Clean Burn

by Karen Sandler

  Cassie snatched the backpack from him. “I forgot it, okay? I don’t have my spare.”

  He grabbed her arm. “Then we’ll have to go home.”

  “I’m not done playing.”

  Ken plucked the controller out of her hand. “Next time you’ll remember to carry a spare.”

  Ken perp-walked Cassie from the store and out to the Explorer, the kid complaining every step at the affront to her dignity. Caged in the back seat, she stewed as Ken made a quick stop at the sheriff’s department to drop me off. While family relations between Ken and Cassie hadn’t sunk to the level of dysfunction of my own, I was glad enough to escape the confines of the Ford.

  Cassie climbed from the back to take shotgun next to her uncle. Before the Explorer pulled out, she rolled down her window and called out to me. “Hey, you want to come for dinner?”

  I caught a glimpse of Ken through the open window. He looked ready to implode from the aggravation. Much as I might enjoy adding to his annoyance level, I’d spent too much time with the man already today. I didn’t want to fall prey to any old habits that might lead to another bedroom episode.

  Ken’s gaze locked briefly with mine and I wondered if the same thoughts had flitted through his mind. “Janelle’s too busy to come to dinner.”

  “Uncle Ken can’t cook, but if you want to risk it, you’re welcome to come.” Now I saw the plea in Cassie’s eyes. Maybe she hoped my presence during dinner would blunt her uncle’s wrath.

  She mouthed, “please,” and sucker that I am, I couldn’t seem to form the word “No.” “Sure. Thanks.”

  As Ken glared at his niece, Cassie tore a sheet of lined paper from one of her spiral notebooks and scribbled their address on it. I didn’t recognize the street.

  Ken took the sheet from Cassie and added a hastily scrawled map. “It’s behind the new development off Patterson Road. We eat between 6:30 and 7:00.”

  They pulled out with a screech of tires, Ken taking out his anger on the Explorer’s suspension. Relieved to be out of that pressure-cooker, I climbed into my Escort and headed over to the motel to check in and grab a shower.

  CHAPTER 6

  James leaned against the thin pillow he’d propped against the cinderblock wall, Sean snuggled in his lap. The book Mama had given them lay open on the little boy’s skinny legs. It had been a present, Mama said, to reward James the first time he’d held the candle all the way to the bottom. He’d read the book so many times now, he didn’t need to look at the page to tell Sean the story.

  Which was good since even daylight wasn’t usually enough to read by. During the day, he did okay if he held the book up toward the window. But times like now, when the sun was on the other side of the house, he could hardly make out the words on the page.

  When Mama had come in earlier and lit a candle, James had wondered if he would have to hold it. But Mama had set it on the floor by the mattress. James had almost cried with relief.

  James checked the page he was on, the book hard to see in the flickering candlelight. “Then Bunny knocked on Fox’s door,” James read, “‘Where are my carrots?’ Bunny asked.”

  Sean turned the page. The little boy knew the book as well as James. “‘Come inside,’ Fox said. ‘Your carrots are right here.’“

  As Sean flipped to the next page, Lydia whimpered from the playpen. James held his breath, hoping the baby would quiet down again. If she got going, she would just cry louder and louder until Mama came.

  As Lydia started screaming, James shouted the words of the story over the noise. But Sean covered his ears and hunched over the book, so James got up and went over to the playpen. He patted Lydia on the back like he’d seen his Aunt Marisa do with his cousin. But the baby screeched even harder.

  Usually Mama heard the crying and came to check on Lydia. But maybe she wasn’t in the house anymore. Maybe she’d already gone out. Except it wasn’t completely dark yet. And she hadn’t given them their dinner.

  Should he go up the stairs and bang on the door? Mama had made it clear they weren’t allowed on the stairs. The door at the top was locked, anyway. He heard the deadbolt whenever Mama came or went. Maybe if he broke the no stairs rule for Lydia’s sake, Mama wouldn’t punish him.

  Lydia had started to shriek, the high-pitched noise jolting into silence when she gasped for breath. James knew sometimes babies made themselves sick if they cried too hard. His cousin threw up sometimes.

