“Why is it you wouldn’t know about the man your daughter had been dating for a year?”
Arlene pursed her lips in disdain. “There were many things Michelle kept secret from us. She wasn’t the type of daughter who confided in her parents. We knew precious little about her and only knew about the Bergen boy because he would come by for her after she moved in with us.”
Streeter wondered how much they hadn’t known about Michelle’s pregnancy after all, considering her resourcefulness and strength as a thirteen-year-old.
“As I said, Michelle had only moved in this spring. She had lived on her own in a dingy little apartment in north Rapid City ever since she was eighteen.”
“Seventeen,” Frank corrected her.
“Like I said, she was very independent.”
“Yet, she moved back in with you at age twenty-eight?” Streeter asked. “That seems strange, considering she had put herself through college, lived on her own all this time. Wasn’t she about to graduate?”
“Michelle wasn’t very predictable that way,” explained the mother. “She never did anything we would expect. I’m not sure exactly why she moved into the basement. She told Frank and me that she moved in because her lease expired and rather than get a sublease over the summer, she opted to move in here so she had enough to go on to nursing school.”
“Medical school,” Bly mumbled.
Oblivious, Arlene continued, “That’s what she said, although we can’t help but think it had something to do with Charlene.”
Frank drank his tea, shifting his gaze between both agents as he did.
“Your youngest daughter?” Streeter asked.
Frank nodded.
“Have you heard from her, by the way?” Streeter inquired.
Frank lowered his glass and looked down at his tea. “No.”
“And you’re not concerned?”
Arlene ignored the question. “Those girls were always at each other’s throats. Girls are just too much to handle. One refuses to have anything to do with makeup and curlers and pretty clothes, the other uses everything she could to make herself look older.”
“Like a floozy,” Frank said, tightening his lips in reproach, suddenly embarrassed that he had spoken his thoughts aloud. His cheeks flushed red.
“Why did she run away from home Sunday night?” asked Streeter.
“Who, Charlene? We don’t know exactly.” Arlene looked to Frank for support. “It happens all the time.”
“Both of your daughters turned up missing within a few hours of one another. Michelle was found murdered. Yet you don’t seem concerned about Charlene being gone,” Streeter stated, hoping for an explanation.
“You’d have to know these two,” Arlene added, defensively, as if she were speaking to a child who had difficulties understanding.
Streeter shot a glance Bly’s way and said, “That’s why we’re here. You know and we don’t. Help us understand who these two young women are.”
“We had little control. They were impossible to manage.”
“And why do you say that?”
Neither spoke.
Bly prodded, “Skip school? Steal cars? Spit in your face?”
Arlene’s lips pursed again and she refused to look at Bly. “Of course nothing like that.”
Streeter urged, “Then what?”
“Well, Charlene runs away a lot. And Michelle … well—”
“Well what?” Streeter encouraged.
“Well, she is just so stubborn.”
He could not get her to talk about the alleged pregnancy. “So you think Michelle moved back home after all these years to save money?”
“And to try to exert some influence on Charlene.”
“And did it work? The influence?”
“It only drove Charlene away.”
“So you’re telling us that Charlene ran away more often when Michelle lived with you than when she lived apart from you?”
Arlene and Frank exchanged a look.
“Forgive me, but I’m trying to reconcile what you two consider girls who are difficult to manage. Because so far, from what I’ve heard from others, they both seemed to be good people in their teens and, for Michelle, into adulthood.”
Frank harrumphed. Then silence.
Trying to spark some reaction to measure their response, Streeter asked bluntly, “Is it at all possible that Char would be capable of killing her sister?”
To Streeter’s surprise, Frank answered, “It’s possible.”
Streeter wasn’t sure which concerned him more, the fact that a father would think his daughter capable of murder or how little nonplussed he was by the question posed.
“No, it’s not,” his wife protested. “They were close. They loved each other, Agent Pierce.”
