Authors: Margaret Fenton
Her gaze finally met mine, and in her
eyes was the deepest sadness I’d ever seen. “You can’t help me. No one can.”
She hung up the handset and, head down, approached the guard who buzzed her
through to the other side.
Chapter Five
Pondering Ashley’s secretive behavior, I
checked out at the security station, retrieved my bags, and walked into the
bright summer sun. Cicero’s words were etched above the door of the building:
“We are in bondage to the law so that we might be free.” Seeing them reminded
me of another of his quotes: “The first duty of a man is the seeking after and
the investigation of truth.” What was Ashley’s truth? Was she using again? Or
protecting someone? The guy at the jail, maybe? Or Flash, if she was back with
him?
I made a quick pit stop at the ATM and
went back to the office to wait for Royanne and our standing lunch date. She
and I both work downtown. She’s a loan officer at Birmingham Financial Bank. On
Thursdays, we take turns driving to our usual restaurant, and this was her
week. I dropped my briefcase in my office and went down to meet her in the
lobby.
I was resting an arm on the tall central
desk where our two receptionists, Nancy and Beth, sat. Nancy was telling me
about her family’s recent vacation to Disney World when a man walked in. He
stopped in front of Beth, who was taking a call, and waited for her to finish.
Average height, with spiky black hair, and eyes two shades darker than the
light blue dress shirt he was wearing. The shirtsleeves were rolled up,
revealing strong forearms. He had a round face and ruddy cheeks. There was
something very Irish — and very cute —
about him.
He caught sight of me and smiled. A nice
smile. “Hi,” he said with a nod.
“Hi,” I said.
“You work here?” He squinted at the ID
badge hung around my neck on a breast cancer awareness lanyard. “Claire?”
“Yep.”
“Must be a difficult job.”
“Some days are better than others.”
He broke out that charming smile again
just as Beth routed her call and hung up. He turned to her and said, “I’m Kirk
Mahoney. I’ve got an eleven thirty appointment with Teresa Pope.”
Mahoney. Shit. My hand went up
automatically and covered my ID. Kirk turned to say something to me as Beth
called upstairs. He saw the look of fury on my face before I could mask it.
“What?” he asked.
It was too late to hide the contempt.
“Read your article this morning.”
“Oh, I see. Care to make a comment?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Then I’ll see what Dr. Pope has to
say.” We stood there in awkward silence, with me shooting him dirty looks,
until the silver elevator doors opened and Dr. Pope walked out. She was well
put together in a suit that complemented her brownish-gray bob. She greeted
Kirk with a handshake and all the friendliness in the world. She saw me, and
the angry expression on my face, and asked, “Claire, you okay?”
“Sure.”
She threw me a skeptical glance and cordially
invited Kirk up to her office. She pressed the up button and moments later
Russell exited the elevator as they entered. I got one last dagger look in
before the doors closed.
“Wow. Who’s the hottie?” Russell asked.
“Bite your tongue. He’s the guy who
wrote the article in the newspaper this morning.”
“What are you doing down here?”
“Waiting for Royanne.”
“That’s right, it’s Thursday.”
“Want to join us?”
“Thanks, but I don’t have time.” He
glanced at the clock above the front desk. “I’ve got a lunch meeting with one
of my clients. See you.”
Russell walked out through the glass
front door, the seal of the State of Alabama painted on it. Five minutes later,
Royanne bounced in the same door. With big breasts, wide hips, and blonde hair
teased out to the stratosphere, she bounced everywhere. “You ready?”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
Her minivan, still running, was parked
in the fire lane. We settled in and she pulled onto Third Avenue North. A
couple of miles later she asked, “You okay?”
I realized that I hadn’t said a word
since we left. A little ember of anger toward the reporter was still burning in
my chest. And Ashley’s eyes, laden with such intense misery, haunted me. “It’s
that case.”
“Right. The one you can’t talk about.”
“You see the paper this morning?”
“Not yet. Why?”
“Some jerk named Kirk is already calling
me incompetent. Except he doesn’t know it’s me.”
“Of course you’re not.”
“I know.”
“Claire, it’s not like you killed him.
His mother did.”
My ember burned a little hotter, and I
jumped to Ashley’s defense. “That’s just it, I don’t think so.”
“Well, maybe not intentionally.”
“She was doing really well. I don’t
think she would have done anything to hurt her kid. Any more than you’d do
something to endanger one of yours.”
“So, accidents happen.”
“Maybe.”
“I feel sorry for the rest of the
family. What about his poor grandparents? Can you imagine, having your
grandchild die and your daughter locked up for homicide?”
DHS’s policy was to try to place a child
with relatives first, not foster parents. Two years ago, I’d met with Ashley’s
mother, Dee, to ask if she could care for ten-month-old Michael while Ashley
got straight. At the time, Dee was in tough shape financially, and I had some
concerns as to whether or not she could afford a baby. Dee was hardly the cookie-baking,
story-reading type. But it did make me wonder if anyone had called her and her
husband. Had Ashley, before she went to jail? I should go out there, I thought,
this afternoon, just to see how they were doing.
“Claire?” Royanne said, bringing me back
to the present. “You gonna be okay?”
“Sure. This will pass, eventually. Her
trial and all will be hell, but I’ll be all right.”
“You think you’ll get fired?”
“I don’t think so. Not unless something
comes up that I didn’t know about.”
“What would you do if you did? Get
fired, I mean?”