  A flicker of red from the windows caught his eye. Was Mama out there? The window was too high for him to look out. But there were some big white buckets under the stairs. If he turned one upside down, he could probably see.

  He dumped out the rags that filled one of the buckets, figuring he could put them back before Mama returned. He set the bucket upside down on the mattress right next to the wall. He had to stand on tiptoes and had to grab the windowsill to pull himself up a bit, but he could see out.

  He saw the fire through the vines that crisscrossed the window. It was small, like a campfire, flames licking the air. Mama stood beside it, shadowy in the flickering light.

  Mama bent to something at her feet. When she rose again, she held an animal by the scruff of its neck. It looked like a possum or a raccoon, James couldn’t tell through the berry vines. The animal wriggled a little bit as Mama lifted it over the fire. It squirmed harder when Mama lowered it closer to the flames. She held it there until the flames nearly reached her hand, then dropped it in the campfire.

  James stumbled down from the bucket, feeling ready to puke. He closed his eyes, but he couldn’t shut out the image of the animal falling into the fire, the way it struggled. He gagged, his empty stomach knotting even tighter.

  He grabbed the bucket and stuffed the rags back inside. Once it was under the stairs, he went to Lydia’s playpen and picked up the baby girl. Her sobs were quieter, but she still whined, like that critter must have when Mama held it over the fire. Shutting his eyes again, James paced the floor with the baby, patting her back as he held her close.

  CHAPTER 7

  When I made the turn off Patterson into the White Oak Village development, I wound my way along Gray Squirrel Lane through a neighborhood filled with the same beige, cookie-cutter stucco houses I’d seen along Highway 50. Kids tossed basketballs into hoops attached to garages while their dads watered postage stamp-sized front lawns. The houses, kids and dads seemed interchangeable and I wondered if a returning commuter ever pulled into the wrong house by mistake.

  I passed a few undeveloped micro-lots filled with knee- high brown grass, then Gray Squirrel Lane ended abruptly, the asphalt giving way to gravel. Here was real country living, with black oak and pine shading homes set well back from the road. Based on the spacing of the houses, I calculated the parcels must be five acres, minimum. I wouldn’t have thought an SFPD pension would stretch that far.

  Ken’s place, a two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch, sat under a massive blue oak with a tire swing hanging from its lowest branch. I tried to imagine wise- ass Cassie using that swing, smiling as her Uncle Ken pushed her. But she would have been eleven by the time she came to live with him, far too worldly to enjoy such a childish pleasure.

  I glanced at the car clock before I shut off the engine. 7:10. I was officially late. Once I’d checked into the Gold Rush Inn, I’d gotten caught up reading the court documents Sheri had emailed me on Pickford’s most recent case. When I realized I wouldn’t make it to Ken’s in time, I considered calling and begging off, but somehow I climbed into the Escort anyway and headed over.

  Cassie answered the door sporting an inky black streak in her pale blonde hair. As she led me through the living room, I got a quick glimpse of comfy sofas, dusty knickknacks and books piled everywhere. A few soda cans decorated the coffee table and an afghan sat rumpled on the floor beside a recliner.

  “Do you like my hair?” Cassie asked.

  It looked as if a reverse skunk had plopped on her head, but I didn’t tell her that. “What does your uncle
think?”

  She nudged me into the kitchen where Ken bent over the open oven door. “He hates it, which is the whole point.” She whispered in my ear, “It washes out, but I haven’t told him that.”

  The kitchen was a little worn around the edges, the butcher block island in the middle scarred by years of the attentions of chef’s knives, the rustic wood cabinets with dark metal handles stuck in the seventies. Past the breakfast bar, the big trestle table in the dining room with its mismatched chairs had the hallmarks of a yard sale purchase. I guessed that after buying the property, there wasn’t much spare change for kitchen remo.

  Ken pulled out a broiler pan filled with fat burger patties and set it on the stove. While Ken served up the burgers on buns, Cassie dumped a couple cans of cling peaches in a bowl. A basket of French fries already steamed on the kitchen table.

