That brought his head up. His eyes practically bugged out of his face. “Are you out of your mind? They’re not going to believe me. They’ll think I’m making it up about someone else being there.”
That thought stopped me.
Dexter leaned forward, trying to convince me. “If you give me some money, I can leave. David’s at the University of Minnesota. He’s sharing an apartment with a couple of guys. I’m sure I could crash with him for a while. When this blows over, I can come back.”
“What about school?” I asked the question without thinking; I wasn’t letting my son leave home to avoid the police. If he left, I might not see him again until he showed up on America’s Most Wanted. “No. Absolutely not.”
“I could get my GED.” The thought of missing school lit up Dexter’s face, and I could tell he was liking his plan more and more.
I started to hyperventilate at the thought of Dexter on the lam, becoming a grocery clerk or petty thief to support himself, hanging out with David and his frat boy friends who probably spent every weekend binge-drinking, never getting his high school diploma. I thunked the automatic locks down and used the child safety switch so Dexter couldn’t run off, then pulled out my phone. I called Charlie’s lawyer friend.
* * *
Tucker Winston—it confuses me so much when people have two first names, or two last names—arrived in the parking lot twenty-five minutes later. He got out of one of those Jeeps that don’t have any doors and walked toward us, a big smile on his face. His very young face. He didn’t look much older than Dexter, and I watched his dreadlocks bounce on his shoulders with dismay. Even though he wore a very pricey, very British pin-striped suit that looked like Anderson & Sheppard, the dreadlocks made me nervous. The only other white person I could think of with dreadlocks worked at the Panera where I had lunch at least once a week. I buzzed down the window as he approached.
“Mrs. Goldman?” He had a deep, rich voice that reassured me slightly. “I’m Tucker Winston.”
“Do you have a driver’s license?”
“It’s good to be cautious.” He flipped open a thin billfold and handed me his driver’s license.
He might think I was making sure he was who he said he was, but I actually wanted to see if he was old enough to be a real lawyer. From his birth date, I figured out he was thirty-three and handed the license back, feeling a bit better. Charlie wouldn’t have said he was good if he weren’t, but I needed to be sure.
Sliding the wallet back into his pocket, he said, “I’ve contacted the police, and I think it’s best if Dexter and I have a chat with them. They’re prepared to be reasonable.”
Dexter muttered something that sounded like “I want to go to Minnesota.”
“What’s ‘reasonable’?”
“A very good question.” Tucker Winston smiled broader. “Are you sure you’re not a lawyer?”
I felt flattered and relaxed even more.
“They’re not looking to arrest him at this time. They just want to hear his story. Mrs. Goldman—”
“I’m Gigi. G. G. for Georgia Goldman, get it?”
“Why don’t you go into the Safeway and get yourself a sandwich or something while I confer with my client. I think it would be best if I talked to Dexter alone,” he added when I started to object.
“Okay.” I got my purse, unlocked the door, and looked back at Dexter, who hadn’t said anything to me since I made the phone calls. “Will you be okay, honey?”
“Like you care.”
His words made me tear up, and I hurried across the parking lot to the Safeway, thinking a one-pound bag of peanut M&M’s suited my mood better than a sandwich.
* * *
Two hours later, we were done at the police station and Tucker Winston, Dexter, and I were walking out the door. The police hadn’t arrested Dexter, although Detective Lorrimore had told him not to leave town. I hadn’t been allowed to sit in on the interview, but Tucker Winston filled me in when they got done. Dexter had told the police what he’d told me, and they’d seemed equal parts skeptical and interested to hear there might have been someone in the bedroom while Dexter talked to Heather-Anne. Dexter stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a sulky-scared expression on his face. I’d spent the time in the waiting area, trying to read a four-year-old Field & Stream magazine and chatting with a guy as big as Shaquille O’Neal who had so many tattoos he looked like a highway overpass graffitied by gang members. I’d been nervous of him at first, but he mentioned he was there to get fingerprinted for a special ed teaching job, and I’d shared my M&M’s with him, and we’d talked about how sad it is that kids can’t take peanut butter sandwiches to school anymore since so many kids have peanut allergies.