Good question. For the first time, I
thought about it. I’d held other social work positions before this one. I’d
done interventions with the homeless, often under bridges and in alleyways,
getting substance-abusing vets into treatment centers. Then I’d gone to grad
school, gotten my M.S.W., and worked for a short while at a community mental
health center before coming to DHS. This job was by far the most stressful. The
hours were long and the decisions life-and-death. At times it could be
dangerous. Still, I enjoyed the investigative side of it. Did I really want to
give it up?
“I don’t know.” I wasn’t ready to reevaluate
my career choice. The idea was depressing. Too depressing.
Los Compadres Mexican restaurant was
located in a strip mall on a busy corner. It was a popular lunch spot, and
groups of diners were already filing in to be seated.
“Can you go get us a table?” I asked. “I
need to make a quick call.”
“Sure.”
I stood outside the car in the heat and,
fanning myself with one hand, dialed a number with the other.
“Brighton,” he answered. He sounded like
his mouth was full.
“Detective, it’s Claire Conover. I’m
sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”
“Sure.” He swallowed whatever he was eating.
“I saw Ashley this morning, and I’m
worried about her. Is she on suicide watch?”
“She is.”
“Oh, good. Do you know if her court date
has been set?”
“Tomorrow afternoon at two. It’s going
to be a short trip to sentencing.”
I was suddenly on a carnival ride, the
earth tilting sideways. “She’s going to plead guilty?”
“She’s not even electing to bond herself
out of jail. She’s claiming she’s responsible for her son’s death.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“Maybe she was tired of being a mommy.”
No, no way. I’d seen them together, her
and Michael. Seen them play together. Seen her read to him. Seen the way she
looked at him. No way. I was so stunned I couldn’t say any of it out loud.
Instead I croaked, “No —”
“There was enough GHB in that orange
juice to kill them both, easily.”
“There was?”
“There was. Who knows? Maybe it was a
murder-suicide thing and she chickened out.”
My voice wasn’t working. “No. No, not —”
“We’ll see what she has to say in court.
But, yes, she is on suicide watch.”
“Thanks.”
I clapped my phone shut and steadied
myself before going in. Ashley, a deliberate child killer? Murder-suicide? That
was crazy. Ashley had never shown a hint of regret about having Michael. I’d
have noticed. Wouldn’t I?
The restaurant was crowded and loud,
with the mariachi music playing from speakers overhead adding to the din of
conversation. Sombreros and bright-patterned Mexican blankets decorated the
walls. I found Royanne at a table for two in the back.
“I ordered your usual, okay?”
I was still shocked at Brighton’s
revelation and wasn’t hungry. “Fine.” Royanne studied my face and decided not
to pursue it. She changed the subject.
“You remember Bo?” She had to talk
loudly over the music.
“Who?”
“Bo, the friend of Toby’s who helped
move your stuff.”
Oh, yes. Toby had sweetly volunteered
his pickup truck, and he and his friend had lugged my furniture from my
Southside apartment to my new house four months ago. Nice of them, but I had no
illusions that it had been anything less than another step in Royanne’s
continuing conspiracy to get me married.
“What about him?”
“He wants your number.”
I tried to remember what he looked like.
I knew he was a deliveryman for the bottling plant, like Toby. Red hair and
freckles came to mind. And he had massive muscles. Like Howdy Doody on
steroids.
“Oh, Howdy Doody,” I muttered.
“What?”
“I said, oh, hallelujah.”
“No need to get sarcastic. If you don’t
want to go out with him, just say so.”
“I don’t want to go out with him.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is. I’ve seen you use it with
your kids.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s what I say when I don’t
feel like explaining.”
“There you have it.”
“He’s a nice guy.”
“I’m sure he is. I just don’t want to go
out with him. My life is hell right now, and it’s only going to get worse. The
last thing I need is a blind date.” Or any date. Not that I didn’t want to get
married. Someday. And have kids. But my history with men lately consisted of
one disaster after another. None of them were capable of understanding my work
schedule, accusing me of neglecting our relationship when a crisis situation
kept me out all night. As if I wouldn’t rather be spending time with them
instead of rearranging some child’s life forever.
Royanne said, “Okay, okay. I’ll figure
out something to tell Bo.”
Our usual waiter, Pablo, brought our
lunches, and I managed to work up enough of an appetite to finish a chicken
taco. Royanne entertained me with stories about her six-year-old, Alicia, who
was always doing something funny. By the time lunch was over, I felt better.
I had thirty-seven phone messages to
return that afternoon. The first three were routine work stuff. The fourth got
my attention.
“Ashley’s in jail because of you, bitch.
What happened to your tires is gonna happen to you.” The message ended. It was
a man’s voice, low and rough. Not one I recognized. This wasn’t the first time
I’d been threatened, nor would it be the last, assuming after all this was over
I got to keep my job. Usually my clients said what they had to say, and that was
the end of it.
But this message was a little different.
Maybe because my tires had already been cut. That showed he, whoever he was,
was serious. I was mad, but I also felt a little prickle of fear in my gut. I
buzzed Mac and he came over to our cubicle to listen to the message. He’d
document it, but beyond that there wasn’t much he could do. The State of
Alabama had yet to spring for caller ID, so there was no way to know where the
call had come from.
I had a sneaking suspicion it was Flash.
I remembered his harassing phone calls to Ashley during the first days of her
stay at St. Monica’s. This was definitely his MO. While it was possible the
message could have come from anyone angry about Michael’s death, that kind of
anger was usually directed at the agency, not at me personally. After all, only
a few people knew I was Michael’s social worker. Flash was one of them.