by Linda Berry
“Her name?”
“Karen Tulley. She transferred to another school.”
“The school?”
His face soured. “St. Teresa Catholic School.”
“Does Melissa have any hobbies outside of school?”
“That, I don’t know,” he said, his voice cooling. “I suggest you ask her parents.”
Clearly, Lauren had outworn her welcome. She thanked Principle Lasko, took her leave, and reached her Jeep in time to answer her cell phone, which she’d left on the console. The call was from Holly Baker, an old friend and head of the Rape Crisis Center in Oakland. Holly had read the article in the paper, seen Lauren’s name, and wanted urgently to discuss some personal details regarding Melissa’s case, but not over the phone. The two agreed to meet for lunch the following day.
Lauren’s senses were deadened by fatigue by the time she reached home. She stripped off her clothes, dropped into bed, and sank into a deep sleep. Five hours later, the alarm clock jangled her awake. With a groan, she got out of bed, warmed up a cup of coffee from the morning pot and glanced out the window at her overgrown garden. With not much daylight left, she went outside to tackle her yard work.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE LAWN WAS MOWED, and Lauren was knee-deep in a bed of petunias pulling weeds when the darkening sky released a drizzle of rain. The moisture deepened the colors of her garden, and the fragrance of herbs—sage and rosemary. After pushing the mower back into a corner, she removed her mud-caked shoes, straw hat, and gloves, and sensed more than heard the silver Mercedes-Benz pulling into the driveway.
With a start, she realized she hadn’t returned her mother’s morning call. She reached the car door just as Ann Travington stepped out under the protection of a wide umbrella. As if on cue, the drizzle turned into a legitimate downpour.
“Hurry,” Ann said. “Let’s get inside before my shoes get ruined.”
Lauren spied the slender-heeled Manolo Blahnik pumps and suede outfit under her mother’s raincoat and led the way into the garage. Ann shook the water from the umbrella, parked it on the stoop, and followed Lauren into the kitchen.
Lauren gave Ann a rudimentary kiss on the cheek. “Coffee or tea, Mom?”
“Tea. Earl Grey. Three bags to the pot.” Gold bangles jingled musically as Ann removed her raincoat and breezed into the living room.
Lauren wished she could put two mugs on the kitchen table and have a quick visit, but Ann was obviously in the mood for the full ceremony. Lauren had learned as a child it was easier to flow with Ann’s moods than fight them.
After turning up the heat under the kettle, she arranged china and silverware on a tray and added a chocolate teacake from a baker’s box in the fridge. She set the tray on the coffee table between the two plump sofas that faced each other in front of the fireplace. This was her most formal room, furnished with economy over style. Since Ken’s death, one salary made money tight, yet Lauren refused to take a penny from her mother. Still, Travington wealth was evident in the room. Ann’s expensive cast-offs included the tempestuous seascape above the mantle, two mismatched Chinese porcelain lamps, and the Persian runners scattered over the hardwood floors. Lauren normally found this charming, but today her mother’s innate elegance brought out a tinge of shabbiness in the room.
“Hon, you better change,” Ann said.
Lauren ruefully observed the mud-stained knees of her jeans. She silently cursed and left the room, emerging minutes later wearing coffee-colored slacks, a cream-white sweater, and tan loafers. She had brushed her hair and added color to her lips.
Ann was returning from the kitchen with the steaming teapot in hand. She denoted her approval of Lauren’s appearance with a subtle upward curl of her mouth. “I don’t know why you do your own gardening. Why not use my gardener? I told you I’d pick up the tab.”
“I enjoy gardening,” Lauren said, which was half true. The full truth was that she didn’t want to be indebted to Ann, for anything. “Cake, Mom? It’s from Frommons. Chocolate mousse frosting.”
“Thank you, dear. Just a sliver. I’m dieting.”
Ann was always dieting.
When Ann was settled cozily with tea and cake, Lauren took a deep breath and sat back against the pillows. At fifty-seven, her mother was masterfully turned out: blond hair expertly colored, makeup flawless, and a figure that still turned heads. Even as a housewife, Lauren remembered, Ann had maintained a glamorous lifestyle that strained her father’s bank account and was out of step with the bohemian culture of their Berkeley neighborhood.
