Break and Enter (17 page)

“That won’t happen,” Zeke said, “as long as I’m around.”

The six young men left, and we spent the next hour talking with Philip and Mrs. Barnett until Lydia came downstairs and told us that Robbie and both of the dogs were in the playroom with the tribe.

“If you have time,” I said to her, “you might want to talk to the twins about Robbie’s parents. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they could give you a great deal of background information, given that they were neighbors.”

“Thanks, George,” she said, “I’ll do just that.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask how you think Robbie is doing,” I said.

“Very well, actually,” she said. “I think perhaps he will begin to really open up to me in a few more weeks.”

“I guess it’s wrong of me to expect instant gratification,” I said.

“Indeed,” she said. “By the way, do you have any objection to my using hypnosis on Robbie?”

“Not if it will help him,” I said. “Mike?”

“Go for it,” he said.

“Sometimes hypnosis is a good tool for helping patients talk about things that are too disturbing to face consciously,” she said. “Sadly, it has been abused a lot in recent years—all that publicity about so-called repressed memories comes to mind.”

“Lydia,” Mike said, “you have our complete confidence and trust. You can use whatever methods you feel necessary.”

“At least,” I said, “there’s no evidence that Robbie was ever abused by his father, either physically or sexually.”

“Right,” she said. “I remember you telling me that you had the doctor examine him when you first met. That was a smart thing to have done.”

“It comes from being a policeman for years,” I said. “Always suspect the worst.”

“The real test,” she said, “will come when he starts school next week.”

“How so?” I said.

“For the past few weeks,” she said, “Robbie has interacted primarily with adults. When he starts interacting with other children his age, it may well help some of the withdrawal to go away. I’ve watched him playing with Mark and Steven, and what I’ve seen in that respect is encouraging, but as I said, the real test will come when school begins.”

We had dinner with the family, after which we went to the pool and swam laps with Charles and Philip. The six young men joined us, and I noted with interest that they were getting along very well, and with some guidance from Zeke, Josh even managed to swim a few laps.

We were on our way to the mountains by seven the next morning, and we spent a wonderful two days at the cabin, enjoying the sounds of the stream and the relative solitude. We took Robbie to his grandmother’s for a lengthy visit on Saturday afternoon, and Bob and Martha Plott dropped by for a short time Sunday afternoon.

The twins and their boyfriends turned up at the cabin Sunday evening and were beside themselves with what they had learned from Steve and Roger. Zeb summed it up, saying, “As soon as we get a handle on classes next term, we’re going to start a business like that on the side.”

“Good,” I said. “It won’t be cheap, but you can do it if you try.”

We left the cabin at first light on Labor Day so we could be home early on a school night. We’d purchased an adequate supply of school uniforms for Robbie and laid his first day of school clothes out on his dresser. Tuesday morning, Mike and I both drove him to school and helped him find his room, after which we went to the Y. By late afternoon I was anxiously waiting for a report from home as to how the first day of school had gone, but I needn’t have worried, because my telephone rang a little after four.

“Martin,” I said.

“Hi, Dad,” Robbie said.

“Hi, yourself, kiddo. How was school?”

“It was great. I met a lot of kids, and the teacher is real nice.”

I let him run on for a while and finally said, “Okay, you can tell me the rest of it when I get home. Let me talk to Mike, okay?”

Mike assured me that everything was copacetic, and I went back to work.

Our Saturday trips to Atlanta continued without interruption. Most of them were day trips—we landed in Marietta, someone would pick us up and take us to the house where Lydia was waiting, and we would be back in the air by three or four.

We drove to Atlanta on a Friday in October, planning to head to the mountains Saturday morning for our annual week of fall leaves. After her session with Robbie, Lydia told us that she felt it was time for him to visit his mother’s grave. “Are you sure?” I said.

“Definitely,” she said. “He and I have talked about it. Is it marked?”

“It wasn’t originally,” I said, “other than with one of those little metal markers the funeral homes use. But when Mike and I took charge of Robbie’s parents’ estate, such as it was, we had a small stone placed on her grave.”

