The Angel of Knowlton Park (36 page)

He knew she was home because he'd used the old phone trick. Called from a pay phone, then hung up when she answered. The way pay phones were disappearing, it was a strategy on its way out. He parked in front, went up the short walk, and rang the bell. No flowers here, but things were very neat. A small mud scraper brush shaped like a hedgehog sat on the bottom step. He rang the bell and waited. Nothing happened, so he rang again. A stolid, patient flatfoot, trying to do his duty.

Finally, he heard the rush of footsteps, the door flew open, and the voice from the phone demanded, "What?"

"Detective Sergeant Burgess, ma'am, Portland Police. I'd like to ask you a few questions about Timmy Watts."

She stood without response, her hand on the doorknob, a colorless, shapeless woman with unhealthy sallow skin, graying hair half-covered by a brown bandana, wearing a carefully ironed tan blouse and a pleated beige and white plaid skirt. He'd never met anyone flattered by beige, and she was no exception. She held a paintbrush in the hand she hadn't used to open the door, the bristles glistening with gray paint. She blinked like a startled rabbit. "What could you possibly want with me?"

He read from her darting eyes and clenched hand on the doorframe how much she wanted to close the door and shut him out. He had one foot inside, now he moved the other in, pressing her back a little. "May I come in?"

"Oh. Of course. Certainly." She closed the door, then took a few steps backward. "But I don't know anything about Timmy Watts. Nothing that might help you."

"You did know him?"

"Oh. Vaguely, I suppose. He was around the neighborhood. My son knew his brother. One of his brothers." She seemed to be trying to reach some kind of decision, maybe whether she could ask him to leave. He needed to move into the house and sit down. Make it harder for her.

"Would you mind if we sat down?" He rubbed his bad knee and gave her an apologetic smile. "It's been a hard couple of days."

"I don't know... I really don't think... things are kind of a mess right now. We're... the living room is... uh. Redecorating." She seized the word and repeated it, looking back over her shoulder into the dim interior. "Redecorating." Then she shook her head, as if that was wrong. "Painting. I've always liked the simplicity of painted floors. I suppose you could sit in the kitchen."

What he could see of the house was spotless. The floor waxed and shiny, the books in the bookcase perfectly aligned.

"I'll just put the brush down." She went to a closed door, opened it, went through, and closed it firmly behind her. A pretty elaborate way of setting down a brush. She struck him as the kind of woman who didn't do anything spontaneously, who had little tolerance for disorder. If her living room was a mess because she was painting, she wouldn't want him to see it.

Her kitchen was probably the most sterile he'd ever seen. There was no clutter, no crumbs. No signs of life. Nothing on the countertops, not even canisters. No teakettle on the stove. No dishes in the drying rack. No potholders or dishtowels or fruit in a bowl. No refrigerator magnets, photographs or notes. She thrust a hand toward an immaculate table with two chairs. Two. Not even a spare for company. "You can sit here," she said.

She pulled out a chair and sat down. There was no offer of coffee, tea, or even water. She simply sat and waited, looking neither pleased nor displeased, though her "what" at the door suggested displeasure. Her broad face was guarded. The expressive equivalent of beige. Her response intrigued him. Most people, faced with a police officer, got nervous. They chattered, fidgeted, tried to find out what was going on.

He pulled out his notebook, slowly opened it, and thumbed through the pages. Letting her cook. Finally she pulled in a deep breath. "Why me?" she said.

"You wrote a letter to Human Services."

"You're here because of that?" He nodded. "That was months ago. What does that have to do with anything now?" She touched her hand to her lips, as though her words had gotten away, defying her intent to stay silent.

"We're talking to people in the neighborhood who knew Timmy. Who took an interest in him. Trying to build a picture of his life."

"This really isn't Timmy's neighborhood. He lived on the other side of the hill."

So she was a snob. "You have a son named Matty?" he asked.

Her shoulders stiffened, and she planted both hands on the edge of the table, as though preparing to stand. A little color crept into her cheeks. Cold as ice, but protective of her son. "Matthew," she said. "What's that got to do with anything?"

Such a charming woman. So eager to help. So moved by the poor child's death. Some people spun in such narrow orbits. "I understand he used to spend time with Timmy."

"Months ago," she said, vehemently, shaking her head. "Not any more. That family was too much trouble. I told him to stay away from Timmy. Matthew is good with kids. He was trying to play big brother. But that Watts family is poison. Unimaginable filth and squalor. I didn't want him around them."

Not what her son had told him, was it? But boys Matty's age didn't tell their mothers much about what they did. Especially rigid, protective mothers like this. If Matty occasionally spent time with Timmy Watts, he probably didn't tell his mother. Burgess tried to tap into the reservoir of feeling that had led to the letter. "When you wrote to Human Services, you were concerned about a lack of supervision. What was the basis for that concern, Ms. McBride?"

"I should think it was obvious," she said. "The child was allowed to wander the neighborhood at all hours of the day and night. Occasionally he'd be over here at dinnertime, and when I'd try to send him home, he'd say there was no dinner at home and beg to stay. Often, it wasn't convenient. I'm a simple cook and I usually prepare only enough for the two of us. Matthew had homework, of course, and I had things to do. We couldn't have a small child underfoot."

She cleared her throat, a thoughtful expression on her face. Not like she was remembering a small, needy child, there was no softness there, or sorrow. She looked like she was evaluating what she'd just said. "A child without supervision grows up to be an undisciplined adult," she said. "And there are risks to children who are allowed to wander unsupervised. Bad influences, predatory adults, temptations."

"What was Timmy like?"

"He was a little boy, Detective. Unformed."

"I meant was he noisy and active? Quiet and withdrawn? Did he make conversation with adults? Could he play on his own or did he need constant attention? That sort of thing."