Ann finally acquired the lifestyle she had tirelessly groomed herself for, divorcing Lauren’s father twelve years ago, marrying real estate baron Harold Travington, and moving seamlessly into the lofty world of San Franciscan high society. Sometimes, when Lauren thought of her mother’s flight from the family and the emotional debris left behind, it was all she could do to be civil to her.
“You didn’t return my call this morning.”
“Sorry.” Lauren took a sip of tea. “The day got away from me.”
Ann touched a napkin to her lips and looked at her eldest daughter with an earnest expression. “Do I have to find out you were almost killed last night by reading it in the paper?”
“Mom, I—”
“I didn’t know what to tell Harry,” Ann interrupted. “My heart stopped, Lauren, I can tell you. Shot at by some psycho rapist you were chasing through a park. You deliberately put yourself in danger.”
Lauren pressed the tips of her fingers tightly together.
“Please tell me you’re getting out of this ghastly business.”
“The papers exaggerated the story.”
“They exaggerated that someone shot at you?”
“No, but—”
“You’re risking your life out there on those filthy streets every day. For what? You think the public’s grateful? They don’t care.” Ann sucked in a breath. “You don’t have the luxury of thinking only of yourself, Lauren. You’re a mother. Think of Courtney. She’s already lost one parent. Isn’t that enough?”
Lauren felt her spine stiffen. “Courtney would be fine if you stopped putting scary ideas in her head. I’m sorry you’re upset, Mom. But I won’t quit my job. I’m well trained. I’m good at what I do.”
“You don’t have to quit. You can move up to a detective’s position. A job that’s safer.” She gave Lauren a penetrating stare. “Why won’t you let me help you? You know Harry can pull strings.”
“No,” Lauren said sharply, then at once softened her tone. “Mom, I can’t advance in the department that way.”
“Rubbish. It could be done easily. Politics is everything. If you think promotions are based solely on merit …”
“I’d be laughed at. I wouldn’t respect myself.”
“What good is respect if you’re dead? Why is it you never listen to me, Lauren? If I say one thing, you’re sure to do the other.”
“Mom, I don’t base my life decisions on the best way to punish you. You haven’t exactly supported me, either. Remember, you tried to break up Ken and me.”
“He was too old for you. You were seventeen. He was twenty-two. He had no business dating a girl in high school. Besides ….” Her voice trailed away.
“I know,” Lauren finished for her. “He wasn’t good enough for me.”
“I wanted the best for you. Is that so wrong?”
“Yes. If it goes against my own wishes. Our marriage worked, Mom. We didn’t have a lot of fancy stuff, but we had each other. Ken was a decent man, a loving father. Being a fireman is a noble job. He lost his life saving others. He died a hero. Courtney will always have that to remember.”
“But she won’t have a father. And she won’t have a mother either, if you continue being a patrol cop.”
“Stop trying to run my life, Mom. You lost all credibility when you deserted Dad.”
Ann flinched, and looked as though she’d been slapped.
They sat in strained si
lence.
It always came to this. Lauren had a knack for saying hurtful things to her mother that she would never say to anyone else. Her guilt came rushing up, choking her. Outside, the storm picked up and rain beat vigorously against the French-paned doors, obliterating the view of the city. The house suddenly felt closed in. Stifling.
“This rain will be good for your vegetable garden,” Ann said softly, offering a peace truce.
“You can take some heirloom tomatoes home to Harry,” Lauren said, accepting the offer. “And some basil.”
“Harry loves your tomatoes,” Ann said.
This was their pattern, glossing over the ugly fissures in their relationship with superficialities. Neither knew how to heal the deeper wounds.
Ann sipped her tea and cleared her throat, her expression still wounded. “You always were your father’s darling, Lauren. The two of you are so much alike. You have a special connection I was never allowed to share. God knows, I tried.” She sighed deeply. “Why is it that his feelings were always more important to you than mine?”