* * *
By the time Dexter and I entered the house from the garage, it was almost four and Kendall was home from school. She was peeling a cucumber over the sink when we walked in and took a large bite out of it before saying, “Where’ve you been? I had to get a ride home with Eli since Dexter wasn’t there, and he asked me to the Spring Fling.”
“Did you say yes?”
“Ew. As if. He has pimples, and I once saw milk squirt from his nose when he laughed. Come on—we’re going to be late for practice if we don’t leave right now.”
I noticed she was wearing a long-sleeved leotard and thin sweatpants and her skate bag sat in a lumpy heap on the kitchen table. “Sorry, Kendall,” I said, feeling frazzled. “Dexter can drive—”
Without a word he turned and stomped out of the kitchen. I heard him climbing the stairs seconds later. I sighed. “Get in the Hummer. I’ll take you.”
I returned to the garage and walked around the Hummer to the driver’s side as Kendall hopped into the passenger seat and slammed the door. The sound ricocheted through the mostly empty four-car garage, and I winced. I closed my door more gently and put the Hummer in reverse, remembering just in time to raise the garage door. It rumbled up.
“Where’s Dex’s car?” Kendall asked.
I landed hard on the brake, making the tires squeal.
“Mo-om.”
Where was Dexter’s car? I started down the drive again, realizing Kendall would be late for skating if I went in to ask Dexter about the BMW. Had he left it in the office parking lot? I closed my eyes, trying to visualize the parking lot. No, I didn’t think I’d seen—
“Watch out!”
My eyes popped open, and I swerved to avoid the neighbors’ Maine coon cat. She was sitting on the sidewalk, tail swishing as she watched a squirrel chitter from a tree branch. We thudded off the curb, and I gave Kendall an apologetic smile. “Sorry, sweetie. I was thinking about something.”
“Well, don’t.”
We drove to the World Arena Ice Hall in silence. Kendall texted the whole way, and I thought. She was out the door before I could kiss her good-bye. “Angel can give me a ride home,” she said, walking briskly into the low building.
Would it kill her to say “Thanks for the ride”? I had more important things on my mind than Kendall’s manners, though, and I sped home.
“Dexter,” I called as I came through the door. “Dexter!”
When he didn’t answer, I trotted up the stairs to his room. Even that brief exertion made me breathe heavy, and I promised myself I’d start using the treadmill again, just as soon as all this was over. I was way too stressed for exercise right now. Dexter’s door was closed, and I knocked. “Dex? Honey?” I didn’t hear anything from within, so I said, “I’m coming in.”
I pushed open the door, and the smell of teenaged boy smacked me. I think it’s equal parts musky aftershave splashed on too heavily, spray deodorant, and hormones. Not that I know what hormones smell like, but that’s what it must be. All the other parents joke about teens’ rooms being disaster areas and compare them to landfills or the mess left after a hurricane, but Dexter keeps his room neat. His bed, desk, dresser, and entertainment center all came from Ethan Allen and had a light cherry finish. I’d tried to t
alk him into letting me have his room painted a pale tan to coordinate, but he’d insisted on navy blue walls so dark they seemed black. He’d’ve painted them black except Les put his foot down. His laptop was closed on his desk, his iPod and cell phone charging in a little station beside it. The flat-screen TV had the entertainment center all to itself except for a couple of books from last year’s American lit class that looked so new I suspected he hadn’t ever opened them. SpongeBob SquarePants was on, but Dexter had the sound muted. He lay atop the navy-and-green-striped comforter on his queen-sized bed, arms behind his head, remote in one hand, staring at the TV. He didn’t look at me.
After a moment standing beside the door, I moved to block his view of the television. He gave me that long-suffering look from under his brows. “What?”
“Where’s your car? The Beemer?”
“Since I only have the one car, you don’t need to specify ‘the Beemer.’” He craned his neck, trying to see around me.
I found myself wanting to slap him and was so horrified I gripped my hands together behind my back. “Were you in an accident? Is that it? Don’t be afraid to tell me.” Images of crumpled fenders and repair bills I couldn’t afford bebopped through my head.