"Of course he could play on his own. He'd learned to rely on his own resources because his family paid him so little attention." She twisted the plain gold band she wore and then looked at the clock. "He liked those—what do you call them?—those Power Ranger toys. Matthew bought him some. He was very fond of Timmy." She seemed to choke on the words. "I think he identified with Timmy in some ways, with Timmy coming from such a violent home. His own father... Matthew's father... was violent."

"I understand there were many families in the neighborhood who used to look after Timmy. Do you know who they were?"

"I'm afraid I can't help you. As I said, we don't live in that neighborhood, and I'm not home in the daytime anyway." She must have sensed his confusion because she added, "I work at an accounting firm. I'm on vacation this week."

"But your son used to socialize with Ricky Watts, didn't he?"

She looked at Burgess like he'd tracked something nasty into her kitchen. "Matthew was younger then. He was attracted to Ricky's freedom. When he recognized the lack of discipline, and the criminal behavior accompanying it, he terminated the friendship."

"At your insistence?"

She hesitated. "Yes."

"I understand that on one occasion, you called on Mrs. Watts in an attempt to discuss her childrearing practices?"

"I've never seen anything like that place, Detective. The thought of a child growing up in that house..."

"That was when you wrote the letter?" She nodded. "Did you get a response?"

"You've seen the letter," she said primly. "I asked them not to contact me."

"Why?"

The tan shoulders rose and fell. "I didn't want to get involved. The family had a reputation. They're violent and uncivilized, as I'm sure you know. I didn't know how they'd react if they thought I'd reported them. I feared some kind of retaliation."

"Was there any?"

"They didn't seem to care."

"Getting back to Timmy. You don't know which families looked after him?"

"I'm afraid not."

"What sorts of things did he and Matty used to do together?"

"Watch TV. Play computer games. Matthew runs a computer class for elementary school students. Timmy was too young for it, but Matthew was teaching him some things. Sometimes, if I was home..." She checked the clock again. "I'm sorry I can't be more helpful." She pushed back from the table and stood. "I'm afraid you'll have to leave. I've got to start dinner soon and I need to run to the store first."

Burgess didn't budge. "How often would you say Timmy visited here?"

"I really couldn't say." She had pulled open the refrigerator and was checking her supplies. The inside was immaculately clean and nearly empty. It didn't look like the refrigerator in a house with a teenager.

"Once or twice? Four or five times? More than that?"

"More than that."

"So tell me more about him. What did he talk about? How did he act? Did he talk about his friends? Activities? Were there special places that he liked to go? Did he have a secret hide-out, a club house, a particular playground that he liked?"

"You'd have to ask Matthew. I really didn't pay attention."

As soon as the words were out, she froze. "No. No, that's not a good idea. I don't know what possessed me to say that. Matthew is so horribly upset already. I don't think talking to you would be good for him. Not so soon after what's happened. He's an unusually sensitive boy."

Burgess went to the window and looked down into the yard. A small but nice yard, big enough for catch or soccer passing. "Timmy like to play in the yard?"

"I didn't allow him out there. They went to the park." There was another hesitation. She sucked in air like someone struggling for oxygen. "You are not getting it, Detective," she said, "so I'll just have to be blunt. Timmy Watts wasn't wanted here. He was a vulgar child, a dirty little chatterbox with a rude vocabulary and no manners. My son liked the pathetic little wretch, so I tolerated the occasional visit. But I didn't try to make him feel welcome. Now, if you'll excuse me." She headed for the door.

It was so far from what he'd expected. True, her letter had been stiff and formal, but he'd attributed that to the nature of the communication—an attempt to convey the seriousness of the situation. He'd never expected this hard coldness. It hurt to think that, even if he'd been oblivious—and most children know when they're unwanted—Timmy Watts had played innocently here under her baleful gaze. Had played near, chatted at, even begged dinner from someone who thoroughly despised him.

On his way down the hall, he opened the door to the unavailable living room. Heard her gasp behind him as he stared in. It was, as she'd said, being redone. All the furniture was stacked in one end, the rest of the floor a gleaming dark gray. "Such a mess," she said. "I'm trying to get the floor done but in this heat it goes so slowly."

He understood too well about trying to work in heat like this. Wondered that anyone would bother to undertake such a project now. But she struck him as a person who did whatever was on her list, regardless of comfort or convenience. Or aesthetics. The living room had a lovely hardwood floor. It seemed a crime to paint it gray. But maybe women who chose beige also had an affinity for gray.

She stood beside the door, grim and stolid as a prison matron, waiting for him to leave. "I will need to speak with your son again," he said. "When would be a good time?"

"He's very busy this summer, working at Libby Insurance, doing data entry." There was another of her curious pauses, as if she'd once again said something she regretted. "You've already spoken with Matthew?"

"On Saturday. He described an altercation he'd witnessed outside the Watts's house."

She fingered the buttons on her blouse as she stared out toward the street. "I'm sure he's told you all he can. As I said, he's very upset by all this. Matthew is a sensitive boy who takes things very hard. He'd wanted to take Timmy to a movie that night. I was trying to discourage that association, so I wouldn't let him. I insisted that Matthew come out to dinner with me. It's my vacation, and we don't get to spend much time together. Then we came home and played Scrabble. He thinks if I'd let him take Timmy out, this never would have happened. I really wish you wouldn't remind him."

Her fingers worked the row of buttons like a rosary. "Please leave him alone. He doesn't need this right now."

"What movie?" he asked.

A button came off in her hand, leaving the blouse gaping over her breasts. She stared down at herself and gave another huffing sigh. Our lady of perpetual sighs. He imagined her son's life punctuated by those sighs. He imagined a closet somewhere in the sterile house holding a row of neatly ironed tan blouses. "I don't know. Some superheroes thing?"