Page 12

CHAPTER 12

Suzanne walked towards the skater, keeping her hands deep in her coat pockets and then stopping where the arena began. “Excuse me,” she called.

The kid remained silent but kept on rocking his skateboard. Either he was too focused on his moves to notice her, or he was pretending not to see her. She would put her money on the latter. Elaine always said Suzanne’s pink coat could lead in ships lost in a foggy sea

“‘Scuse me,” she said again, taking another step forward. “Are you T.J. Fielding?”

“Who wants to know?” His tone was the bored, I-know-and-have-seen-it-all of fifteen-year-olds everywhere and Suzanne was very glad that age was far behind her.

“A friend of Mercy and David Phillips,” she answered. “My name is Suzanne Bennett. Do you remember me? I think we met at the ‘Meet, Greet and Eat’ a few weeks ago.”

He stopped rocking and pulled down his sunglasses just enough to appraise her. “You’re that social worker.” It was more of an accusation than a question, one strongly laced with contempt.

“For adults,” she offered, as if this might make her admission less offending to his sensibilities. Social workers were too often the enemy of kids in foster care, the one who took you from your parents, even if it were for your own good. “I help them find good jobs and housing.”

“Since when does that make a difference?” he sneered. “Bunch of do-gooders who think they can save the world, acting like they care about kids and other folks when they’re just doing it for the money.”

Determined not to let him get to her, Suzanne laughed. “That’s good,” she said. “Most folks I know who do this kind of work could use a big raise.”

“Boo-hoo. Like I’m crying.” He slid his sunglasses back in place.

“Have you seen David this morning?” Suzanne asked, keeping her expression determinedly friendly.

“Nope. Got better things to do than hang out with little kids.” He continued to rock the skateboard from side to side, folding his arms across his chest. His confidence bordered on arrogance, and Suzanne wished for one iota of Mercy’s skill at talking to unhappy kids. Unhappiness was written all over this boy.

“I thought you two looked pretty tight at the Meet-Greet,” Suzanne persisted. “You spent a lot of time shooting hoops and talking.”

She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a photo of him and David and held it up to him. “His mom took this and gave me a copy. It sure does look like you’re having a good time together.”

“Well, I guess you were wrong, weren’t you?” The rocking started again, and Suzanne involuntarily stepped back as the boy added, “Just being nice to the kid but it was a bore. Like you’re boring me now.”

“OK, let’s cut the crap and have a little courtesy for the lady, shall we?” Kristopher was suddenly beside her, snatching the sunglasses from the boy’s startled face. “Answer the lady’s question, or I just might knock you off your board.”

“Hey, what the fu–give me back my shades, man!”

Kristopher held the “shades” over his head, way out of the boy’s reach. “Answer the question, ‘man’ and I just might do that. Are you T.J. Fielding or not?”

The boy hesitated and Kristopher fixed him with the gaze he’d learned from his first drill sergeant. The one who could have her recruits begging to do more pushups or go on twenty-mile hikes with fifty-pound packs that didn’t include their weapons. Kristopher would have walked through fire for the woman.

“Yeah, I’m T.J,” the boy finally admitted, his expression sullen. “Are you gonna give me back my shades?”

“Not just yet,” Kristopher replied coolly, putting the shades on his own head. “In case you haven’t heard, your neighbor, Mrs. Mercy Phillips was murdered in her home last night and her son David is missing.”

Suzanne tugged on his arm. “I don’t think we’re supposed to tell him that,” she hissed. “It might not have been announced to the public yet.”

“Then Miller can arrest me,” Kristopher retorted. He gave his attention back to the now open-mouthed T.J. “Ms. Bennett says you spent time with David recently so cut the I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude and try to be helpful. Or is that too hard for you?”

Rage twisted T.J.’s features into an ugly mask. “Listen, dude–”

“No, you listen,” Kristopher stepped closer to tower over the boy. “There’s a missing ten-year-old kid who probably doesn’t know his mother is dead. Dead, T.J. As in murdered in their home. Did you understand that part?”

“Kristopher–”

“No, Suzanne, let me finish with this wise ass little punk.” Kristopher’s finger was millimeters from the center of T.J.’s chest. “David might have seen who killed his mom and now he’s gone. Whoever killed her might have taken him, so we’re trying to find him and fast, before someone kills him too. You copy that?”

“I–”

“Ms. Bennett here said she saw you hanging with David at Greet, Eat and Meet or whatever the hell it’s called.” Kristopher took the photo from Suzanne and held it up again. “You must be a damn good actor because in this photo you look like you care about David. Or maybe you’re just a good liar or trying to make yourself look all badass to a kid whose father died five years ago. So, tell us what you know–if you know anything that is–and we’ll leave your sorry self to your selfish little world.”

“You can’t talk to me like that!” Angry red splotches stained T.J.’s cheeks. “I’ll kick your ass!”

“Kid, I kicked more ass during my time in the Army than you ever will.” Kristopher’s sudden, slow grin was nothing short of feral. “So, cut the attitude and at least try to pretend you’re a human who might give a shit about a missing kid whose mom got killed in her own home last night. A kid you know and who’s been nice to you. Are you going to help us or do you even have a heart?”

Open-mouthed, T.J. blinked twice as if sizing Kristopher up, then stepped off his skateboard and put it over his shoulder. “Mercy is really dead?” he asked.