“Where is his father buried?”

“In a pauper’s grave over in the county where he was shot,” Mike said. “Evidently there wasn’t anyone who wanted to claim the body.”

“Is that a problem for Robbie?” I said.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “It has become very clear to me that Robbie and his father had no relationship at all. He was just a sort of distant figure who was around some of the time.”

“That’s sad,” I said.

“Yes, it is,” she said, “and you wouldn’t believe how often I hear that same sad story.”

After dinner, Robbie went up to the playroom with the tribe while we joined our hosts in the sunroom. During a slight lull in the conversation, Mrs. Barnett said to me, “I was right about you and Mike.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Those twin boys that were here Labor Day weekend talked my ears off about the two of you,” she said. “They couldn’t stop telling me about all the good things you’ve done for them.”

“It was a two-way street,” I said. “They did work for us, and we did things for them.”

“That’s a bit too simple, I think,” she said. “I’ll stick to my original impression of you.”

“Dare I ask?”

“You and Mike are just like Charles and Philip,” she said. “You go through life seeing things that need to be done, particularly in the area of helping the less fortunate, and you do whatever you have to do.”

“I don’t know what to say to that,” I said.

“There’s nothing to be said, just keep on being the same fine men that you are.”

We headed for the cabin early the next morning, and we took Robbie to see his grandmother Sunday afternoon. She had looked somewhat worse the last time we’d visited but seemed better this time. Robbie chattered away, telling her all about school, taking swimming lessons, and such, until it became clear that she was getting tired. We told him we needed to go and promised to come back two or three more times during the week ahead.

We told Mrs. Pickens that we were planning to take Robbie to the cemetery before we went home and offered to take her along, but she declined, saying that her daughter lived on in her memory and that was more than enough.

We had a great week in the mountains, and for once, the foliage was exactly at its peak during our stay and the weather cooperated beautifully. The day before we were to drive home, we took Robbie to the cemetery behind a tiny country church in the hills and led him to his mother’s grave. We’d purchased a nice bunch of artificial flowers and allowed him to place the container in front of the tombstone and arrange it to his satisfaction. Mike found several small rocks and said, “Let’s put these against the vase so the wind won’t blow it over, okay?”

“Okay,” Robbie said.

He stood in front of the tombstone for a long time, and I wondered what was going through his head. Finally, he looked up at us and said, “Can we go home now?”

“We sure can, kiddo,” I said. Mike and I each took one of his hands, and we walked back down the hill to the truck.

•
12 •

J
UST
before lunch on the Monday after our return from the mountains, I got a call from my boss asking me to stop by his office for a couple of minutes. “What’s up, Chief?” I said as I sat down in front of his desk.

“Not a lot, George,” he said. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up on a possible ‘hot potato’ your people are handling.”

“Hot potato?”

“Robbery and murder in a gated community on the south side,” he said. “The victim’s name was Sterling Jordan. His sister is married to a man who knows the sheriff quite well, and the sheriff says the woman is a diamond-studded bitch.”

“I have my staff meeting just after lunch,” I said, “and I’ll make sure that everyone is up to date on this thing. What are their names?”

“The victim’s sister is Doriana Murchison,” he said, “and her husband is Howard Murchison. He’s a sort of mid-level mover and shaker about town. Not old money, but not exactly new money, either. He’s okay, according to the sheriff, but the wife is the driving force behind him, and she might not be quite so easy to deal with.”

“Thanks for the early Christmas present,” I said.

“Handle it, George,” he said. “That’s why the taxpayers pay you the big bucks.”

The staff meeting began, and because she was youngest in terms of seniority, Janet’s presentation was last. She talked at length about the robbery/murder the chief had mentioned. “Sergeant Johnson’s investigators say there’s a gay angle to this one, Captain,” she said.

“How so?”

“The victim had a habit of picking up younger gay men in the bars and elsewhere,” she said. “They would stay with him for a couple nights or a few days and then go on their merry way with a generous amount of jewelry and pocket money given to them.”