Streeter was convinced that these two were completely in shock. Or clueless. No parent could possibly be this cool about discussing their murdered daughter and the likelihood that a second daughter might be the murderer.
“Char will return home on her own terms and in her own time. And as for Michelle …” Arlene’s eyes filled with tears, her chubby cheeks turning blotchy red.
Streeter watched Frank pull out a well-used cotton handkerchief from his pocket and blow his nose, pretending he wasn’t crying.
“Do you think Jens Bergen had anything to do with Michelle’s disappearance or death?”
Arlene’s brows netted and Frank frowned. They had obviously never thought about this, either.
“I don’t know,” was all Arlene could say.
“Can you think of anyone who would want to harm your daughter?” Streeter coaxed.
Impassively, they both shook their heads as if it had never occurred to them that anyone would have killed their daughter. Denial, Streeter thought. Frank and Arlene Freeburg couldn’t handle the thought that either Michelle or Charlene could be murdered or dead, even though they had already identified one at the morgue.
“Tell us about your sons.”
Frank, who had been stingy with his words about his daughters, barely took time for breaths between the bounties of praise he showered on his boys. The two proud parents shared every detail about Frankie Junior and Brian. The eldest had advanced by four promotions after enlisting in the Navy. Streeter’s question about whether or not either son had ever been in trouble with the law or in a fight was answered with another long-winded session about how Brian had finished college and was the top real estate salesman of the month in July. They briefly mentioned Brian’s children, their grandkids, but spent most of their time bragging about both sons’ accomplishments. Arlene just watched while her husband did most of the talking, nodding in all the right places, contributing little else to the conversation.
As Streeter listened, a situation came to mind where he and Blackstone, another Marine Recon specialist, were in a hot zone. Blackstone froze, never having been pinned down by gunfire before. Despite the screaming and tugging Streeter did to get Blackstone to move, to seek cover, he remained fixed, like a statue. Streeter finally removed his tactical ballistics helmet and slammed it against Blackstone’s helmet, jarring him from his fear. Both men scrambled to safety behind a chunk of ratty concrete left from an earlier explosion.
Knowing that time was of the essence in catching Michelle’s killer, Streeter decided it was time to clock the Freeburgs with his helmet.
At the first natural break, Streeter asked, “Did you ever witness any trouble between your sons and your daughters?”
“Well, of course all kids scuffle,” Arlene said dismissively.
“I’m talking about serious trouble between them.”
The Freeburgs stared at one another, blank expressions whitewashing their already bland faces.
Arlene spoke for herself and her husband when she said, “We’re not sure what you’re asking, Agent Pierce.”
“Did either of your sons ever give you reason to be concerned for your daughters’ well-being?” Streeter asked as tactfully as he knew how
. He was dancing all around the issue he really wanted to address—Michelle’s pregnancy. And he was using these questions to decide whether her parents were ready for such a direct approach or whether they truly never knew at all about their daughter’s condition in high school. At this point, his instincts told him to retreat and come at the subject from a different angle.
“Did my boys strike or swear at their sisters? Is that what you mean?” asked an indignant Arlene Freeburg.
Bly beat Streeter to the punch, slamming his own helmet to wake up the Freeburgs. “Did you ever suspect one or both of your sons of diddling on, experimenting with, or otherwise playing doctor on Michelle or Char?”
I HAD DONE THE unthinkable.
I pulled up to the Freeburg house with good intentions, but when I saw two men through the window sitting in the living room with what must have been Michelle’s parents, I decided to sneak around the neighbor’s house through their backyard, slide along the side of the Freeburg house, and dive into the hedge that lined the front of the house, just under an open window.
What had I become?
I never even eavesdropped on my own brothers and sisters, and believe me, I had had plenty of opportunities to do so, considering we were packed like sardines in those tiny rooms. Even though I am no longer a practicing Catholic, I had the sudden urge to close my eyes and bow my head: “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been FOREVER since my last confession … and this time it’s a biggy. I’m eavesdropping on total strangers.”
