“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
30.
The next afternoon, Jennifer got Miles alone in the back hall of the auditorium—their now established make-out place where the acoustics—echoing approaching footsteps and voices—provided time for Jennifer to straighten the front of her shirt. But today was different. Jennifer was anxious. She’d heard about the reward Rusty Bremmer’s father was offering—the “bounty” her friends called it.
“Some people think you did it,” Jennifer told Miles. “I’ve been saying no way, because I was with you. But they might give your name to Mr. Bremmer anyway. He’s talking ten grand.”
Miles had heard this, too. A guy in physics told him to be careful, watch his ass, because Rusty Bremmer’s old man was even more of a jackass than his idiot son. Miles tried to console Jennifer, “I can’t control what other people say.”
“You’ve got to get it out there that you didn’t have anything to do with it.”
He backed her gently against the wall, hands at her waist, and kissed her. And kissed her again. And again. His tongue going into her mouth, then hers into his. Listening for anyone who might come down the hall. The way he was always listening, watching, being wary, the way you needed to be when you did things that could upset dangerous people.
#
Miles and Juan were a mile from school, heading to the Concrete Palace in Miles’ truck, when Miles first noticed the car behind them. It remained in his rear-view mirror for a few miles, then was gone. Then it was back—never getting closer than five vehicle lengths regardless of traffic or Miles’ speed. And then it was gone again.
But three hours later, after Miles finished cleaning trucks at Juan’s father’s business and started for home alone, the car was back.
Instead of taking his usual route, Miles turned off before the line of rush-hour brake lights at the ramp onto the Capital Beltway. The car stayed behind him for three random turns through a large industrial park.
With darkness settling in—the western sky turning deep shades of orange and red—Miles stopped along the chain security fence behind a massive warehouse, the long block building washed in the yellowish-green glow of security lights.
The car pulled in behind him.
Miles kept his truck in gear—foot on the brake, windows up—peering at his side-view mirror, watching as the car’s driver got out.
He recognized the silhouette immediately and exited his truck. “Ms. Le Havre,” he said—his latest nickname being France’s thirteenth largest city—greeting Debra Vance as if this was a chance encounter although it obviously was not. But that was his instinct how to play it for now—unsure why a teacher’s aide had gone to all this trouble to find him outside of school.
#
It didn’t go down at all as Debra Vance had planned. Talking with Miles, the first words out of her mouth were: “I’m a cop.”
The rest spilled out, her breath fogging in the cool air. “I got assigned to Kensington High by this idiot little lawyer for the county who thinks you’re dangerous and wants some way to get you expelled. The Board of Education has this bizarre code of conduct for students. If you don’t know about it, you should read it. It’s online.” She kept talking, wanting to get it all out. So far Miles just listened, holding eye contact. “I could lose my job for telling you this, and maybe it’s a mistake because I don’t really know you. But I know when something isn’t right. And the way this is happening is just plain wrong.
“This lawyer,” Vance continued, “his name’s Arnold Baylor—I haven’t told him anything that might help. I’ve said you’re a model student. I didn’t mention I saw Bremmer and you in the hall last month. But other kids did, and there’s talk about that. And about something else that happened in a stairwell that involved Juan Arroyo. And someone’s telling the police you’ve been training Juan’s friends in karate or martial arts. And there’s five of you, all with links to Kensington High or Germantown. And there were five guys who attacked Bremmer. That’s first-degree assault. Or God forbid murder if he has medical complications and dies. So if you had anything to do with this, or know anything about it, you need to make a statement, now. Because if someone else talks, it’ll be too late to make a deal. The State’s Attorney’s office is going to push for everyone to go down. And even though your friend Juan’s only seventeen, that doesn’t mean he’ll stay in the juvenile system. But you know how that works—from Florida?”
She wanted Miles to react so she’d know where she stood. Expecting him to be angry about how she had deceived him. But she could work with that.
He simply said, “I wasn’t involved. And it wasn’t Juan or any of the others.” He didn’t show any surprise or anger.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m only teaching them how to defend themselves because they’re not big guys.”
“Do you know who it was then? The group that jumped Bremmer.”
“No.”
She wanted to believe him. “If you find out, if you hear anything, will you tell me? I don’t want you hurt, Miles. I like you. I’m small, too—smaller than Juan—but I can still help you.”
“Okay.” He nodded.
Vance touched his arm. “Juan and his friends need alibis for where they were when Bremmer was beaten. You do, too. Were you with someone?” She waited, but he didn’t respond. “Jennifer?” she asked.
Miles shook his head. “My dad was out of town. I was home by myself.”
Vance kept her hand on his arm a moment longer, his sweater soft against her fingertips. “If you tell anyone what I’ve said I’ll lose my job.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
She withdrew her hand and stepped back, turned and walked to her car, the last light of dusk in the western sky ahead of her. She couldn’t help wonder about what she’d just done. If there was any way to justify it if matters went wrong? Say it had been a spur-of-the-moment decision to tell Miles she was a cop? That she saw it as opportunity to gain his trust? Just leave out of any explanation how being around him excited her.
