by Sandra Brown
“What about him?”
“He’s gonna shit ’cause I went out tonight. He grounded me.”
“That sucks.”
“You got grounded?” another guy jeered. “What are you, twelve?”
Gavin didn’t know his name, only that he was an asshole with bad skin and worse breath who thought he was a lot cooler than he was.
Gavin had moved to Austin from Houston a week after the spring semester ended. Finding a new crowd during summer break hadn’t been easy, but he had joined this group, who accepted him once they learned he was a guy who liked to party as much as they did.
“Awww, Gavin’s scared of his daddy,” the jerk taunted.
“I’m not scared of him. I just dread having my ass chewed again.”
“Save yourself the hassle.” This from the optimist who’d showed them earlier his inventory of condoms. “Wait till he goes to bed before you sneak out.”
“I tried that already. He’s a freaking bat. He’s got like built-in radar or something.”
This conversation was making the lousy evening lousier. Nothing could cheer him up tonight, not more tequila, not even the return of the girls, and chances were excellent that they weren’t going to come back as promised. Why would they waste their time on losers like this bunch, like him?
He stood up, swaying dangerously. “I’d better split. If I’m lucky, he won’t be home yet. He’s with his girlfriend.”
He waded through the others, then jumped off the tailgate. But he miscalculated the distance to the ground as well as the weakness in his knees and wound up facedown in the dirt.
His new buddies howled. Weak with laughter himself, he struggled to get upright. His T-shirt was so wet with sweat that when he tried to dust himself off, he left streaks of mud across the front of it.
“Tomorrow night,” he told his friends as he staggered away. Where had he left his car?
“Don’t forget tomorrow is your turn to bring the booze,” Craig called.
“I’m broke.”
“Steal it from your old man.”
“I can’t. He checks the bottles.”
“Jesus, is he a cop in his spare time?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Gavin mumbled as he turned in the general direction of where he’d parked.
“What if Miss Hotpants comes looking for you?” It was the asshole, calling to him in a singsong voice. His grin was ugly and goading. “What should we tell her? That you had to go home to your daddy?”
“Get fucked.”
The obnoxious kid hooted. “Well, it’s for sure you won’t. Not tonight anyway.”
One of the others muttered, “Shut up, dickhead.”
“Yeah, give it a rest,” the condom guy said.
“What? Wha’d I do?”
Craig spoke softly. “She dumped him.”
“She did? When?”
Gavin moved out of earshot, which was just as well. He didn’t want to hear any more.
He located his car. It wasn’t that difficult to spot among all the others because it was a piece of shit. No badass pickup or sports car for him. Oh, no, nothing like that for Gavin Malloy. And you could forget a motorcycle. That wasn’t going to happen as long as his old man was in charge, and probably not as long as he was drawing breath.
His car was a snore. It was a sensible, good-mileage means of transportation that would spoil the racy image of a Mormon soccer mom. And he was expected to be grateful for it.
He’d gotten a lecture when he expressed his low opinion of it. “A car isn’t a toy, Gavin. Or a status symbol. This is a reliable first car. When you’ve proved that you’re responsible enough to take care of it and use it safely, I’ll consider an upgrade. Until then . . .” Blah-blah-blah.
The thing was an embarrassment. When the fall semester started at his new school, he would probably be laughed off campus for driving this heap. The dorkiest of the dorks wouldn’t want to be seen with him.
In his present condition, he had no business driving anything and was just sober enough to realize it. He concentrated hard on keeping the center stripe in focus. But that only seemed to increase his dizziness.
He was still several blocks from home when he was forced to pull over, get out, and vomit. He spewed a torrent of tequila on some poor sucker’s flower bed that formed a neat circle of color around the mailbox. Someone would have a disgusting surprise when they came out to get the mail tomorrow. To say nothing of the mailman.
Coordination shot, he climbed back into his car and drove the remainder of the way to the new house his dad had bought for them. It wasn’t bad. In fact, Gavin kinda liked it. Especially the pool. But he didn’t want his dad to know he liked it.
He was relieved to see that his old man’s car wasn’t in the driveway. But Gavin wouldn’t put it past him to have laid a trap, so he slipped into the house through the back door and paused to listen. His dad would love to catch him sneaking in so he could ground him for longer, take away his cell phone, his computer, his car, and make his life even more miserable than it was.
That was his parents’ main mission in life—to make him miserable.
Satisfied that the house was empty, he went to his room. His old man must still be with Liz. Screwing like rabbits, no doubt. They never did it here in his dad’s bed. Did they think he was stupid, that he didn’t know they were having sex when they spent the evening at her place?
It was easy to imagine Liz in bed. She had a hot body. But his old man? Rutting? No way. Gavin couldn’t imagine anything more gross.
In his bedroom he turned on his computer even before he switched on the desk lamp. He couldn’t fathom life without a computer. How had people survived before them? If his dad really wanted to punish him, that’s the privilege he would revoke.
He checked for email. There was one from his mom, which he deleted without reading. Anything she had to say was salve for her conscience and he didn’t want to hear it.
You’ll come to realize that this is best for all of us.
You and your future are our main concerns, Gavin.
