“They spent the night in Nisqually County Juvenile Hall,” Miss Ware said. “Christopher’s description of it impressed me. The specificity and vivid details. A believable tone of confusion and fear. It all rang true.”
Hearing now about it fed the frustration that made Tom sometimes want to hang it up with law enforcement. He’d bet his last penny that the police and court records had been sealed. According to state law, no one could have access to them even after Christopher was dead.
The damned Vanderwaals. Sure, Christopher had been as pure as the driven snow—no problems, no recent crises, nothing to upset him. Franz and Jane must have enjoyed holding back this information and thinking they’d duped Tom. He felt like wringing Franz’s skinny neck.
Miss Ware’s magnified eyes brightened. “I know how I can help you,” she said. “Kevin Engelbrit is in my next class. He’ll be here in a few minutes. You can ask him about the arrest.”
* * *
Outside San Julian High School’s entrance, Kevin Engelbrit aimed his shifty eyes at his grass-stained running shoes and worked his toe against a sidewalk crack. He was tall and gangly, no babe magnet, and he was clearly embarrassed to be seen talking with a sheriff’s deputy as if he’d been robbing banks. As American and Washington State flags whipped in the wind above him, he fidgeted and shifted from foot to foot.
“So tell me about Christopher,” Tom said. With this kid, giving an order might work better than asking a question. “I want to know if anything was going on with him before he attacked the officer.”
Kevin shrugged. “I hadn’t talked to him in a while.”
“Then tell me about the two of you getting arrested.”
“Nothing to tell,” Kevin mumbled without looking up.
“I believe there is. Miss Ware said you and Christopher stole shirts.”
“They weren’t expensive. We gave them back.”
“So how did you get caught?”
“The saleslady saw us stuff them into our backpacks. She called the police.”
“Did a female officer come?” If Brady had answered that call, Christopher would have hated her and Tom would have his motive. He’d also know she’d withheld information far more important than Franz’s DUI.
“I don’t remember who came, but it wasn’t a woman,” Kevin said. He kept his eyes on the concrete as if it were studded with naked girls.
“Tell me about juvy,” Tom said.
Kevin shrugged.
“How long were you and Christopher there?”
“One night.”
“Then what?”
Kevin glanced at Tom as if he were a mentally deficient guppy. “We went home.”
Contempt from a juvenile twerp is hard to bear. Tom restated the question: “The judge sentenced you to what?”
“We had to apologize to Northwest Threads’ owner.”
“That’s all?”
“We had to pick up trash in Waterfront Park every other Saturday for four months.”
“You must have been embarrassed when your friends saw you there.” Let the little bugger squirm. “What about mandatory counseling?”
“Yeah. We did that.”
Kevin couldn’t seem to scrape out of his memory the name of his counselor, who might have led Tom to valuable information. “How did Christopher feel about counseling?”
“I don’t know.” Kevin shook his head. “He probably didn’t hate it as much as the camp his parents sent him to.”
“When?”
“Last summer.”
“It wasn’t part of the sentence? They sent him on their own?”
“I guess.”
“What camp?” Tom asked.
“I don’t remember.”
Oh, right. Sometimes Tom’s job took all his patience. “I think you do remember and you’re choosing not to say.”
Kevin shrugged his bony shoulders. “Just some camp in Oregon.”
“Tell me the name,” Tom demanded in his most authoritative voice.
Kevin shrugged again.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll keep you out here all afternoon. At every class break, your classmates are going to see you talking to a deputy sheriff. They’re going to wonder why.”
“Sand Cliff. The name is Sand Cliff.”
CHAPTER 31
ANDREA
The silver Audi was going sixty-two in a forty zone. “Got him with the speed gun,” Andie told Justice. She turned on her flashing lights, pulled onto the road, and started following. Not surprisingly, when the driver saw her in his rearview mirror, he slowed to a crawl and sneaked his seat belt across his chest. Andie had seen this act of stealth more times than she could count.