31.
“I need to tell you something.” Miles arrived home after dark to find his father studiously arranging kindling on a brand new grate in the fireplace.
Wearing a flannel shirt and corduroys, his dad looked as if recreating an image from the winter L.L. Bean catalog.
Miles knelt alongside him at the hearth, helped arrange a small bundle of cut hardwood from Home Depot, a purchase his father surely knew made little economic sense. Still, it would serve as a good test before he ordered a half cord.
Miles said, “I’ve been showing Juan and some other guys some basic karate—like the beginners I taught at Mr. K’s.”
“Well, that sounds good.” George Peterson brushed bits of tree bark off his hands.
“You’re okay with me doing karate again?”
“Son—your mother was the one who had the issue with that. I was just supporting her. The way I see it, if you hadn’t known how to defend yourself…? Who knows what would have happened when that guy tried to mug you.” He nodded toward the box of long matches. “You want to do the honors?”
Miles opened the box, struck a match, but passed it to his dad. “All for you.”
George touched the flame along paper crumpled beneath his grid of small sticks. Then lit the end of a rolled section of newspaper, holding it just below the opening to the flue to create a draw.
“Should we call Ms. Blakely?” Miles asked. “See if she wants to come over for dinner?”
“She’s not home,” his father replied.
#
By time the Petersons’ fireplace consumed the small stack of wood, leaving a pyre of ashen embers beneath the grate, George and Miles had gone upstairs.
In bed with his window open, Miles was online, reading the School Board’s code of conduct that Debra Vance—if that was really her name—told him about. He’d already reviewed the profile of the county attorney she’d mentioned, Arnold Baylor, which
promoted him as a “tireless advocate of education who, in almost a decade of service, had fostered and created guidelines and practices to promote excellence and safety in the public schools.”
As Miles neared the final sections of his reading, the living room lamp in Cara’s house switched off by its timer. At well after midnight, she still wasn’t home.
#
The following morning, Miles and Juan sat in Miles’ truck in the school parking lot. “Someone’s talking to the cops about me teaching you guys karate.”
“No—no,” Juan replied, the mood very serious between them. “No one is talking.” He meant it wasn’t any of his group. “No one says anything to anyone.”
“Diego?” Miles had to ask.
“No. Absolutamente no!”
“Well, they’ve got everyone’s name. So it’s just a matter of time before cops come knocking on their doors asking questions.”
“No one will say nothing.”
“They’re looking at us for what happened to Bremmer. I mean, you know that’s going around school, right?” By Miles’ purposeful choice, this was as close as he and Juan had come to discussing what had happened after the Germantown game.
Juan didn’t respond.
Miles said, “It’s no crime what we’re doing—the karate. So the thing is, you deny it, it looks like there’s something to hide.”
“No—no. We say nothing. The police come, it won’t be the first time they ask about something we have nothing to do with. My father has a lawyer. He says we tell the police we don’t want to talk to them, then walk away. They want more, they have to arrest us. Then we tell them we want a lawyer. And we don’t talk until the abogado gets there.”
Juan went into his wallet and produced an attorney’s business card: full name and contact information, and text printed in English and Spanish that instructed: Respectfully, I do not want to talk to you and am going to walk away unless I am under arrest, in which case I irrevocably invoke my right to remain silent and want to speak with a lawyer.
#
The next two weeks became a matter of waiting—days in early November that included an unseasonable cold spell that one night dusted the ground with snow and caused schools to open two hours late.
Miles sensed something was going to happen, the feeling in his gut like when they used to track hurricanes back home in Florida, watching them spin off the African coast and head east, often falling apart into nothing or remaining at sea, but other times—and you could almost sense the ones that were going to be bad—swooping toward the Caribbean then curving northward, taking aim for South Florida and sending its residents to the store for batteries and bottled water. The snap of nail guns popping as folks boarded up windows. Some would evacuate inland or north, while others hunkered down, waiting, waiting, waiting.
The way Miles had waited in jail for information from his lawyer, hoping for good news behind a mask that braced for the worst—that devastating Cat 5 that would howl like a freight train and sail storm shutters across the black-grey sky.
Every day at school, Miles and Debra Vance found somewhere to have a whispered conversation. He confirmed that was her real name from her driver’s license and police ID, both of which she’d shown him when he asked. She hadn’t even bothered to cover up her home address when displaying her license—which Miles later checked online and saw was a plain-looking apartment complex.
Vance confirmed rumors Miles heard around school: that Bremmer was being moved from the hospital to an intensive rehab center; that he had no recollection of being attacked—that wedge of time lost from his memory, which wasn’t unusual in head trauma cases. Vance also said Detective Delgado was becoming increasingly restless after Juan and the three others Miles taught karate refused to speak with him.