“Presumably for services rendered?” David said.

“So it would seem,” Janet said.

“Are we sure about this?” I said.

“Boss,” she said, “Carl has personally interviewed four young guys who spent a lot of time with the deceased, granting sexual favors for gifts. We’re not quite talking about prostitution, but maybe the closest thing to it. It seems there are a number of men in their early twenties who make a habit of taking care of older men sexually with an expectation of gifts afterward.”

“If memory serves me,” I said, “all three of you have open cases involving burglaries of older gay men. I think you need to sit down somewhere and compare notes,” I said.

“If that’s all you have today,” Janet said, “we’ll do that right now.”

“That’s all,” I said. “Wait a minute, I forgot to mention that we’ll be feeling a great deal of heat on this murder/robbery thing.”

“Why?” she said.

“The deceased has a sister,” I said, “and she is married to some sort of mid-level mover and shaker about town. Her husband is acquainted with the sheriff, and the sheriff says the woman is a diamond-studded bitch, so tread carefully and tell your people to do the same. I want copies of everything you have in my hands later today, just in case I have to stroke these people at some point.”

“Gotcha,” she said.

They left, and I resumed dealing with my paperwork. An hour later a copy of the file, or Murder Book, to give it its proper name, was handed to me, and I spent an hour reading the file and making notes.

W
E
SPENT
Thanksgiving weekend in the mountains and stopped by Atlanta on the way there, so that Robbie could have his weekly session with Lydia. As usual when we were in the mountains, we took him to visit his grandmother. He babbled happily away about all the wonderful things that were happening in school, and we knew she enjoyed hearing it because she told us so at length.

By mid-December I was looking forward to Christmas in the mountains. It would be an extra-special Christmas this year, given that it would be our first Christmas with a six-year-old in the house. I pulled my department car into our driveway one afternoon, noting that Mike’s car was already there. I was home a little early, and so, it seemed, was he. I let myself in the back door and had barely turned the lock when I was attacked from behind.

“Sit,” I said to Thor, who had reared up and placed his front paws on my shoulders, more or less pinning me to the door. Thor sat just as Robbie came running up to the door.

“Hi, Dad,” he said.

“Hi, yourself,” I said, picking him up for a hug and kiss. “How was school?”

“It was great,” he said. “We’ve got a new boy in class.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yes, Sir. He transferred from a ’piscopal school on the other side of town.”

“Robbie,” I said, “the word is E-piscopal. Give it a try.”

“Sure,” he said. “’Piscopal.”

I laughed and said, “We’ll try it again later. What’s the new boy’s name?”

“Sandy,” he said, “and you know what?”

“What?” I said.

“He has a hyphellated name and two daddies just like me.”

“Really,” I said, choosing to ignore his mangling of the word hyphenated.

“Yes, Sir.”

That’s interesting,
I thought
.
“Where’s Mike?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Okay, big guy. Give me a minute to change clothes, and I’ll join you and Mike in the kitchen.”

I went to the master bedroom, pulled off my clothes, and selected khakis and a long-sleeved shirt. Thor and Robbie sat on the bed watching me intently, both waiting for attention. In the kitchen, I gave Mike a hug and a brief kiss, and Thor a treat.

“I just heard the latest news,” I said.

“What news?”

“New kid at school, two daddies, hyphellated name.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, “that news.”

“So?”

“I really don’t know much more than Robbie does. A kid transferred over from St. Andrew’s. I didn’t meet him or his parents.”

“Shit,” I said. “You’re no help.”

“You said a bad word,” a voice said from behind me.

“I’m a grown-up,” I said. “It’s allowed once in a while.”

“Oh.”

Mike set the kitchen table, and we sat down to eat. Robbie was babbling nonstop about the events of the day.

“Do you have any homework tonight?” I asked when he finally ran down.

“Some.”

“How much?”

“I have to read ten pages in my book.”

“Okay,” I said. “That’s what we’ll do as soon as we finish dinner.”