When she got close enough to read the license plate, she typed it into her computer and saw that the car’s owner had no criminal history. That was no guarantee she’d be safe approaching him. He could be a milquetoast in a clerical collar or a raging nutcase with guns piled in the backseat and plans to shoot up a shopping mall. On traffic stops, as with most official tasks, police never knew what they were going to meet.
When the Audi driver pulled over to the side of Koura Road, Andie let the dispatcher know her location and the speeder’s license plate number. She told Justice, “Back in a minute.”
His whimpers told her unambiguously that he did not like being left behind when these stops could be dangerous—and when the toll they now took on her was greater than it had been before Christopher’s attack. She used to feel more confident approaching traffic violators, but now from the rise in her stress hormones and heart rate he could tell she was uneasy. Justice strained to watch her through the bars confining him to the backseat.
As Andie walked toward the Audi, she hoped the driver wouldn’t be a Stop and Go, who dutifully pulled over but zoomed away as she approached his car. Maybe he’d be the kind who’d apologize profusely and claim he was rushing to the hospital to meet his wife in labor—and wouldn’t you know that their last baby popped out in five minutes! Or he’d claim, No speak English, and Andie would have the pleasure of mentioning the twenty-dollar bill on his passenger seat, and catching him when he turned his head to look.
The Audi driver unrolled his window and gave her a megawatt smile. His eyeteeth were unusually pointed; if he’d auditioned to be a movie’s werewolf, he’d have gotten the job. “Well, hi there,” he said as if Andie had pulled him over to offer him a box of chocolates.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Andie said.
“Why are you stopping me?”
If lambs could be so innocent. “You were going sixty-two in a forty-mile-an-hour zone.”
Gasp. “Sixty-two?! Surely not.”
“I’m afraid so, sir. May I have your driver’s license, car registration, and proof of insurance?”
Andie did not take her eyes off his hands as he shuffled through the glove compartment, because drivers had been known to pull out guns and aim them at police. When he leaned forward to work the wallet from his back pocket, she also watched him carefully—who knew what he might reach for?
He opened his wallet and dawdled around, flipping through credit cards and photos. He whipped out a picture of his twin daughters with their beagle. “Aren’t my girls cute? They’re only six.”
I’m not here to make friends.
He handed Andie the requested documents in one fistful and claimed, “I’ve got a great driving record.”
That’s what they all say. On his license she noted that he was James Galloway, five foot ten, 180 pounds, black hair, brown eyes. He lived on San Julian’s upscale Shoreline Road.
“Are you going to give me a speeding ticket?” Another megawatt smile, more pointed teeth.
“Yes, Mr. Galloway.” I’ll forget the seat belt. One violation is enough for now.
Learning that his charm had not dissuaded her seemed to flip a switch inside him. The curve of his smile flattened to a hostile line. “Do you go after innocent people to meet a quota? Does your station need new computers or
something?”
“No quota.” She knew better than to argue. “I’m going back—”
“My tax dollars pay your wages,” he said. “Don’t you have anything better to do than harass me?”
“I’m going to my car for a minute, sir. Wait here.” Andie walked away backward in order to keep her eyes on him.
Justice welcomed her to the car with small disapproving huffs of breath that let her know he did not appreciate being locked up when she needed his protection. “Just a few more minutes, and we’ll be done,” Andie told him.
She radioed the dispatcher her badge number, then James Galloway’s name, date of birth, and license plate and driver’s license numbers. She waited. In less than a minute the dispatcher said, “The driver has numerous previous incidents and parking violations. In the last twelve months a car with that license plate was stopped on January seventeenth, August third, and October twenty-eighth.” No news there. Everybody lies to cops.
As Andie wrote up Mr. Galloway’s ticket, he glared at her in his rearview mirror. If eyes could talk, his would have shouted obscenities worse than any from Marigold Adams. At least his $247 fine might teach him a lesson. There had been too many accidents on Koura Road, especially when rain slicked the asphalt.
