Charade (8 page)

It was breakfast time at Denny's. The coffee shop was crowded with people on their way to work and those who'd just gotten off night shift. Dobbs signaled the harried waitress for a fresh cup of coffee. "Don't know why she's acting so pissed," he muttered after he got the refill. "By moving over here, I freed up a booth." Alex folded his morning newspaper and laid it on the seat beside him. It appeared he wouldn't be returning to it anytime soon. Dobbs said, "Read that you were a Texan. Didn't know you still lived here in Houston." "I don't. Not on a permanent basis anyway. I move from place to place." "Guess your line of work gives you the freedom to do that." "I can plug in my computer anywhere there's a post office and a telephone." "Wouldn't do me any good to get the wanderlust," Dobbs said with regret. "I work in a refinery. Been there twenty-two years. It ain't going nowhere and neither am I. The job keeps bread on the table, but that's about all I can say for it. Got me a bastard of a supervisor. A real tight-ass when it comes to that time clock, know what I mean?" "Yeah, I know the type," Alex replied sympathetically. "Used to be a cop, didn't you?" "That's right." "Traded in your handgun for a hard disk." Alex looked at him with surprise. "Clever, huh? Didn't make it up myself. Read it in an article about you in the Sunday supplement a few months back. Sorta stuck in my mind. Is this the nonsmoking section? Shit. Anyway, me and the wife are real fans." "I'm glad to hear that." "I don't read much, you understand. She's always got her nose stuck in a book. Buys 'em at the secondhand place a dozen or more at a time. Me, I only like the kind of stuff you write. The bloodier the better." Alex nodded and took a sip of his coffee. Dobbs leaned forward and lowered his voice to a man-to-man pitch. "The dirtier the better, too, know what I mean? Jesus, the

things you came up with in that book of yours. I got a hard-on 'bout every twenty pages. The wife thanks you, too." He added a broad wink. Alex struggled to keep a straight face. "I'm glad you became so involved in the story." "Do you, uh, actually know broads like the one in your book? You ever had one pull that kinky feather trick on you like that gal did to your hero?" The Lester Dobbses of the world wanted to believe that he wrote from experience. "I write fiction, remember?" "Yeah, but you gotta know a little bit about what you're puttin' down on paper, right?" Alex wanted neither to exaggerate his lone life nor to disappoint his fan, so he remained silent and let Dobbs draw his own conclusion. He reached the one that pleased him and chuckled, shaking loose smokers' phlegm from his throat. "Some sumbitches have all the luck. Ain't no woman gonna do that for me, and that's for damn sure. Guess it's just as well," he added philosophically. "I'd probably die of a heart attack, spread-eagle there in the bed, mother naked, my dick standing up straight as a flagpole, and--" "More coffee, Mr. Pierce?" The waitress had the carafe poised over his cup. "Oh, no thanks. You can bring my check. And add Mr. Dobbs's tab to it." "Now that's right decent of you. Thanks." "You're welcome." "The wife'll pee her pants when I tell her I met you. When's your next book coming out?" "In about a month." "Great! Is it as good as the first?" "I think it's better, although the writer is rarely a good judge of his own work." "Well, you can't write 'em fast enough for me." "Thank you." Alex picked up the check and his newspaper. "Sorry, I've gotta run. I enjoyed meeting you." Alex paid at the cash register and left the bustling coffee shop, although he would have enjoyed lingering over another cup of coffee.

In a very real sense he'd been working when Dobbs joined him. His mind had been busy soaking up atmosphere, studying people, their unique mannerisms and distinctive facial features, making mental notes for future reference. He did all this unobstrusively, not wanting to call attention to himself. He was surprised that Dobbs had even noticed him. He was still startled when he was recognized by his readers. It didn't happen very often, though. His first novel, published a year ago in hardcover, had enjoyed only mediocre commercial success. But when the paperback had come out, word-of-mouth endorsements and extra publicity from his publisher kicked in. Now it was on several bestseller lists and making the rounds in Hollywood for consideration as a TV movie. The reading public was eager for novel number two, due out next month. For his third novel, his agent had demanded an enormous advance, which the publisher had paid. The book had been enthusiastically accepted by his editor and had generated much excitement within the publishing house. A knockout cover had been designed, and plans were being made for extensive prepublication promotion. But for all his recent success in the publishing world, Alex Pierce was far from being a household name. He was still an unknown among nonreaders and those whose tastes lay outside his genre. His crime novels were about men and women caught up in dangerous, sometimes brutal situations. His characters were drug lords, slum lords, pimps, whores, gang members, assassins, loan sharks, arsonists, rapists, thieves, extortionists, informers--the worst of society. The heroes were the cops who dealt with them inside or outside the law. In his stories the lines between right and wrong, good and evil, were so faintly drawn as to be virtually invisible. His stories had a tough veneer and an even tougher core. He wrote with a jaundiced eye and a cast-iron stomach, sparing his readers' sensibilities nothing, packing his narrative and dialogue with as much realism as possible. Although no words in the English language could adequately describe a grisly homicide, he tried to capture on paper the sights, sounds, and smells of the atrocities that one human being was capable of inflicting on another and the psychology behind the commission of such crimes.

