Braving the Boneyard

Chapter 4

4

Jerome’s mother canceled on me when I called from my car to confirm our meeting, so I headed back to Tallahassee to work the files and put together a real investigative plan. I’d be meeting with Jerome again on Monday while Roger was making his first court appearance and getting us a trial date. I was feeling the time pressure. My state of mind wasn’t helped when I crossed back into the eastern time zone and lost an hour. After I returned the rental car, I could feel the Friday afternoon clock-watching vibe in my office, so I cut my losses, loading the case files into Cecil’s trunk to work from home. Zigzagging through downtown, I successfully bypassed the snarl of traffic that bleeds out from the Apalachee-Monroe T intersection in front of the capitol.

“Suckahs,” I said, shooting across Monroe to meander through the wooded neighborhoods that back up to my own. I loved days like this, driving with my windows down because it was comfortable rather than because the A/C threatened to overheat Cecil’s engine. Of course, Tallahassee is north Florida. Tomorrow could be in the fifties, making me scramble to find a sweater from last year that I could wear without risk of mold asphyxiation.

It was dark outside and I’d finished Kevin’s trial transcript when I heard a quick knock at the side door by the kitchen. I didn’t bother responding. Ben would let himself in after a few seconds unless I warned him off. Knocking on my door was a relatively new development in our relationship, one he’d started after walking in on his father and me making out on the kitchen counter. Yes, kitchen counter. But there were extenuating circumstances. I blame his father, JD.

Whoever’s fault it was, after three months, my relationship with my teenaged neighbor was finally starting to get back to normal.

Ben found me sitting on the living room floor, folders and legal pads and sticky notes scattered around me. He seemed to be growing out as much as up lately, and I suspected he was feeling self-conscious about the transition from skinny kid to young adult. He’d begun occasionally running and lifting weights with one of his buddies. He was even getting haircuts on a regular basis.

“You’re blocking my light,” I said. Another of the drawbacks of growing out and up.

Ben took a step back and shoved his hands in his jean pockets. A finger emerged from a hole while he rocked on his heels. “Pizza?” he asked.

I shuddered. The cheese from a chile relleno at lunch was still sitting in my stomach, and probably would persist as an object of interest at my autopsy. But I was hungry, and I was lazy. “Okay, but not pepperoni. Something with veggies on it, so we can at least pretend like we’re eating multiple food groups.”

He rolled his eyes and made the call while I tried to make a path through the living room without messing up my organizing system.

“I’m working on a case for Roger,” I explained of the mess when Ben had hung up. “And Ralph.” Good thing my name wasn’t Rebecca.

“Dad’s lawyer Roger?” he asked.

“Yep—one and the same.” Roger had helped JD navigate an alphabet soup of agencies that wanted him, mostly for being in the wrong place with the wrong people at the wrong time. Roger had done it as a favor to me, and because he lives to piss off anybody in law enforcement. I wasn’t quite sure where that left our favor balance sheet and hoped I wouldn’t find out anytime soon. “You heard from your dad lately?”

“It’s been a few weeks. You?” he asked.

“Nope, not for months.”

Ben settled down on the floor next to me and looked at the piles of paper. “So what’s the case?”

“Robbery trial. Guy shot the store owner, but he lived.”

“What’s the shooter like?”

I sighed, choosing my words. My general policy with Ben was honesty, and it had worked well for us so far. “He’s kind of an ass—jerk,” I admitted, trying to temper my honesty at the last second.

Ben laughed. “Asshole would have sounded better than assjerk. I thought you didn’t do trials anymore.”

“I don’t, usually. But Ralph asked me to.”

That’s when I remembered I owed Ralph a call. I looked at the clock—after seven p.m. Time flies when you’re making a paper disaster of your living room.

“Here,” I said, tossing Ben the TV remote and heading to the kitchen. “There’s money on the coffee table for the pizza guy.”

Ralph’s wife Diane answered the phone and reassured me that I hadn’t interrupted their dinner, but she was nice enough to lie. Ralph was not, so I believed him. “Remember,” he said, “old people eat early. What’d you get today?”

“Not much,” I admitted, and filled him in. “I’d really like to get a shot at that third co-D, but that’s all up to Roger. How old was Jerome when his dad was killed?”

“Young,” Ralph said. “Not much more than a toddler.”

“You know anything about anyone his mom dated after his dad died? Anyone who might have lived with them?” I asked.

“No, I was never close with her.”

Something wasn’t tracking here. I stared Ralph down through the phone line, but that never works, with him or anyone else. But I keep trying, thinking I might get lucky. “So how’d you know she needed help with Jerome’s case? Do you know the new husband?”

“Never met the man,” Ralph admitted. “But Cordelia—Jerome’s mom—and I still have some friends in common, people his dad and I ran with. They reached out to me.”

“I’ll need to talk with these friends.”

“Okay,” Ralph said. “I’ll make up a list. But I’d say at this stage of the game they’re pretty low priority. I’ll give you a list and help you work up a game plan next week.”

“Jesus, Ralph. We’ve got a hearing on Monday, and I’ll be on the road next week. Why can’t you just tell me now?”

Ralph sighed. “Did we cover the part yet about me being old? Unfortunately, I don’t carry information around in my head the way I used to.”

“Should I wear a name tag the next time I drop by?” I hung up to the sound of his grumbling.

Back in the living room, the pizza guy had come and gone and Ben was eating a slice while reading one of my books. We usually watched TV while eating, but this time we slipped into companionable silence—Ben with my book on the couch, and me with case files and extra napkins on the floor. It turned out Kevin was right—Jerome didn’t have any gun priors. Not that he was an altar boy. Jerome was handy with his fists, and in one case there were allegations of a knife, though he didn’t have it on him when he was apprehended and it wasn’t found at the scene.

“Can I take this with me?” Ben asked, holding up a book I’d never gotten around to reading.

I’d forgotten he was there. “Sure—you can let me know if it’s any good. What time is it?”

“Almost eleven. We’re leaving crazy early in the morning for some bird-watching thing. Way before the sun.”

That wasn’t saying much—the sun didn’t come up until seven this time of year—but on a Saturday morning … “We who?” I asked, wondering if it shouldn’t have been whom.

Ben blushed. “Don’t know until I see who shows up.”

Maybe not, but he obviously had hopes. I walked him out, ostensibly to get something from my car, and rooted in Cecil while Ben crossed the little patch of grass to his own driveway. His mother’s car hadn’t returned home yet. I wasn’t surprised, but I tried not to be surprised when it came to Renee. Her surprises had only ever been unpleasant.

I kept at the files for another hour or so, adding to a growing list of questions for Jerome and his friend Kevin, before finally getting ready for bed. My stomach and mind churned with the effects of bad food and worse thoughts. I tried to avoid looking at my bruised, haggard face in the bathroom mirror, but only succeeded in dripping toothpaste on the front of my nightshirt. My bulging, swollen cheek obscured my vision on one side as I stared down at the white stain, scrubbing my shirt with a damp washcloth. Screw it.

I pulled my curls back in a rubber band so I couldn’t hide behind them and leaned across the sink toward the mirror. My eyeball was still a little bloodshot above the dark blue swelling. Below the bruise, it almost seemed as if my face were being pulled upward, just a smidge. I opened my mouth, stretching my face down, and felt the painful tug on the left side. I continued contorting my face like a five-year-old trying out extreme emotions—happy, sad, scared—until the pain grew less and I got used to seeing all the permutations of my features.

No more hiding, I told myself in the unflatteringly well-lit bathroom.

Then I crawled into bed, pulled the comforter over my head, and curled into a fetal position. And I worked all weekend, never even leaving the house. So sue me.