Andie handed Mr. Galloway his driver’s license, documents, and ticket. He knew he’d been defeated, but he was not the type to slink away, chastised. He flashed his yellowish eyes. “I know who you are. I remember now.”
Andie replied, crisp as celery, “I’m a San Julian police officer.”
“Just barely you are. You’re the cop who shot the kid. I saw your picture on TV.”
Andie’s stomach tied itself into a full hitch. Her breath caught in her throat.
“You lucked out. You should have been fired,” Galloway said.
“The investigation proved my action was justified.” Don’t argue!
“That’s ridiculous. I’m a lawyer. I can tell you, what you did was criminal. You should have lost your job, and I could make sure you do.” Galloway closed his window and let Andie know that he’d spoken his last word on the matter. He had the good sense not to stomp on his accelerator and speed away. But before Andie could get back to her patrol car, he was pushing forty down Koura.
She was sweating and shaking. Dr. Capoletti would warn her again that post-traumatic stress could intensify emotions. She climbed into her car, rested her forehead on the steering wheel, and closed her eyes. On the backs of her lids, Christopher ran at her waving his knife.
“I can’t get away from that terrible night. Either I think of Christopher on my own, or somebody reminds me,” she told Justice. Galloway’s threat that he could get her fired had not distressed her as much as his attack catching her off guard. Just as Christopher’s had.
Justice’s reassuring breaths warmed the back of her head. He pressed his face against the bars to nuzzle her, but she was out of reach. His soft whines informed her, I am here. Do not worry. If you’d let me, I’d have sunk my teeth into that man’s gizzard. When Andie put her hand against the bars, he licked her fingers.
“I feel like it’s never going to end,” she told him as a black cloud of despair settled over her.
CHAPTER 32
TOM
It was Shop with a Cop day, when San Julian and Nisqually County law enforcement officers took thirty disadvantaged first graders to Christmas shop at Target. As their delighted shrieks drowned out Muzak carols, the kids dragged their assigned officers along the aisles and piled gifts for their families into red carts. After the children had spent their allotted hundred dollars, they stampeded Stephanie and other department staff at a gift-wrapping station by the entrance.
There, in an alcove next to it, Tom, Andie, and Justice were waiting.
For the past few years Alan Pedersen had been Santa, but this year he was having an emergency root canal, and at the last minute he’d roped Tom into the job. He’d warned Tom that frightened or excited children might have accidents or throw up on him, so all morning Tom had been perfecting his ho-ho-hos to boom without being scary or manic. In a rented red velvet Santa outfit and a prosthetic belly, he sat on a folding chair, surrounded by artificial snow and Christmas trees, whose lights radiated heat. Tom began to sweat. After just eight on-the-knee chats, his damp moustache began slipping over his mouth, perilously close to blowing his cover—and he still had twenty-two children to go.
He gestured to Andie to send over the next kid. Andie was dressed in a green elf suit with red trim, a red conical hat, green tights, and red shoes whose toes curled up to points. Her job was to keep the children in an orderly line, and Justice was supposed to amuse them while they waited their turn on Santa’s lap. Justice had not been keen on his fuzzy red reindeer antlers, but once the kids arrived he got into his role.
This was his second year as Rudolph, and he loved children. Like a therapy dog, he let them fuss over him. He listened to their secrets and nuzzled them. He washed their faces with his tongue.
A girl with fleece mittens hanging by a string around her neck finished petting him and bounded over to Tom. She straddled his knees and placed her hands on his shoulders as if she were claiming him as a personal possession. “I want a unicorn,” she said.
“Er . . . that’s a pretty tall order,” Tom said. “Usually, I bring kids toys.”
Her disillusioned eyes slanted down at the edges. “But that’s not what I want.”
We don’t always get what we want in life, kid; I’m sorry to tell you. “I’ll have to think about a unicorn,” Tom said to stall.The cardinal rule for Santas was never to promise anything, because they did not know what a kid’s parents could find or afford. But even the most indulgent parent wasn’t going to find a unicorn to leave under the Christmas tree. “Unicorns are rare,” Tom said. “Don’t you want a doll or something?”