Dexter snorted, but I couldn’t tell if he was snorting at the idea of being afraid of me or at my suggestion that he’d been in an accident. A dreadful thought snuck up on me. “You weren’t in a hit-and-run, were you?”
“No!”
He looked offended, and I took a deep breath. “Then what?”
He pushed buttons randomly on the remote and mumbled something.
“What?”
“I said I loaned it to someone.”
My mouth dropped open. Pretty much the only rule Les laid on Dexter when he gave him the car was that no one else drove it ever. Up till now that hadn’t been an issue since Dexter was never into sharing.
“It’s my car, okay?”
“Your dad bought that car, and I pay for the insurance, which isn’t cheap for a teenaged boy driver, so—”
“You don’t need to make a federal case out of it.”
Something about the way he wouldn’t look at me and the way he fussed with the remote made me uneasy. “Who did you lend it to?”
More mumbling.
“Not Milo? He’s already had three speeding tickets and a DUI, his mom tells me. I know they took his keys away. Please tell me it’s not Milo. Or James! He crashed his dad’s Lincoln through a fence and into someone’s pool. It cost the Mickelsons over twenty thousand dollars, counting the vet bill for that poor cocker spaniel.”
“It wasn’t Milo or James. If you must know, I loaned it to Dad.”
The news hit me like an elbow to the throat at a Black Friday sale. I put a hand on the entertainment center because my knees felt wobbly all of a sudden. “What?”
“Dad. Short guy, mustache, used to live here, remember?”
“Dexter—”
“I knew you’d go all whoo-whoo on me”—he waggled his hands—“so I didn’t tell you.”
I tried hard to slow my breathing and not get all whoo-whoo, whatever that was. “How—? Where—? When did you see your dad?”
“He called last night, said he needed a car for a few days, and asked to borrow mine. I didn’t really think I could say no. He’s my dad, you know, and he bought it for me, as he was quick to remind me. So I dropped Kendall at school today and drove to Castle Rock to meet him. He drove me back to the house, but we spotted the po-po from a block away.”
“Po-po?”
“The cops. The police car. Dad freaked out. So he dropped me back at that Denny’s near I-25 and Academy, and I walked down to your office, you know, to hitch a ride home with you. You weren’t even there.” He sounded aggrieved.
I couldn’t think what to say, so I just stared at him. Les had called him. He’d met Les without telling me. We might never see the BMW again, and I’d have to take the kids to and from school every day, unless Carla Leach would carpool, and I didn’t want to do that because her two high schoolers both smoked and the Hummer stank for half a day after they’d ridden in it. “Did he have anything to say?” I finally asked. “Dad, I mean.”
Dexter shrugged. “Not really. He was upset about Heather-Anne, which makes sense, I guess, since he was screwing her.”
“Dexter!”
“Well, he was. He said he’d seen you in Aspen and wanted to know if you were dating anyone yet.”
“He did?” Could Les be jealous? “What did you tell him?”
Dexter gave me a look that said he thought a world-ending meteor would land on the city before I found a boyfriend. “Duh.”
“Did he say why he was here? Where he was staying?”
“Business. He didn’t say what kind, and I didn’t ask. Probably something crooked, like usual. I didn’t ask for an address, either; it’s not like I think we’re going to be all buddy-buddy just because he borrowed my car. I’m not that dumb.”
The cynicism in Dexter’s voice broke my heart. “Hon—”
“Can you move, please? I can’t see the television.”
As I slowly left the room, the television sound blared on: “Whooo lives in a pineapple under the sea?”
* * *
I called Charlie immediately to tell her that Les had been in the area and that he had borrowed Dexter’s car. I started to tell her how inconvenient it was going to be to have to chauffeur the kids to and from school, but she interrupted me.
“Do you have LoJack on the BMW?”
“Of course. Les insisted. We have it on the Hummer, too.”
“Then call the police and tell them the car’s been stolen. They’ll activate the LoJack to locate it and, with any luck, pinpoint Les for us.”
“But it wasn’t stolen.”