  Aside from blackened edges, the burgers weren’t bad. Stuffed with green chilies and jack cheese and paired with a mondo bun, they made for a jaw-stretching mouthful. I slathered mine with salsa and shut my eyes in carnivorous bliss with every bite.

  Cassie wolfed hers down in record time, shoving in one last French fry before pushing back from the table. She didn’t quite make it to her feet before Ken glared at her. “Cassie-”

  The phone rang, freeze-framing the looming showdown between Ken and his niece. When Cassie looked ready to bolt, Ken aimed his index finger at her, cocked like a gun. “Sit. Don’t move.” Her expression mutinous, Cassie flopped back down.

  Just as the answering machine clicked on, Ken grabbed the portable from the breakfast bar. He barked a greeting into the phone, then with an apologetic glance my way, walked off toward the living room, leaving me with a half-eaten burger and a seething teenager.

  “Am I supposed to sit here all night?” she huffed.

  I took another bite, mumbling out an answer around a mouthful of beef and bun. “Sure he’ll be back soon.”

  She fixed her blue gaze on me, her amped-up righteous indignation fading a bit. “So, did you know my mom?” Her voice broke on the last syllable.

  I didn’t see how I could avoid that minefield. “She came down to the station once or twice.”

  Cassie picked at her paper napkin. “She’s way prettier than you.”

  “I think we’ve established that.”

  Her hand closed over the napkin, squeezing it into a tight ball. “She’s coming back.”

  Beneath her declaration, I could hear her plea for confirmation. I gave her a non-committal shrug as I munched my way through my burger.

  She rolled the napkin between her hands, compressing it even smaller. “Mom’s just been waiting for the diabetes to settle down. As soon as I let her know I have my insulin under control, she’ll come get me.”

  The look on Cassie’s face told me that even she didn’t believe her fairytale. She knew that a mom who never called her daughter, who didn’t “stay in touch,” wasn’t likely to ever want her back. No doubt she’d mentioned her mother to me, a near stranger, in hopes I’d buy into her fantasy so she could convince herself she believed.

  That would have been even crueler than leaving Cassie high and dry the way Melinda had. I wouldn’t tell Ken’s niece what I really thought, that her mother was a worthless excuse for humanity. But I wouldn’t join her in her land of denial.

  The moment Ken returned, Cassie fell back on her scowling teenager persona again. “How long are you going to keep me chained to this table?”

  Ken dropped the phone back on the counter with a clatter. “Did you adjust your insulin?”

  Cassie fussed with the box at her waist. “There, it’s perfect.”

  She was up and pushing her chair in when Ken caught her again. “Your homework?”

  “If you’ll release me from custody, I’ll go do it.”

  He waved her off and she flounced out of the room without clearing her place. “Cassie, your dishes,” Ken called after her, but her footsteps already pounded up the stairs.

  Ken rubbed a hand across his face. “Are all thirteen-year-old girls as mouthy as her?”

  “Could be worse,” I told him.

  “How?” he asked around a mouthful of fries.

  “You know how,” I said. “You saw enough of it in the City. Sex, drugs, and alcohol. Speaking of which, that McPherson stinks like a distillery.”

  “Yeah.” Ken swirled a cold French fry in ketchup. “He has a cot in his office, sleeps it off there if he’s had too much.”

  “The kids must smell it on his breath,” I said. “I certainly did.”

  “Cassie’s mentioned it. She thinks it’s pretty gross. Enough that she doesn’t seem to have any inclination to drink herself.”

  Hip-hop music started up, vibrating through the walls, the lyrics a harsh mix of misogyny and homophobia. Ken winced at the volume. “Why is she so pissed at me all the time?”

  “You know it isn’t about you.”

  “Her mother. Yeah. Therapist told me that much.”

  “She still seeing a shrink?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Cassie stopped talking to the woman. Waste of money having her sit there, stone silent.”

  Stone silent and hemorrhaging inside from the pain. I fidgeted with the fries left on my plate and tried not to think about it. “Who was on the phone?”

  Good God, the man was blushing. “Julie Sweetzer.” His gaze riveted on his plate. “She had some paperwork to discuss.”

