home?”
“She’s out right now. Maybe I can help.”
He sat across from her.
“You nervous?” he asked.
“Caffeine,” she said honestly. “I can’t drink coffee so I take these tabs and well, I took one too many I guess.”
She smiled. The boy smiled.
“I was informed your father was a former Foursquare police officer and he retired and went into business on his own, insurance fraud investigations and the like. Is that correct?”
“It sure is ma’am.”
“Now beyond the obvious statements and questions about possible enemies, I’d like to know who he was working for before he disappeared.”
“Mom might now that one but I sure don’t. She and dad sometimes talked business, but dad was generally tight lipped. You guys haven’t figured that out yet?”
“Not that I’ve been told. As I say, I’ve been thrown into the mix with very little to go on. That’s why I thought I‘d start here. Did he travel out of the area often? Was he primarily in this county?”
“He worked up and down the corridor, Utica to Syracuse, you know. Can you excuse me for a minute? My little brother’s taking a nap. I need to check on him.”
“Please…”
She stood with him.
“Be right back,” he said.
He headed to the front door and stairs and disappeared. She heard his footsteps on creaking stairs.
She looked around the room. A fireplace. A mantle. A photograph of Mr. Burleson, Mrs. Burleson, and the son. Mrs. Burleson was pretty. Another photograph of the three of them. A photograph of the boy on his own, posed with a baseball bat, down on one knee. A photograph of the boy in a graduation gown and mortar.
Two parents; one son.
She went into the kitchen, gun in hand, saw keys on a rack, found the key for the green Ford Taurus and put it in her coat.
She heard the boy walk down the stairs and she faded left, out of the kitchen and caught him with a shotgun cradled in his hands, barrel held high.
“How is he?”
The boy was confident.
“Who are you?”
He did not turn to face her.
“You’re not wearing a radio or a trooper hat and you don’t have a badge. That and you’re wearing an FPD jacket, so lady, you ain’t a cop. Besides, you’re prettier than any cop I ever saw. Who are you?”
“Put it in your left hand then throw it on the couch.”
He complied.
“On your stomach, please.”
Again, he complied.
She wasn’t going to bother with his name. She didn’t want to know it. She already felt like she knew too much.
“So many guns,” she said. “How much trouble do you think I’m in?”
“A lot. Where’s my dad?”
“Was he working for that lawyer, Wilcox?”
She was behind him, not over him, far enough that if he flailed he would not reach her. She did not think he was dumb enough to try but young men tend to think they are impervious to death.
“You have a gun?”
She fired a shot into the wall.
The boy remained still, silent, and, she hoped, frightened.
“Was he working for Mr. Wilcox?”
“I don’t know.”
“And your mother?”
“What about her?”
“Where is she?”
The boy relaxed.
“Probably with Mr. Wilcox.”
The tone, the inflection, related a sadness she had experienced.
She asked gently.
“Why makes you say that?”
“She’s marrying him. She’s divorcing dad.”
(13) Women Like Her
She sat, letting the gun dangle from the fingers of her hand and she looked at the boy. His despair made the room seem grayer than the clouds and approaching darkness.
“You know about me?”
“Mom said somebody might come looking for me.”
This was worth exploring.
“Why do you think she said that?”
“Can I look at you?”
It seemed reasonable.
“Okay. Slowly, put your left arm up and away and over your head, like a ballerina.”
“I’m not gay.”
He rolled over. He was testing her, joking with her,
“She’s out right now. Maybe I can help.”
He sat across from her.
“You nervous?” he asked.
“Caffeine,” she said honestly. “I can’t drink coffee so I take these tabs and well, I took one too many I guess.”
She smiled. The boy smiled.
“I was informed your father was a former Foursquare police officer and he retired and went into business on his own, insurance fraud investigations and the like. Is that correct?”
“It sure is ma’am.”
“Now beyond the obvious statements and questions about possible enemies, I’d like to know who he was working for before he disappeared.”
“Mom might now that one but I sure don’t. She and dad sometimes talked business, but dad was generally tight lipped. You guys haven’t figured that out yet?”
“Not that I’ve been told. As I say, I’ve been thrown into the mix with very little to go on. That’s why I thought I‘d start here. Did he travel out of the area often? Was he primarily in this county?”
“He worked up and down the corridor, Utica to Syracuse, you know. Can you excuse me for a minute? My little brother’s taking a nap. I need to check on him.”
“Please…”
She stood with him.
“Be right back,” he said.
He headed to the front door and stairs and disappeared. She heard his footsteps on creaking stairs.
She looked around the room. A fireplace. A mantle. A photograph of Mr. Burleson, Mrs. Burleson, and the son. Mrs. Burleson was pretty. Another photograph of the three of them. A photograph of the boy on his own, posed with a baseball bat, down on one knee. A photograph of the boy in a graduation gown and mortar.
Two parents; one son.
She went into the kitchen, gun in hand, saw keys on a rack, found the key for the green Ford Taurus and put it in her coat.
She heard the boy walk down the stairs and she faded left, out of the kitchen and caught him with a shotgun cradled in his hands, barrel held high.
“How is he?”
The boy was confident.
“Who are you?”
He did not turn to face her.
“You’re not wearing a radio or a trooper hat and you don’t have a badge. That and you’re wearing an FPD jacket, so lady, you ain’t a cop. Besides, you’re prettier than any cop I ever saw. Who are you?”
“Put it in your left hand then throw it on the couch.”
He complied.
“On your stomach, please.”
Again, he complied.
She wasn’t going to bother with his name. She didn’t want to know it. She already felt like she knew too much.
“So many guns,” she said. “How much trouble do you think I’m in?”
“A lot. Where’s my dad?”
“Was he working for that lawyer, Wilcox?”
She was behind him, not over him, far enough that if he flailed he would not reach her. She did not think he was dumb enough to try but young men tend to think they are impervious to death.
“You have a gun?”
She fired a shot into the wall.
The boy remained still, silent, and, she hoped, frightened.
“Was he working for Mr. Wilcox?”
“I don’t know.”
“And your mother?”
“What about her?”
“Where is she?”
The boy relaxed.
“Probably with Mr. Wilcox.”
The tone, the inflection, related a sadness she had experienced.
She asked gently.
“Why makes you say that?”
“She’s marrying him. She’s divorcing dad.”
(13) Women Like Her
She sat, letting the gun dangle from the fingers of her hand and she looked at the boy. His despair made the room seem grayer than the clouds and approaching darkness.
“You know about me?”
“Mom said somebody might come looking for me.”
This was worth exploring.
“Why do you think she said that?”
“Can I look at you?”
It seemed reasonable.
“Okay. Slowly, put your left arm up and away and over your head, like a ballerina.”
“I’m not gay.”
He rolled over. He was testing her, joking with her,
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