“Gigi—”
I hung up and called the police. I hate lying, but I told them the Beemer had been stolen. They promised to track it down and let me know when they recovered it. They called back an hour later, to tell me the LoJack system had apparently been removed from the car or was otherwise inoperable.
I called Charlie back to tell her.
“Would Les have known where the installers put the LoJack unit?” she asked.
“Of course. He watched them do it at the dealership.”
She sighed. “Then he took it out. Well, at least the police are on the lookout for the car. Maybe some alert cop will spot it.” She didn’t sound optimistic.
19
I dropped the kids off at the high school Tuesday morning and was late getting to work. I’d had to coax Dexter into going; he’d said that he could work on his GED from prison. I didn’t want to encourage that kind of mopey attitude, so I told him that if he graduated in June, as scheduled, he could work on his college degree from prison, if it came to that. Kendall overheard us—sometimes I think my daughter eavesdrops on purpose—and wanted to know why Dexter was going to prison. We hadn’t told her about Dexter visiting Heather-Anne or the police’s suspicions.
“If they could put you in prison for being too mean and ugly to live, he’d have been there long ago. Is it because of what happened at the bowling alley?”
Dexter shot her a “shut up” look and quickly filled her in. I didn’t ask what had happened at the bowling alley; sometimes being an ostrich with your head in the sand is the only way to survive motherhood.
“Murder?” she shrieked when he told her. “I’m not riding with a murderer.”
“I’ll murder you if you don’t shut up,” Dexter growled.
I couldn’t much blame him. “Kendall, honey, you don’t want to go saying anything about this at school.”
“Don’t worry, Mom,” she said. “I wouldn’t want people to know I have a psychopath for a brother. Although anyone who’s met him has probably already figured that out.” She got in the front seat and slammed the door.
“She’ll blab it to everyone before the end of first period,” Dexter predicted, slamming his book bag
strap in the Hummer’s door and reopening it to yank the strap out. He slammed the door shut again. I was getting a headache and it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet. Arriving at work was a huge relief.
Charlie had beaten me in, and I said, “Welcome back,” as I shoved my purse under the desk.
She grunted and took a drink from her Pepsi. Charlie’s always pretty surly before her second Pepsi. “Was the doc okay with you returning to work full-time?”
She gave me a look from the corners of her eyes, which I took to mean she hadn’t asked him. “Charlie—”
“Gigi.” She raised her head from the computer and said, “I’m not going to go vaulting over fences chasing bad guys or have to sprint to get away from a bioweapon-wielding terrorist. I’m going to sit here quietly, on my pillow”—she half stood and lifted a striped pillow from her chair—“and surf the Net. I might even”—she paused dramatically—“make a few phone calls. I’ll be fine.”
I knew when to shut up, so I did, but I knew that she’d be vaulting fences and tackling bioterrorists in a split second if the need arose. The weather had turned cold again, like it did here in Colorado Springs—fifty degrees one day, twenty the next—and I took off my favorite parka and hung it on the coat tree by the door. “Did you see the forecast?” I asked. “The weatherman says we might get a foot of snow.”
“You know how to tell when a weatherman’s lying, don’t you?” Charlie asked without looking up. “His lips are moving.”
I laughed but said, “I don’t know. It feels like snow.” Tucking my angora-blend turtleneck tunic under my hips, I sat and started making a list of all the places Les might be. It was depressingly long. He was a social guy and he got around. Of course, some of these people, the ones whose money he’d run off with, might not be happy to see him. I crossed two names off the list. Then another three.
“How’s Dexter holding up?” Charlie asked, popping open another Pepsi. She took a sip and brushed her bangs off her face. “Was it hard for him at the police station yesterday?”
“Oh, Charlie, your friend Tuck—that’s what he told us to call him—was wonderful. I have to admit I was a bit nervous at first, his hair and all, but he talked to Dexter and they talked to the police and everything’s fine for the moment, although Tuck isn’t sure the police bought Dexter’s story about someone being in the bedroom while Dexter talked to Heather-Anne. Still, they didn’t arrest him, so that’s good.”
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