  What kind of paperwork would Miss Sweet-as-pie need to mull over with Ken at 7:45 in the evening? I suspected it had nothing to do with police work.

  I was dying to know if this was a two-way romance, or unrequited love on Miss Sweet-as-pie’s part, but Ken had filled his mouth with a chunk of burger big enough to choke a horse. He didn’t look eager to share the details of his conversation with Julie.

  I picked up my plate and reached for Cassie’s. Ken grabbed for it at the same moment. “I’ll get that.”

  I didn’t back away and his hand brushed against mine. As if we were hero and heroine in some sappy romance novel, we locked gazes and leaned in closer. I actually looked down at his mouth and fantasized about kissing him.

  Then I came to my senses and backed away, rubbing my wrist against the side of my jeans. I thought about making a joke about wiping away boy cooties, but I was a little afraid my voice would shake if I spoke.

  I filled my empty hand with the bowl of peaches, nearly jettisoning the last two lonely slices onto the linoleum. As I followed Ken into the kitchen, I was determined to pretend I hadn’t just had a Harlequin moment.

  I set the plate and bowl beside the sink. “So,” I said, pouncing on a conversational gambit, “no one new after Tara?”

  He upended the contents of the fruit bowl into the garbage disposal. “No time. What about you?”

  Figuring he wasn’t asking about the parade of one- night stands, I racked my brain for a G-rated answer. “Believe it or not, there was one guy, about a year ago.”

  He slotted plates and bowl into the dishwasher. I had one of those in my tiny kitchen, but it didn’t do a very good job with take-out boxes. “What happened?” The silverware clattered as he dropped them in from a height.

  “He wanted a family, can you believe it? That wasn’t going to happen.” He hadn’t exactly been someone whose gene pool should have been extended anyway.

  Shutting the dishwasher, Ken straightened, leaned his hip against the counter. His blue eyes fixed on me, and I experienced a sudden flashback of the way he’d looked at the moment of climax.

  Caught up in sexual fantasy, Ken’s question flew at me from left field. “Do you still have the nightmares?”

  I let out a half-assed laugh. “Which one? There have been so many.”

  “Tommy.”

  I turned away, my skin prickling. “I never even think about Tommy.” I stared at the floor, not wanting Ken to see the lie in my face.

  “Do you still visit Maynard?”

  He meant Maynard Fr
ye, aka, the sickest bastard on the planet. Just because I liked to drop in at San Quentin, satisfy myself that Tommy Phillips’s murderer was still under lock and key, didn’t mean I had some kind of hang-up about him.

  Even still, I didn’t want to admit it to Ken. “What business is it of yours?”

  Before I figured out what he was doing, he grabbed my hand, pushed up my sleeve. I tried to twist my arm so he wouldn’t see the freshest marks, but he held me fast.

  “You’re still burning yourself.”

  I tugged my arm free. “A girl’s got to have a hobby.”

  His gaze narrowed on me. “I’ve never understood. Your father did this to you. Why would you do it to yourself?”

  The department shrink had told me that deep down inside, I thought I deserved the punishment. Because of Tommy and all my other failures as a cop. Because I thought my mother wouldn’t have died if she’d loved me enough. I never believed his bullshit.

  “Have you considered maybe I just like the pain?” I said it lightly, trying to make a joke out of the bald-ass truth. “If you don’t care about me, why the hell are you even asking?”

  Color rose in his cheeks again and he looked away. “Maybe because I did care once.”

  No damn way I was following up on that one. I shifted gears to something with a little less emotional baggage. “What do you know about Paul Beck?”

  Ten full seconds of silence ticked away before he answered. “He’s been here six months. Previously registered in San Diego County.”

  “What was the charge?”

  “Lewd and lascivious with a child under twelve. But as far as I know, he’s never been near San Francisco.”

  “He could have had someone bring him one of the boys. You can arrange just about anything over the internet.”

  A light bulb went on in Ken’s eyes. “The librarian told me Beck surfs the web once or twice a week. Uses the library’s internet.”

  “How close a watch does Big Brother keep on computer users?” I asked.