My heart was pounding so hard I kept looking up to see if the people inside the house were all staring down at me, wondering what all the racket was about.
From what Jens had told me about Michelle having two brothers, I assumed the men were Frankie Jr. and Brian Freeburg.
I listened intently as I heard Mrs. Freeburg—unmistakably Michelle’s mom, who Jens told me wore her blond hair in a beehive hairdo—say, “Did my boys strike or swear at their sisters? Is that what you mean?”
I heard one of the men ask, “Did your ever suspect one or both of your sons of diddling on, experimenting with, or otherwise playing doctor on Michelle or Char?”
That was hitting below the belt, I thought. These two men were certainly not Michelle’s brothers. But I was thrilled that, whoever he was, he had asked the question so directly because then I wouldn’t have to. After all, maybe it was a brother or the father who had ruined Michelle’s life when she was thirteen. And these two must have followed the same supposition. I doubted it, but I needed to rule out as many presumptions as possible. It appeared I had arrived just in time. I closed my eyes a second time: “And Father, the bigger sin is that I’m so glad I decided eavesdropping would be a good idea.”
A garbled and pissed voice sounded, “I don’t know what kind of filthy gutter you crawled out of, but our boys wouldn’t lay a hand on either of those girls. And if you want to know the truth, it was those girls who caused most of our problems.”
I concluded that Garbled must be Michelle’s dad.
“Problems?” I heard the third man ask. His voice sounded like he gargled with gasoline every morning. And lit a match when he did. I so badly wanted to check out what this man looked like. I turned and slithered my body up the brick wall like a slug. My eyes instantly landed on him. Tall, strong, rugged looks, shock of white hair, and buff. A hotty. What came instantly to mind was the line from the Disney song where the crooning princess is singing about a dream being a wish your heart makes. Oh my, this man was dreamy! Stunning, like the Greek Adonis.
Definitely not Agent Bob Shankley, the man I’d seen yesterday with Clint and Tommy. It took a lot to peel my eyes from Agent Adonis, but I managed and saw that Agent Blysdorf was the other man, for sure. Only today he had all his hair tucked up under a fedora. He was sitting nearest me, by the window across from Michelle’s mother, whose hair looked like a fresh butter-colored swirl from a cotton candy machine.
“Trouble, more like,” Michelle’s dad answered.
“What do you mean by trouble?”
“Like Arlene mentioned to you earlier, one or the other of them was always sassing back to her or me. They were always doing whatever the hell they pleased. They didn’t ever seem to mind any rules. Only wanted to bust them all.”
“Kind of girls who needed a lot of discipline?” Agent Adonis asked. His tone had changed, as if to squelch Mr. Freeburg’s anger and get him talking again.
Just then it dawned on me that I was no better than Roy the Peeping Tom. Only I was eavesdropping on federal agents. Holy crap! There must be a law against that. Surely I was not going to get out of this with an easy penance of three Our Fathers and two Hail Marys. More like three years in the pokey.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Michelle’s dad replied, obviously calmed down and willing to participate in the conversation again.
But then Agent Blysdorf asked the granddaddy of them all. “Were you ever concerned for your daughters’ safety when your husband was disciplining them, Mrs. Freeburg?”
“Now that’s enough. You get your ass out of my house. Arlene, call Shank and tell him these assholes have gone too far,” hollered Frank Freeburg.
I could hear the squeaking of chairs and the sound of a recliner folding back up with a fabric-muffled metallic thump, a scuttle of feet, and someone’s heavy breathing. I desperately wanted to peek in the window but didn’t dare. Instead, I tucked myself deeper in the hedge.
Then I heard Agent Adonis say in a commanding tone, “Mr. Freeburg, it’s our job to ask the difficult questions. If you have nothing to hide, your wife should simply answer our questions. Put the phone down, Mrs. Freeburg.”