Once you have adjusted to the change . . .
Sure, Mom. Whatever you say, Mom. Bullshit, Mom.
He sat down at the desk and began composing an email letter. But not to his mother. His anger with her was mild compared to the animosity he felt for the recipient of this letter. Not that he planned on sending it. And because he didn’t, he poured out all the anger that had been roiling inside him for days.
“What makes you think you’re so hot anyway?” he wrote. “I’ve seen better. I’ve had better.”
“Gavin?”
When the overhead light flashed on, he nearly jumped out of his skin. He quickly exited his email before his old man could read what was on his screen. He pivoted in his chair, hoping he didn’t look guilty. “What?”
“I’m home.”
“So?”
“You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? I’m not a kid.”
“Did you eat some dinner?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, smacking his lips. “Microwaved leftover pizza.”
“You were invited to join Liz and me. You chose not to.”
“Bet that broke your heart.”
In the even, unruffled voice Gavin hated, his dad said, “If I hadn’t wanted you to come along, I wouldn’t have invited you.” He came into the room. Gavin thought, Oh, great. “What’ve you been doing all evening?”
“Nothing. Surfing the net.”
“What’s that on your shirt?”
Perfect. He’d forgotten about the filth on his T-shirt. Dirt. Probably vomit, too. Ignoring the question, he turned back to face the computer. “I’m busy.”
His dad took him by the shoulder and turned him around. “You went out. Your car isn’t in the same place it was when I left and the hood is warm.”
Gavin laughed. “You’re checking the temperature of my car’s engine? You need to get a life.”
“And you need to
get with the program.” His father said this in a raised voice, which was rare. “You stink of vomit and you’re drunk. Driving drunk, you could’ve killed somebody.”
“Well, I didn’t. So relax and leave me alone.”
Dean stuck out his hand, palm up. “Give me your car keys.”
Gavin glared at him. “If you think taking my keys will keep me cooped up in here, you’re wrong.”
Dean said nothing, just kept his hand extended. Gavin fished the keys from the pocket of his jeans and dropped them into his father’s palm. “I hate the damn car anyway, so no big loss.”
His dad pocketed the keys but didn’t leave. He sat down on the edge of the unmade bed. “Now what?” Gavin groaned. “One of your famous lectures on how I’m pissing my life away?”
“Do you think I enjoy punishing you, Gavin?”
“Yeah, I think you do. I think you get off on being the big, bad father, having me to boss around. You enjoy telling me everything I’m doing wrong.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why do you say that?”
“Because you’ve never done anything wrong in your whole goddamn life. Mr. Perfect, that’s you. It must be boring as shit to be so right all the time.”
He was surprised to see his dad smile. “I’m far from right all the time and nowhere near perfect. Ask your mother. She’ll tell you. But I know I’m right about one thing.”
His dad paused and looked at him hard, probably hoping he would ask what that one thing was. He could wait till hell froze over. Finally he said, “It’s right that you’re living with me now. I’m glad you are. I want you here with me.”
“Right. I’m sure you’re just thrilled over the new living arrangements. You love having me around, cramping your style, getting in the way.”
“In the way? Of what?”
“Of everything.” The exclamation caused his voice to crack. He hoped his dad didn’t mistake it for emotion, which it sure as hell wasn’t. “I’m in the way of your life. Your new job. Liz.”
“You’re not in the way, Gavin. You’re my family, my son. Liz and I wanted you with us tonight.”
He scoffed. “For a cozy dinner? Just the three of us. Your new family. Then what? What was I supposed to do when you took her home? Wait in the car while you went inside for a quick blow job?”
He knew instantly that he’d gone too far. His dad wasn’t one to fly off the handle when he got angry. He didn’t lose his temper, rant and rave, stomp around, yell, or throw things. Instead, Mr. Self-control went very still. His lips narrowed and something funny happened to his eyes that made them seem to harden and sharpen and go right through you like steel picks.
But apparently there was a limit to his old man’s restraint, and he’d just reached it.
Before he had even processed all this, his father was on his feet, and he was on the receiving end of a backhanded smack that caught him hard across the mouth and split his lip.
“You don’t want to be treated like a kid? Fine. I’ll treat you like an adult. That’s what I would have done to any grown man who said something like that to me.”
Gavin struggled to hold back tears. “I hate you.”
“Well, too bad. You’re stuck with me.” He went out, soundly pulling the door shut behind him.
Gavin launched himself out of the chair. He stood in the center of his messy room, bristling with anger and frustration. But realizing he had nowhere to run, and no means of running if he had somewhere to go, he threw himself onto his bed.
He made swipes at the snot, tears, and blood that had mingled on his face. He felt like blubbering. He wanted to draw himself into the fetal position and cry like a baby. Because his life sucked. All of it. He hated everything and everybody. His dad. His mom. The city of Austin. Women. His stupid friends. His ugly car.
Most of all he hated himself.
chapter 6
Without making it too obvious, Sergeant Robert Curtis was trying to see past the dark lenses of her sunglasses. Catching himself staring, he hastily held a chair for her. “Forgive my lack of manners, Ms. Gibson. I’ll admit to being a little starstruck. Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee?”
