that mean you’re having one now?”
“I guess you could say I’m a bit stressed.”
“Nothing like when you lived next door, I hope.”
“I’m not trying to duck a murder charge, if that’s what you mean.” I told her about the night before, with Lawrence.
“How does a normal guy like you find so much trouble?” Trixie asked.
“It’s a gift. And then there’s this thing with my daughter.”
“My mind’s gone blank. Your daughter…”
“An-”
“Angie! Yes. How’s she? Still interested in photography?”
“Not enough that we’ve put a darkroom into the house, like we did when we lived in Oakwood. She’s pretty busy, anyway. This is her first year in college. With all the studying and assignments, there’s not that much time for hobbies. She’s living at home, heading downtown for her classes, taking a mix of things, but kind of leaning toward psychology, I think. She’s got a couple of psych courses.”
Trixie said, “Maybe, if she takes enough of them, she’ll be able to figure out what’s wrong with you.” I smiled. She went on, “So, what’s up with her?”
I told her about Trevor Wylie.
“I think you’re making a big thing out of nothing. So there’s a guy who likes her, she’s not interested. Eventually, he’ll get the message.”
“You’re probably right. But showing up at her friend’s place, out of nowhere. Sounds like he had to be following her, don’t you think?”
“Look, Angie’s a smart kid, right?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“She knows how to take care of herself. If she thinks there’s a real problem, she’ll tell you.”
“Maybe,” I said, not with much conviction.
“Listen, she’ll be okay. How’s Paul? Still gardening?”
“Not quite as much as before we moved. He still gets his hands dirty now and then, but he spends a lot of time in front of the computer now. And he’s working on getting his driver’s license.”
“Next time you’re out this way, let me know. We’ll get caught up.”
“I’m actually headed out that way today, around lunch, with my detective friend, to go to a government auction.”
“Lunch today won’t work. My first client’s coming around then. Which reminds me, I’ve got to iron my Girl Scout troop leader outfit, and dig out my matching stilettos.”
“Girl Scout leaders wear stilettos?”
“This one’s going to be. Oh shit, that reminds me, I hope I still have some of their cookies around. I put a box in the freezer…” She was on the cordless and I could hear her walking around the house. “Here we go, yeah, I’ve got them. Gotta give them time to defrost.”
“Your client likes to eat Girl Scout cookies?”
“Well, let’s just say they help complete the scene for him.”
“I should let you go,” I said. “Thanks for listening.”
I puttered around the house for the next three hours, until I heard a car pull into the driveway. I stepped out onto the front porch and saw a blue four-door Jaguar sedan. Lawrence was easing himself out the front door.
“The Buick’s in the shop, getting a new rear window,” he explained. I locked up the house, got into the Jag, buckled up, and ran my hand over the leather upholstery, the walnut inlays in the dash.
“Nice,” I said.
“Used to belong to a Jamaican guy ran the drug trade in the north end. Agents busted him, seized pretty much everything he owned, and I got it when they auctioned it off. You looking for a Jag?”
“I don’t know that I’m looking for anything, but if I were it wouldn’t be a Jag. Head office says we can’t afford one at the moment.”
“Head office?”
“Sarah.”
“Okay.”
“I didn’t even bring my checkbook, in case I get tempted.”
“Yeah, well, if you change your mind, let me know. I’ve got mine, you could pay me back after.”
“I don’t know. Sarah was sort of weakening toward the end there, talking about a convertible, but I think she was briefly delusional. She really doesn’t want me to spend the money.”
“This is one of those times when it pays to be gay. I don’t get pussy-whipped,” Lawrence said.
“No significant other?” I asked.
“I’m seeing a guy, name’s Kent. Runs a restaurant, Blaine’s, on the east side. He’s thirty-six, a white guy.”
“Really.”
Lawrence smiled. “I met him before I quit the force, but didn’t really hook up with him till recently. Might work into something, never know.”
On the highway heading out to Oakwood, I said to Lawrence, “Okay, here’s a hypothetical. Someone you know might, and it’s just might, be being stalked by someone. She thinks this guy has been following her, he shows up wherever she is, and it kind of freaks her out, but he hasn’t done anything dangerous, or threatened her, nothing like that.”
Lawrence listened.
“And she’s not really making a big deal of it. She says the guy’s just a pest, nothing to worry about.”