I assumed the Shank the Freeburgs referred to was Agent Bob Shankley. I heard the phone being returned to the cradle and Michelle’s mom say, “I was never concerned about Michelle and Char’s safety as far as Frank is concerned. Or as far as Brian and Frankie Jr. were concerned. My husband didn’t beat, rape, or abuse those girls. Ever. If anything, maybe he should have been heavier handed, because the good Lord knows nothing else worked.”
“Heavy handed enough to bash your daughter’s head in?” the feisty Agent Blysdorf asked.
“You don’t have to answer any more questions, Arlene. Call Shank,” Michelle’s dad said.
“Not necessary. We’re leaving now,” Agent Adonis said.
I ducked deeper behind the hedge to make sure I wasn’t seen. The two agents left. I heard their footfalls on the concrete and two car doors slam shut. I peeked up over the hedge and saw Agent Blysdorf behind the wheel. I couldn’t see Agent Adonis with the sun’s glare on the window, but I assumed he was in the passenger seat.
As they pulled away from the curb, I eased up to glance in the living room. The Freeburgs were gone. I could hear noises from the kitchen, and the sound of water running came from down the hall to what looked like the bathroom and bedrooms. As I quickly glanced around the living room before making my escape, my eyes landed on the various pictures arranged on the mantel above the gas fireplace. I saw a large photograph of one son in a military uniform and of another son dressed in a suit surrounded by little children. I saw an old wedding picture of the Freeburgs and a second picture of the happy couple in recent years.
There were also several candid photos in which Coach Vincent, my childhood softball coach, stood out. In the first he was draping his arms over the shoulders of the boys as they stood with their parents; in the second he was wrapping his arm around Michelle’s waist; and in a third photo, he was standing beside a young girl with tousled black curls. The girl in the photo looked familiar, and I assumed it was Charlene. She looked enough like Michelle to confirm my suspicion that she had the baby and Michelle’s parents raised Charlene as their own. But something else about the young girl looked familiar in a different way. From this distance, it was hard to tell. A thread of the story’s fabric tugged in the back of my mind, but I wasn’t quite able to get a grip on it.
I heard a toilet flush and duck
ed down from the window, sneaking along the hedge and popping out between the houses. As I was making my way back to Jens’s truck, trespassing through strangers’ yards a different way than I had come, I realized I needed to see Coach Vincent, hopefully before the federal agents got to him first. I was about to hop my last fence and break for the pickup truck when I heard the window slide open and a woman call, “Liv? Is that you?”
I turned, embarrassed, and said, “Hi, Mrs. McKinney.”
The mother of my high school buddy Pam had not changed one bit in the past decade. But I couldn’t believe she recognized me and wondered how long she’d had a bead on me.
“What are you doing in our backyard, dear?”
I had been afraid that my unexpected but necessary stop at Mrs. McKinney’s house for a fresh baked brownie and a glass of milk was going to throw my timing off with Coach Vincent. But after I spilled the truth, Pam’s mom let me off the hook. And she confirmed the idea that I shouldn’t worry about Char, that she was always running away from time to time and that she would return home soon. Mrs. McKinney also promised not to tell the Freeburgs about me spying on them if I promised not to do it again. Ever.
I spotted him instantly when I came into the retro diner. Coach Vincent was sitting in one of the back booths, grinning and waving at me. He was shorter than I remembered, thinner. In his late forties or early fifties, he had a lot less hair than I recalled, and the blond was more ash gray, swept over his scalp in the same style he had worn when I was a teen. His baby blue eyes were no less penetrating than they used to be.
“Hi, Coach,” I greeted him.
Coach rose to his feet and we embraced. “Liv, you’re getting around better than what I expected.”
His wide, friendly smile was disarmingly charming and as genuine as always, more handsome than I remembered.
“What were you expecting?”
“Have a seat,” he said, motioning to the other side of the booth.
Lot’s return to Sodom Page 17