“I’m fine, thanks. And I’m hardly a star.”
“I beg to differ.”
Curtis was a detective for the Austin Police Department’s Central Investigative Bureau. He was fiftyish, compactly built, and neatly turned out, down to a polished pair of cowboy boots, the heels of which added a couple of inches to his stature. Although he was still no taller than she, he gave off an air of authority and confidence. A sport jacket was hanging on a coat tree, but his necktie was tightly knotted beneath a starched collar. His cuffs were monogrammed with his initials.
On the walls of the small enclosure were a detailed map of the state, another of Travis County, and a framed diploma. The built-in desk was nearly completely covered with paperwork and computer components, but somehow avoided looking messy.
Curtis sat down at his desk and smiled at her. “It’s not every morning of the week I get visited by a radio personality. What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure you can do anything.”
Now that she was here, ensconced with a detective in his compact cubicle where he doubtless worked long hours, serving the public by snaring felons, she was second-guessing her decision to come.
Things that happened at two o’clock in the morning took on a different complexion in daylight. Suddenly, coming here seemed like a melodramatic and somewhat self-centered reaction to what probably amounted to a crank phone call.
“I called in a 911 last night,” she began. “Actually early this morning. Two patrolmen, Griggs and Carson, responded. I have a case number for your reference.” She gave him the number that Griggs had left with her.
“What kind of 911, Ms. Gibson?”
She gave him an account of what had happened. He listened attentively. His expression remained open and concerned. He didn’t fidget as though she were wasting his time on something trivial. If he was faking his interest, he did it very well.
When she finished, she removed a cassette tape from her handbag and passed it to him. “I went to the station early this morning and made a copy of the call.”
Insomnia had claimed her until dawn, when she finally surrendered to it. She got up, showered and dressed, and was back at the radio station by the time Charlie and Chad, the morning drive-time deejays, were reading the seven o’clock news headlines.
“I’ll be happy to listen to your tape, Ms. Gibson,” Curtis said. “But this department investigates homicide, rape, assault, robbery. Threatening phone calls . . .” He spread his hands wide. “Why’d you come to me?”
“I read your name in yesterday’s newspaper,” she admitted with chagrin. “Something about your testifying at a trial. I thought I’d get more personal attention if I asked to speak with a particular detective rather than just showing up without an appointment.”
Now he looked chagrined. “You’re probably right.”
“And if my caller does what he threatens to do, it will fall to this department to investigate, won’t it?”
Sobering instantly, Curtis left his chair and stepped outside the cubicle. He called across the room at large, asking if anybody had a cassette recorder handy. Within moments another plainclothes detective appeared with one. “Here you go.”
He regarded Paris with patent curiosity as he handed the machine to Curtis, whose brusque, “Thanks, Joe,” was as good as a dismissal. The other man withdrew.
Sergeant Curtis had been a random selection, but she was glad she’d come to him. He obviously had some clout and wasn’t reluctant to use it.
He returned to his seat and inserted the tape into the recorder, saying in an undertone, “I see word has gotten around as to who you are.”
Maybe, Paris thought. Or maybe the detective was simply wondering why she hadn’t removed her sunglasses. This wasn’t a particularly bright environment. In fact, it was a room without windows.
/> Curtis and the other detective probably assumed that she wore the sunglasses like a celebrity would, to conceal her identity in public or to add to her mystique as a media personality, that she wore them to shut others out. It would never occur to them that she wore the glasses to shut herself in.
“Let’s see what Mr. . . . what was it? Valentino? . . . has to say for himself.” Curtis pressed the Play button. This is Paris. Hello, Paris. This is Valentino.
When the tape ended, Curtis tugged thoughtfully on his lower lip, then asked, “Mind if I play it again?”
Without waiting for her consent, he rewound the tape and restarted it. As he listened, he frowned with concentration and rolled his University of Texas class ring around his stubby finger.
At the end of the tape, she asked, “What do you think, Sergeant? Am I reading too much into a crank call?”
He asked a question of his own. “Did you try to call the number?”
“I was so stunned, I didn’t think of calling back immediately, but I suppose I should have.”
He dismissed her concern with a wave. “He probably wouldn’t have answered anyway.”
“He didn’t when Carson called later. No voice mail either. Just an unanswered ring.”
“The number on the caller ID, you say it was traced to a pay phone?”
“I’m sure the details are in the report, but Griggs told me that a patrol car in that area had been dispatched to check out the phone booth. But by that time—at least half an hour, maybe more—whoever placed the call was gone.”
“Somebody could have seen him at the phone booth. Did the patrolmen ask around?”
“There was nobody to ask. According to Griggs, the area was deserted when the patrol car arrived.” Curtis’s questions were validating her concern, but that only increased her anxiety. “Do you think Valentino was telling the truth? Has he kidnapped a girl he plans to murder?”
Curtis made balloons of his ruddy cheeks before expelling a long breath. “I don’t know, Ms. Gibson. But if he has, and if he sticks to his three-day deadline, we don’t have time to sit around and talk about it. I don’t want another kidnap-rape-murder case on my desk if I can possibly avoid it.” He stood up and reached for his jacket.