He strolled over, sat down beside me, and straightened out my pronunciation of his name.
'Sorry. Is this your work? I'm not a cop, just an admirer.'
He glanced at the folded paper and smiled. 'Yeah, thass me.'
'Painted it last Thursday night?'
'How you know that?'
I pointed to the pigeon feathers stuck to the concrete. 'Paint was still wet. And this picture was dated. What time were you there?' It took me a moment to read his hesitation. 'Don't worry. I won't tell anyone you snuck out.'
'Late. I'd guess from, say, eleven forty-five to ten to two.'
'How sure are you?'
'More sure about the ten-to part.' He showed off an impressive Sanyo. 'My watch beeps on the hour. I got a beep when I was biking home, 'bout halfway.'
The time stamp on the first crime-scene photo had read 2:07 a.m. Which led to my next question. 'Why didn't you finish your piece?'
'Got interrupted.'
'By a car?'
'Uh-huh.'
'Did you see what kind of car?'
'I see everything, homes.' Sensing my eagerness, he fixed his brown eyes on me. 'Ms. Caroline say it okay for you to be here?'
'Didn't say it wasn't.'
'Uh-hunh. You seen her yet? I mean, laid eyes?'
'No.'
He grinned wolfishly.
'Why?' I asked.
'Excuse me, sir.'
I turned to see a woman standing over me. Her face, at first glance, was like a shattered, beautiful mask. Scars divided it, one starting at her hairline, curving around her temple, another beginning under her eye and bridging the bumps of her lips, splitting the edge of her mouth.
I dropped my coffee mug. It was probably due more to the zealous glaze job on the ceramic than to shock, but either way the effect was the same. I felt like a prissy Jane Austen heroine, teacup trembling on saucer as gossip came back from the ball. My mortification grew with each embarrassing arc the intact part of the mug described on the concrete, and Junior's stifled laughter didn't help.
'I'm sorry,' I said, 'I lost my grip.'
Her expression revealed nothing. The indentation in her lips didn't align, and the path of the longer mark seemed equally haphazard. The scars were faded, the color blending, the skin slightly dappled in places from what I guessed were healed-over grafts. She was graying, but not by the strand or lock. All her hair had dulled slightly to a dusty sandalwood. It was lank, taken up in a twist around a pencil. Her features, glimpsed through the damage, were stunning. Icy green eyes, delicate mouth, lovely bone structure that accented her cheeks.
I offered my hand. 'I'm Drew Danner.'
'I recognize you from your murder trial.'
Junior looked at the boy in the lime green sweatshirt, who mouthed, Hells yeah.
'Junior, go to your room please.'
'Ms. Caroline '
'Now.'
He hustled. I would've hustled, too.
'What do you want, Mr. Danner?'
'I'm trying to figure out what happened to me. I just had a few questions for Junior.'
'So you thought you'd come out here and interview one of my boys without getting approval from me?'
I forced a smile. 'Be nice to me, I had a brain tumor?'
'Not gonna work here, buster.'
'Drat.'
'Clean up your mess and leave.'
She left me on the planter. The remaining kids laughed at me, the Down syndrome kid included, and the boy in the sweatshirt stuck out his tongue. I wanted Junior's description of the car that had interrupted his spray-paint job, but could see no acceptable way to get to him. Now.
I collected the ceramic shards in my palm and found a trash can a few steps up a hall. From the other room, I heard Caroline's and the counselor's raised voices.
'Judge Celemin has had it. He misses another appearance, he's going straight to the hall.'
'What can we do, Caroline? I have to bail out Patrick now and the driver flaked. It's okay, there's nothing '
'No, it's not okay. I didn't double-schedule staff, and now he's gonna wind up in the hall because of me.'
I left them to the joys of charitable enterprise.
I was pulling out when a bang on my window startled me upright. Caroline Raine gestured for me to roll down the window. I had the sense that when Caroline Raine suggested you do something, you did it. She thrust a document onto my steering wheel. 'Here. Sign this. No, here. Now you're a Big Brother. Through our facility. Take Junior to court you're already late. It's just one hour out of your day, and you'll save him from juvenile hall.'
I pictured the book jacket: Tuesdays with Junior. 'Are you kidding me?'
'You can question him all you want on the way. Not that it'll get you anywhere.'
'How do you know I'm not some psycho?'
'Clinician's eye.'
'I was up for murder.'
'By reason of insanity is pretty tame compared to these kids. Junior'll eat you for lunch.'
'After what I've been through,' I said, 'I'm probably toxic. I think I can handle a kid with some attitude.'
Chapter 20
So you got interrupted?' I asked. 'By what kind of car?'
'Quit pushin' me, homes. I got court. I always get nervous when I got court.'
'How often do you have court?' That got the look it deserved. 'What for this time?'
'Sprayin', what else?' Junior fiddled with the radio, started bopping to a beat that made the windows rattle. 'What's your story, homes?' he shouted. 'You stared down a murder one?'
I adjusted the volume and told him, asking myself the whole time what the hell I was thinking recounting all this to a bored juvenile delinquent. The repetition, like rewriting, helped me clarify the holes and weaknesses, the detours requiring further investigation.
When I finished, Junior surprised me. 'Thass fucked up, homes. You know what you need? You need you a dog.'
'A talking dog who solves crimes?'
'Someone broke into your house, cut you up and shit. A dog would protect you, homes, watch your back. I had a Doberman-rotty mix. You had a dog like that, you wouldn't need to worry 'bout shit. Not in your castle.'
I conceded that it wasn't a bad point. We pulled up to the East-lake Juvenile Courthouse. I glanced at the graffiti patterns on the back of Junior's jean jacket as he climbed out. 'Given the grounds for your appearance, you think you might want to leave your jacket in the car?'
'No way, homes. I gots to represent.' He kicked out a leg, showing off a white PRO-Ked. 'This and my kicks, this my old-school tagger gear.'
My watch put us forty-five minutes past the court-appointed time. 'We're late.'
'Don't worry about it,' Junior said, skipping along. 'Judge Celemin love me.'