Using the vernacular of the streets, he wrote the sexual passages as graphically as those detailing autopsies. His books had impact. They weren't for the squeamish, the fastidious, or the prudish. In spite of its crudity, one critic had said that his writing had ". . . heart. [Pierce] has uncanny insight into the human experience. He cuts to the bone in order to expose the soul." Alex was skeptical of the praise. He feared that these first three books were a fluke. He questioned his talent daily. He wasn't as good as he wanted to be and had come to the dismal conclusion that writing and success--insofar as how successful the writer perceives his work--were incompatible. Despite these self-doubts, he was cultivating an expanding and loyal reading audience. His publisher had deemed him a rising star, but he hadn't let the praise go to his head. He mistrusted fame. His previous experience in the media spotlight had been the most turbulent period of his life. Much as he wanted to succeed as a novelist, he was content living in anonymity. He'd had more than his share of notoriety. He climbed into his sports car and within minutes was speeding along the freeway, one of the most fearless of the fearsome shark-drivers. He kept the windows open, listening to the whiz of traffic, liking the feel of the wind in his hair, even enjoying the pervasive smell of auto exhaust. He reveled in such simple sensations. He'd been amazed at how sensually stimulating the world was, once his senses were no longer dulled by alcohol. He'd kicked his drinking habit by checking himself into a dry-out hospital. After weeks of pure hell, he'd emerged, pale, skeletal, and shaking, but stone cold sober. He'd been sober for more than two years now. No matter what kind of pressure he came under in the future, he was determined not to fall back on that crutch. Those blackouts had scared the shit out of him. He arrived at his apartment, but it wasn't like coming home. The Spartan rooms were filled with packing crates. His research required frequent travel and periodic stays in a variety of locales. There was no point in nesting. In fact, he'd already made arrangements for his next move.

He weaved through the boxes, making his way toward the bedroom, which also served as his office. This was the only room in the apartment that looked lived in--an unmade bed in one corner, a desk and worktable taking up most of the floor space. And there was paper everywhere. Reams of printed material were stacked on every conceivable surface and tacked to the walls. This chaotic, haphazard library was a grim reminder of his deadline. He glanced at the wall calendar. May. Time was passing quickly. Too quickly. And he had an awful lot to do.

Chapter fourteen

What's it going to take to get this kid on TV and into a permanent home?" Exasperated, Cat thumbed through the case file. At four years old, Danny had already received more hard knocks than most people experienced in a lifetime.

She scanned the reports, paraphrasing aloud as she went. "His mother's boyfriend beats him repeatedly, so he's removed from her custody and placed in a foster home where there are already several other children." She glanced up and addressed the rest of her remarks to Sherry Parks, a child protection specialist with the Texas Department of Human Services. "Thank God he's no longer serving as a punching bag for the boyfriend, but Danny needs full-time, one-on-one attention. He needs to be adopted, Sherry." "His mother's more than willing to give him up." "So what's the problem? Let's do a segment on him and get some families interested in adopting him."

"The glitch is the judge, Cat. If you like, I can plead Danny's case with him again, but I can't promise that his decision will be any different the second time around. Danny's abuse caseworker is arguing just as strenuously that he belongs in a foster home. So far the judge has ruled in favor of that." Since the inception of Cat's Kids, Sherry Parks, who was middle-aged and motherly, had been Cat's liaison with the state agency. She strived to get abused or special children out of the foster care system and into permanent adoptive homes. It wasn't an easy undertaking. There were miles of red tape involved. Sherry frequently butted heads with abuse caseworkers and judges who, like everyone else, had biases and opinions that governed their decisions. Once a victim at home, the child sometimes became a victim of the sluggish system. Cat said, "I'm certain the caseworker's heart is in the right place, but I strongly believe that Danny needs to be placed in a permanent home. He lacks security and needs parents he can count on to be around for a long time." "The caseworker insists that he needs more therapy before he's ready for adoption," Sherry Parks argued, playing devil's advocate. "He was neglected from the day he was brought home from the hospital. He needs to learn to live within a family structure. Recommending him for adoption now is premature and doomed to failure, she says. We'd be moving him through the system too quickly." Cat's auburn eyebrows pulled into a frown above the bridge of her nose. "Meanwhile, the message to him is coming through loud and clear--nobody wants you. 'Your foster parents are only housing you until you prove yourself worthy enough to be adopted.' "Don't they realize that they're placing the burden of responsibility on Danny? And because he can't cut it, his feelings of failure and alienation are only reinforced. It's a vicious cycle from which he can't escape." "In fairness, Cat," Sherry said, "he's provoking as hell. He bites indiscriminately. He throws tantrums. He destroys everything he lays his hands on." Cat shook back her hair and raised her hands in surrender. "I know, I know. I read the report. But the bad behavior is symptomatic. It's an attempt to get attention. I remember some of the stunts