“Very,” Kristopher acknowledged, and T.J. lowered his gaze to his feet as if inspecting his Skate Rowley XLT shoes. They were an odd contrast to the standard teen uniform of ripped blue jeans and oversized flannel shirt, but his shoes looked new. He might have a shitty attitude, but someone cared enough about this boy to get him clothes he could be proud of.

He looked up at Kristopher, the arrogant expression gone. “I don’t know anything, man,” he said. “My foster parents are nurses and got called into work at the ER for a twelve-hour shift and left around seven. I heard someone banging on the door ‘bout three o’clock this morning, yelling it was the cops, but Mr. and Mrs. Johnson told me not to ever open the door to anyone at night, especially if they weren’t there.”

“That’s a good idea,” Kristopher agreed gently, handing back the sunglasses. “Do you know what time they got home?”

T.J. shook his head. “They were in bed when I woke up at nine, so I just let them sleep. And they left a note saying they have to work that shift again until New Year’s ‘cause people are calling in sick like crazy or going out of town. ER work can be tough, especially over the holidays. Lots of fights and drunks, you know?”

“That’s right,” Suzanne agreed. “I’ll bet the Johnsons take good care of their patients. And of you too.”

“I guess.” He gave Suzanne his attention. “I remember you,” he admitted. “At the Meet, some guy with a guitar sang a song with your name. Suzanne, right?”

“That’s right,” Suzanne repeated. “The old Leonard Cohen classic.”

“OK.” T.J. looked away and then back at her. “Mercy is really dead?”

“I’m afraid so.” Suzanne didn’t try to hide the wobble in her voice.

“That sucks.” T.J. dug a toe against the pavement. “She was one of the good ones. Kids in the system would kill to be on her caseload. David said you’re one of the good ones too.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Do you really think David is–I mean–”

“We don’t know,” Kristopher said. “But he was gone when the police got there last night, and no one in the neighborhood as seen him, so we don’t know what happened. Any ideas on where he’d go or hide if he ran?”

“No,” T.J. said quickly. “Mercy–I mean Mrs. Phillips was super strict about where he went, him being only ten. David said she was a good mom.”

“She was,” Suzanne agreed, not wanting to shatter this fragile beginning of trust. “She must have liked you too if she let you call her Mercy.”

“I guess,” T.J. admitted, studying Kristopher through narrowed eyes. “Were you really in the Army?”

“Yep. Several tours.”

A pinging sounded from Suzanne’s jacket pocket, and she took out her phone. Her eyes scanned the screen, and Kristopher watched the color fade from her face. He leaned down to whisper, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Miller,” she whispered back. “We need to go.”

She gave her attention back to T.J. “Thanks for talking to us.” Taking a card case from her other pocket, she opened it and gave him one. “If you get any ideas about where David might be, please call the number here, any time of the day or night. Please.”

“Hold up.” Kristopher took the card from her and scrawled his name and phone number on the back. “There. You can call me too.”

“‘kay.” T.J. slid the card into the ripped pocket on his shirt and pushed away. “See ya, bye.”

“Thanks,” Suzanne said again. A wave of his hand acknowledged her, and T.J. sped toward a ramp at a frightening speed, dismissing them. “Well, let’s hope that helped,” she said. “Where on earth did you learn how to talk to kids like that?”

“You learn all kinds of things in the Army,” he said. “Especially with newbies who don’t want to do what they’re told. Did you really just give him your phone number?”

“I have a special phone for clients to use if there’s an emergency,” she explained, putting her right hand on the stairs’ banister and stepping up. “No one has ever called me after hours. Why did you give him yours?”

“So, he won’t bother you too much.” Kristopher took her arm and walked them toward the stairs. His earlier discomfort returned If anything, it was growing. And it had nothing to do with T.J.’s hostility. Kristopher was reasonably sure the kid didn’t know anything. Or else the boy was a very good liar.

It was being out in the open less than twenty-four hours after someone had tried to kill Suzanne Bennett. He never should have agreed to come here. They were out in the open like a pair of sitting ducks.

They reached the stairs and Suzanne reached for the bannister and stepped up. Then she winced and stopped, her face pale and Kristopher turned her to face him again. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“It’s just a twinge in my right wrist,” she admitted. “From where that guy grabbed me.”

“How badly does it hurt?” Kristopher demanded.

“A little,” she said. “I mean, it’s not a big deal.”

“And you didn’t tell Elaine that it still hurts?” Kristopher struggled to rein in his annoyance.

Her eyebrows rose. “About a strained wrist? C’mon, Sergeant Brower. I’m not a wimp. After all, I did fight off that guy.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Kristopher groaned. “Just great. Elaine is gonna kick my ass and probably yours too for not mentioning it. I know you didn’t go to the ER ‘cause it wasn’t in the report KPD sent to Hank.”

“Go to the ER for a strained wrist two days after Christmas?” She stared at him in disbelief. “Are you nuts?”

“Never mind,” Kristopher retorted. “Did Miller say why he needed to see us?”

“It’s bad, she said, leaning against the banister and closing her eyes.

Instinctively, his arms encircled her waist to steady her. “Suzanne, what’s happened? Are you in that much pain? Just tell me.”

“It’s not my wrist, silly.” She opened her eyes, and he saw the fear shining there. “The police found two bodies early this morning near Volunteer Landing,” she said. “A man and woman wearing ID badges from Tennessee Care Youth Shelter. They’d been shot in the back of the head.”