She kept referring to Juan and three others when there were really four. But she never mentioned Diego, and Miles didn’t know how to interpret that. Maybe Diego had given the police an anonymous tip and not divulged he was part of the group—which was not smart, but what someone might do in a panic. Or maybe somebody had seen them together, or overheard something, but only after Bremmer was attacked—by which time Diego had stopped working out with them.
Meanwhile, Miles spent more time with Jennifer outside of school. Just about any night Miles’ father was traveling on business, Jennifer would try to come over. And if Cara Blakely also happened to be away, Jennifer would want to go into her house. For whatever reason, Jennifer liked having sex in Cara’s house. Miles tried not to feel guilty about it—not the sex with Jennifer, but being in Cara’s house without her knowledge, using the key Cara left with them to take in her mail and check her place while she was gone.
When Cara was home, she often had dinner with Miles and George. Other nights, she came home late and with different men. The one in the BMW had been there three times. And last week there was a more stout guy with dark hair. Miles’ father also noticed those men, and when he asked Cara if she was seeing someone, she blushed and said it wasn’t anything serious, just someone from work—but she’d seemed uncomfortable talking about it.
Miles never mentioned to his father how when those men were at Cara’s house the lights would come on in her bedroom and more than a single shadow would pass behind her blinds. Then the lights would go off and it wouldn’t be until an hour or so later—or once not until morning—that the guy left.
Generally, Cara seemed in good spirits. She spoke mostly about work and the court case concerning Ian being filed in Ireland. She was talking about Ian again the night the hurricane arrived: when Detective Delgado knocked on the door.
32.
“Miles Peterson?”
It seemed like cops always started with that—asking your name—even when they knew who you were. Or maybe said your name instead of “hello” to make clear that they were on official business. As if the man standing on the other side of the screen door, badge raised, might have been making a fundraising call.
Miles confirmed his identity with a simple, “Yes.”
“I’m Detective Roberto Delgado. Kensington County Police. I want to know where were you on the night of Saturday, October twenty-second?”
Miles wondered if Delgado was using this approach because Juan and the others had shown that lawyer’s business card in response to a more neutral opening remark, perhaps Delgado had told them he’d like to ask a few questions. Now, if Miles didn’t cooperate, Delgado could later testify that when he asked Miles Peterson for his whereabouts on the date and time Rusty Bremmer was attacked, Miles had refused to answer.
But Miles wasn’t going to do that—didn’t want to appear as if he’d been prepared in concert with Juan’s guys—and instead echoed the question, “October twenty-second…?” as if trying to remember.
“You know Rusty Bremmer,” Delgado pressed impatiently.
“Yes.” Miles remained polite.
Miles’ father came to the door, concerned but also annoyed at having their dinner with Cara interrupted.
It had been a pleasant evening—a fire in the fireplace, candles on the table, a bottle of wine, and a comfort-food stew Miles had made last night and kept refrigerated to reheat after working another busy Saturday on the food truck.
George Peterson considered the stranger in the dark suit holding a badge. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to talk with Miles. Is he your son?”
“He is. What’s this about?”
“Ask Miles.”
“No…sir…I’m asking you,” George replied with uncharacteristic authority.
Delgado said, “I need to know where your son was on the night of October twenty-second.”
“Why?”
“It’s part of an investigation.”
“About what? How is he supposed to remember where he was a month ago?”
Delgado held eye contact with Miles. “It was the night Rusty Bremmer was so badly beaten he almost died.”
Having overheard this exchange fr
om the dining room, Cara was already on her way to the front door, her expression and demeanor as pleasant as if Delgado was an invited dinner guest, asking: “Was the twenty-second a Saturday?”
“It was,” Delgado confirmed, watching Miles for a reaction.
“Well then I can help,” Cara replied, “because Miles was with me.” She touched George’s shoulder. “You were out of town—in Delaware. I remember because that’s the same week I was in Raleigh. When I got back, I came over to see if we could all have dinner. Only you weren’t here so Miles and I ended up eating together. And it was probably ten-thirty, maybe even eleven before I left.” She looked at Delgado. “Is that what you need to know?”
Delgado glared at her. “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Cara Blakely.” She pointed toward her house. “I live next door.”
“And how long were you with Miles that night? From when to when.”
“Well, like I said, I left around ten-thirty, eleven… And probably came over here…I think it was maybe around six… I didn’t know George wasn’t home, so Miles and I went back and forth about having dinner. Because I’d kind of invited myself over and didn’t want him to feel obliged to cook for me. Miles usually does the cooking. Like tonight.” She couldn’t have been more sincere, lying with absolute conviction. “I don’t remember if I stayed the whole time or went home for a few minutes. Did I change clothes, then come back?” she seemed to be asking herself. “Probably not…but I’m not sure. But I’d say I was certainly here from at least seven to ten-thirty. I was excited about this trip I’d been on and couldn’t stop talking about it. Miles is a good listener.”
Delgado stared at her a for a bit, then looked at Miles. “That what happened?”
He shrugged. “I remember the dinner—but can’t say for sure what day that was.”
The Pretty Woman Who Lived Next Door Page 15