“No.” She pushed out her lower lip.
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do. No promises, and don’t get your hopes up too high.” Tom dreaded her disappointment on Christmas morning when no unicorn would be ransacking her house for breakfast.
As Tom gestured to Andie to send the next kid in line, he pretended to scratch his nose so he could sneak his moustache back into place. But it slid off-center and lower than before. He’d be caught if he adjusted it again. “Hi there, kiddo! Nice blue hat.”
The boy studied the linoleum floor but finally worked his gaze up to Tom’s right shoulder. He didn’t climb onto Tom’s knee.
“What do you want for Christmas?”
“I don’t want toys,” the boy said.
Oh, brother. Don’t tell me you want a unicorn. “So what should Santa bring you?”
“My dad. He’s in Afghanistan. I want him to come home.”
Gulp. You poor kid. Today Tom had signed up to talk about toys. He never expected a wrenched gut. “Santa can’t make decisions about the military,” he said. “Tell you what. When I’m flying around the world on Christmas Eve, I’ll stop and check on your dad. Would that help?”
The boy nodded.
Tom wanted to hug him, buy him a plane ticket to Kabul, do anything to wipe the sadness off that face. “What branch of the military is your dad in?”
“Marines.”
Tom almost said, I used to be a Marine, but he caught himself just in time—Santa wouldn’t dream of signing up for war. “I’ll bet your dad would love to be with you this Christmas. I’ll tell him you miss him, okay?”
The boy nodded again. Tom wished he could spend the afternoon bolstering the kid’s morale, but a line of children was waiting. It hurt Tom to tell Andie, “Next.”
For the rest of his Santa stint, he tried—and failed—to keep his moustache in place, but the kids seemed willing to suspend disbelief. He got requests for an octopus and walrus—How do kids come up with these things? They asked for a smart-watch, quadcopter drone, Tag Solar System Adventure Pack, lizard robot, telescope, soccer ball, butterfly garden, and American Girl doll.
&n
bsp; A boy announced that he didn’t believe in Santa Claus, and Tom urged him not to tell the other kids. Another boy opened his grubby little hand, and onto Tom’s palm he dropped a piece of bubblegum for a Christmas gift. “Oh, wow! This is great! I usually get the same old cookies and milk,” Tom said.
Finally, at the end of the line, a girl with a patch on her tights’ knee asked if Santa was fat because he ate children who got up early on Christmas morning. “That’s what my mother said.”
Tom ho-ho-hoed. “I’ve never eaten a child,” he told her. “Tell you what.Why don’t you let your mother sleep in sometimes? I’ll bet she’d be happy about it.”
* * *
Tom collected his and Andie’s coats from behind a Christmas tree and finally got his moustache in place. As he helped her into her coat, he noted how pretty she looked in her elf outfit—great legs in those tights, her red hair puffed out around the pointed hat. His palm barely touching her back, he guided her and Justice through the crowd toward the entrance. After the gifts were stored on the bus, the officers were supposed to wave the kids good-bye.
Outside in the dusk, wind blew in Tom’s face; Lisa’s new weather station might measure the velocity at twenty-five miles an hour. Rain was falling, bad news when Santa and his elf had no umbrellas. Tom was about to suggest they make a run for their cars when lights shone in their faces.
Unsure of the source, Tom squinted against the brightness, then realized a TV camera crew surrounded them. Wonderful! Publicity for a good cause. He told Andie, “A local station must be covering Shop with a Cop for the ten o’clock news.”
Wrong.
Sid King rushed up to Andie and thrust a microphone in her face. Looking like she’d had the props knocked out from under her, she shrank back. Justice pushed between them and growled.
Tom grabbed Andie’s hand and felt her melt against him. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I’ll take you to your car.”
In the mob of kids, he had to strain to hear her ask, “How did he know I was here?”
“I have no idea.”
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