“He accepted me,” Lauren said simply. She felt an impulse to go to her mother’s side, put an arm around her shoulders and tell her she loved her. She resisted.
“He left all the discipline to me. I was the bad guy,” Ann said with a touch of bitterness. She squared her shoulders and thrust out her chin. “I didn’t come here today to fight with you. I know you want to do something meaningful with your life. So do I. You may not like my methods, but I do a lot of good for this city.”
“You do far more than I ever could,” Lauren said with feeling. “You’re a brilliant fundraiser.” Her mother’s charity work aided everything from shelters for abused women to the new pediatric wing at Rosemont Hospital. She and Ann had one all-important trait in common—the desire to save the world.
Ann rose from her seat, smoothed her caramel-colored suede skirt, and sauntered over to the grand piano, another hand-me-down from Ann, and she studied the collection of framed photos crowding its surface. All were variations of one theme: Ken Goldstein. The photos chronicled fourteen years of marriage to a man who had remained Lauren’s best friend until an explosive firestorm at a chemical plant took his life.
“Anybody use this thing?” Ann’s fingers glided over the keys. Notes rippled against the muffled cadence of rain.
“No. Courtney’s not interested.”
“It needs tuning.” She looked at Lauren. “It takes up a lot of room.”
“I know. But so many wonderful memories are tied to it. Holidays. Family reunions. All of us circled around Ken, singing show tunes and holiday carols. Those were good times, Mom.”
“They were good times. But this piano is just a big, cumbersome shrine to Ken. It’s taking up space in your house. He’s still taking up space in your heart. You need to let him go, Lauren. Move on.”
“I am moving on. I’m seeing someone,” she blurted.
Ann’s face brightened. “Who?”
“Someone from the station.”
“A cop?”
“Yes. The captain.”
“I see.” Ann did a superb job of keeping her expression neutral. She put a finger to her lips, pondering the news, then she sat down next to Lauren, took her hand between her own. Her fingers were long and slender, nails manicured and painted a deep shade of red. Lauren’s fingers were big-knuckled, like her father’s, her unpainted nails clipped short.
“Bring him to dinner soon,” Ann said. “Harry and I would like to meet him.”
“Mom, not yet—”
“When you’re ready. If this man is an important part of your life, don’t exclude us … me. Please.”
Lauren nodded, pulled her hand away.
Ann stood and grabbed her raincoat and purse. “I have to run. I’m meeting Harry for dinner at Chez Panisse. The traffic on the bridge will be a bear.” On her way out, she made a side trip to the piano and ran her finger over the silver frame of a photo and held it up for Lauren to see. “Dust collector.”
After Ann left, a hint of her expensive perfume lingered in the air. Lauren sat for several minutes replaying their conversation and sorting through her emotions.
She took the tray of china into the kitchen. The heirloom bone china tea set had also been a gift from Ann. She placed the teapot in the sink too forcefully and watched delicate cracks race across the porcelain finish. The pot crumbled into three pieces. Dark tea colored the white porcelain then disappeared down the drain.
Her senseless act only tightened the knot in her stomach. She carefully picked up the pieces and placed them on the counter. Courtney loved this tea set, and it would have been passed on to her. Lauren would glue it back together, but now it could only be used as decoration. She flexed her jaw and glanced at the clock. The afternoon had flown by. Time to pick up Courtney.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LAUREN stepped inside the aquatic center and caught a sharp whiff of chlorine as she shook the rain from her umbrella. The shrill echo of girlish voices reverberated through the cavernous space, and she watched several teens pull their dripping bodies from the pool. Courtney was nowhere in sight. An uneasy feeling stirred in her gut.
“Hello, Mrs. Starkley.”
Lauren turned to find Coach Craig Tenney striding toward her. His t-shirt and warm up pants sported the school colors, blue and gold, and a silver whistle hung from a braided cord around his neck. She thought he looked a bit like a sun god with his blond hair, dazzling smile, and sun-coppered skin.
“Hi, Coach.” She cast a nervous glance at the pool.
His blue eyes followed her gaze. “Courtney just left the pool. She should be out of the locker room in a minute.”