I pulled just to prove how undesirable and unadoptable I was. That was after several good prospects that ultimately resulted in rejections. "I know where he's coming from. He'll be impossible to live with until somebody sits him down and says, 'Throw tantrums, Danny. I'm going to love you anyway. Nothing you do is going to keep me from loving you. Nothing! And I'm never going to beat you or leave you or give you away. You're mine. I'm yours.' "Then that someone should hug him until the message penetrates all the crap that's collected around his little heart and mind to make him socially and emotionally dysfunctional." Jeff Doyle applauded. "That was a stirring speech, Cat. We ought to use it in a promo." She smiled at the young man on her staff. In the short time they'd worked together, he'd become an able assistant. No job was too large for him, yet he didn't mind being asked to do menial tasks. He was so instrumental to the success of Cat's Kids that she'd recently invited him to sit in on her meetings with Sherry. He had taken an interest not only in the broadcast quality of each segment but in the welfare of the children featured in those segments. "Thanks, Jeff," she said. "But I wasn't composing promotional copy. I meant every word." Turning back to Sherry, she asked, "Do you feel comfortable pleading Danny's case with the judge again?" "Comfortable, yes. Confident, no," Sherry replied. "But I'll do it anyway." She reached for the file and wedged it into her overstuffed briefcase. "I'll let you know when they schedule the hearing." Cat nodded. "If I'm unavailable, leave word with either Jeff or Melia."

"Leave word with me," Jeff countered. "Otherwise Cat might not get the message." Sherry divided a curious glance between Cat and him, but Cat ignored it. Jeff had spoken out of turn. She would chastise him later, in private. Their inner-office disputes were not open for discussion with outsiders. The social worker gathered her things. "I guess that's everything for now. I'll be in touch." At the door to Cat's office she stopped to add, "By the way, that was a brilliant piece that aired last night." "Thanks. I'll share your compliment with the crew. The video photographer got some beautiful shots of Sally."

The five-year-old was afflicted with a speech impediment resulting from repeated physical abuse. The disability, as well as her retarded social skills, could be reversed by loving care and attention. "Of course, her eyes said it all. All we really had to do was get close-ups of them. They told her story and made a script almost superfluous. She has so much potential, such a capacity for love," Cat said sadly. "I hope the phone lines in your office melt this morning with incoming calls." "So do I," Sherry said. "Once again, are you sure you don't mind filling in for me this morning?" "I volunteered." After making an appointment with a couple who had applied to adopt, Sherry had discovered a conflict in her schedule. Cat had prevailed upon her to let her take the interview. "Thanks again. I'll call you this, afternoon to see how it went." After Sherry's goodbye, Jeff refilled their coffee cups. "What's on the agenda today?" "See if Melia has come in, please. And in the future, Jeff, keep your opinions of her or anyone else here at WWSA to yourself. Okay?" "I'm sorry," he said contritely. "I know I was out of place to say what I did in front of Ms. Parks, but it just slipped out. It's true, though. Any messages left with Melia have a good chance of getting lost before reaching your desk." "That's my problem, not yours." "But--" "My problem. And I'll handle it. Agreed?" "Agreed." He went out and returned moments later with Melia King. The two formed a contrast that went beyond gender. Jeff was fair-haired and blue-eyed. His clothing was inspired by Ivy League prep schools. Melia had heavy-lidded, Latin eyes that she skillfully accented with kohl eyeliner. Her lips were full and sensual. She was partial to vibrant colors that set off her olive complexion and dark hair. "Good morning, Melia." "Hi." This morning she was wearing a tight-fitting knit dress the color of poppies. She sat down and crossed her long, shapely legs. Her