“Thanks,” Lauren said, relieved. “Guess I’m a little jumpy today.”
“Everyone’s jumpy. This thing with Melissa ….” He shook his head, his expression sobering. “Poor kid. Tough ordeal. We had a special teacher meeting this morning. A nurse from the Rape Crisis Center came by with a sex crime inspector.”
“Lilly Camino?”
“Yeah. She told us about the assault. I read in the paper about your close call.” He looked genuinely concerned. “Scary stuff, being shot at. You okay?”
Nodding, Lauren didn’t blink. She had learned to hide her true feelings while on the job.
“The nurse gave us some pointers, so we’d know how to talk to the kids, and how to deal with Melissa when she returns.” Tenney’s guarded tone revealed his discomfort. Rape was a difficult subject.
“What did Camino say?”
He shrugged. “Not much. Just to keep an eye out for strange characters hanging around the school.”
That didn’t sit well with Lauren. If she had been acting with Camino’s authority, she would have wasted no time getting into everyone’s face. This morning she had handled Perez and Lasko with kid gloves, but she would have relished stripping off those gloves and pelting them with tough questions. Now she couldn’t resist giving Tenney a little jab. “Unfortunately, Coach, the bad guys can blend in with everyone else. It’s possible the suspect could be a school administrator, or one of the teachers.”
Tenney’s eyes registered something subtle. Something she didn’t like. A steely glint.
“Of course that’s a possibility,” he said evenly, crossing his arms. “Or it could be some psychopathic creep that hangs around high schools, like the detective said.”
“How are the kids taking it?” she said, lowering the heat.
“Some are detached. Some are pretty frightened.” He put his hands on his hips, which drew her attention to his lean, solid build. Strong. Blue eyes. Height about six feet. A blueprint of the strangler.
“There’s been a lot of uproar from parents, too,” he continued. “Keeping the phone lines busy, and the parking lot. Dropping off and picking up students. Afraid to put their kids on buses.”
“Can you tell me anything about Melissa that could help me with this case?”
He scratched his head. “L
ike what?”
“Notice any changes in her attitude lately? Did she appear troubled? Withdrawn?”
“No. She’s been as upbeat as ever.”
In addition to being the swim instructor Tenney coached the girls’ soccer matches, which routinely met in Cypress Park on Saturday mornings. Both Courtney and Melissa were on the team. Tenney and Lauren often shared light conversation centered around sports at those events. “Notice anyone hanging around Cypress Park who looked too interested in the girls? It’s possible our suspect was watching the games.”
“Hmmm. Let me think on that. I don’t pay much attention to the sidelines.”
“How about here at school? Have you noticed aggressive behavior by any male student towards freshmen girls?”
Tenney’s expression darkened. “Ted Spinoski.”
Perez had also mentioned Spinoski, who hung around the burger joint, smoking and pestering the girls. “Tell me about him.”
“He’s one of my students. Lazy, seems dazed half the time. A seriously troubled kid.” He frowned. “Probably on drugs. He’s been expelled a few times. Once for bringing a knife to school. I’ve seen him hanging around the gym, gawking at the girls. Making comments.”
Lauren would check this boy out thoroughly, but she didn’t think he’d be the offender. Her suspect was intelligent, fastidious, organized. A messed-up kid on drugs didn’t fit the bill. She pulled out her notebook, flipped a page. “What do you know of her other male friends? Kevin Dugan and Chris Larsen.”
“I coach them both. Fine boys.”
“Nothing irregular?”
“They’re in training most week nights. Leaves little time to scheme up something like this.”
“What about last night?”
“Chris had football practice. I’m the track coach, not football. Can’t verify he showed up.”
“And Kevin? Did he show up for track last night?”
He rubbed his chin. “Yeah, but he seemed distracted. Performed poorly, which isn’t like him.”
“What time was track over?”
“Around six.”
That gave Kevin, and Tenney for that matter, enough time to prepare for Melissa’s abduction, which happened around seven fifteen. “Could you describe Kevin for me? Height, hair, eyes?”