The Angel of Knowlton Park (13 page)

She nodded, reaching down with one finger and stroking her baby's hand. The tiny fingers opened and the entire fist wrapped around her finger. "He was so neglected it used to break my heart," she whispered. "I did my best. When I could, I'd play board games with him, or read stories. Sometimes I'd fill the tub with bubbles and get him to take a bath. He was always so dirty, and none of them cared. Lloyd thought I was wasting my time." Her smile wavered as she looked for understanding. "He thought I should be paying attention to
him.
It wasn't a big deal. Timmy didn't spend much time at home."

"Why was that?" Burgess asked.

"You've seen the place," she said. "It wasn't just the dirt. He was afraid of the dogs. Afraid of all dogs. There's a man in the neighborhood, lives down near the park. He set his dog on Timmy one time. That time," She shook her head, as though it still surprised her. "Dwayne went and talked to the guy." A sharp laugh. "The way Dwayne would talk to somebody. Creep didn't bother Timmy after that."

"Do you know where Timmy went when he wasn't at home?"

She shrugged. "Around. Hanging with the neighborhood kids..."

"Can you give me some names?" Burgess asked, "or point out some houses?"

"Sure." The finger the baby wasn't holding stabbed the air, pointing out a couple different houses. "And there's a couple kids named Gordon, in that house there, boys about Timmy's age. Before Ricky went away, Timmy used to trail around after him and his friends, when they'd let him. They thought it was kinda cute, like Timmy was a pet or something. But they thought it was funny to give him beer and make him sick, too, so I asked Lloyd to stop them. Mostly they did. Then it didn't matter, 'cuz Ricky was gone."

"How often did Timmy eat meals at home?"

"Almost never. Not that there were meals. Like in a regular family, I mean. But he wasn't around much. Even if he wasn't with somebody, he'd just stay out until it got real late, then come creeping in and go upstairs to his... to his room, and sleep."

"The door wasn't locked?"

"Nope. I mean, seriously, who'd rip off the Watts?"

"Where did he get food, then, if he didn't eat at home?"

"People fed him."

"Like a stray cat?"

"It wasn't like that," she said. "People loved Timmy. You would have loved Timmy, if you'd known him. That's why this thing... what happened... it doesn't make any sense. Who would kill such a sweet little boy?"

"Tell me what he was like," Burgess said. "Why would I have liked him?"

"He was so small," she said. "He was eight, and I could still pick him up and carry him. Like if he fell asleep on my bed when I was reading or something, I could carry him upstairs and tuck him in. And his hair! Most kids by the time they're his age, it's gotten dark, but he had these silver-gold curls, like something from a picture book. Usually it was all dirty and tangled and you couldn't see how pretty it was, but sometimes he'd let me wash it. He was real quiet. Shy like, I guess, from being yelled at so much. I mean, if every time you opened your mouth, someone shouted 'Shut the fuck up!' you wouldn't talk much, either."

She looked down at her baby. "I know what you're thinking. Why should it be any different for her, growing up in a place so dirty and violent? Well, she's not growing up here. This is temporary. I've got me a real job now, a regular salary and benefits. Soon as I've saved enough for the security deposit and stuff, I'm out of here. Lloyd can come with me or not. Kanesha isn't growing up in this house, with people like this."

Her bright, round eyes darted between them. "I'm not just talking big, either," she said. "I got a sister who watches her while I'm working."

"So Timmy was quiet and shy. Was he ever talkative?"

"Sometimes. When we were alone, he'd talk. Then I could hardly get him to stop. He'd chatter like a magpie, giggle hysterically. He could get pretty wound up. Sometimes I got annoyed, when he'd get really goofy and wouldn't stop. Then I'd send him upstairs. Yeah, sometimes he could be real gooney."

"Were there particular grownups in the neighborhood who looked after him?"

"There was Mrs. Johnston, the art teacher. Timmy used to go over there for tea." She crooked a finger and mimicked la-di-da. "He liked that. And sometimes he'd go two houses down, to Sammy's, and have pizza. That big cop, Delinsky? If he was taking his kids to the park, he'd take Timmy along. Timmy loved him. Said he was going to be a cop when he grew up. That used to make Mother and Pap howl. Then Timmy would get all weepy and someone would smack him and send him to his room."

Her baby whimpered, and she raised it to her shoulder. "He used to go to the McBride's sometimes, but lately he hasn't been doing that. Matty's been busy with a summer job. And Matty's mother, she don't like nobody. Thinks she and her precious son are too good for the rest of us."

"That's all the adults you can think of?"

"There are probably others. I just don't remember." Her hand crept toward Perry's, then sprang back like she'd remembered you didn't touch cops. "I don't know if you can tell me this, but... you were there, in the park? You saw him?" Perry nodded. "Was it awful?"

Burgess watched Perry struggle with his answer. At this stage, with everyone a suspect, they kept details under wraps. But this girl had cared about Timmy. And she was family, sort of. They were supposed to be supportive of the family.

Perry put his hand over hers and squeezed. "Darlene, the way you described him? That's just how he looked. Like a little angel, sleeping there on the grass."

She'd been holding her breath. Now she slowly exhaled. "That's Timmy," she said, pressing the tissue against her eyes, her voice thick. "Just like one of God's little angels, tumbled down off a cloud." She grabbed the handle and jumped out of the car, clutching her own child tight against her chest. "I've gotta go," she said. "I've gotta go." She ran up the steps and into the house, slamming the door behind her.

Chapter 10

"So what now?" Perry asked as they watched the door close behind her. "A little chat with Dwayne?"

"Might as well," Burgess said. "I'll just check my messages, see if there's anything from Terry."

He called his house, punched in his code, listened to some crackling and static and then heard Chris. "Joe? I know you're not there. You're supposed to be on vacation, and I know you're not there, either, because I heard about the little boy. Look. I'm coming back. From Boston, I mean. I'll be at home. At your place. I wonder, does this sound as disjointed as it feels? I hate talking to a machine. Anyway. I know you'll be looking for whoever killed that boy. But I know you, remember? So I'll be here in case you need me. A meal or a hug or... I don't know. Whatever." She laughed. "Band-Aids?"

Her voice. From the first, it had drawn a response, something visceral within him. Now that he knew her, there was also her smile, the flow of her hair, the simple generosity of her body, her amazing equanimity. But from their first conversation, he'd reacted to her voice, and that remained true, even in a disjointed message on an answering machine.

There was more static. "Joe? My cousin's got tickets to this art thing at the Museum. Yeah. Like you care, huh? Anyway, the tickets weren't cheap, so I've got to go to that or she'll feel mistreated. Then I'll drive back. I'll be home by seven. So call me. Or whatever. I'll be here. And Joe?" She spoke in an embarrassed rush, "You be careful. Please?"

Nothing from Kyle. Burgess checked his watch. Almost seven. A whole day gone and Kyle hadn't checked in. Even if Kyle had taken his kids to the beach for the day without his phone or been out of cell phone range, he should have surfaced by now. But he'd been missing this morning, too.

"Nothing from Terry," he said. "But Chris is coming back. I'm not sure why."

"She thinks you can't take care of yourself."

"I've managed for forty-nine years."

"Right. And look at you." Like all his friends, Perry liked Chris, thought she was good for him. "Be nice to have a nurse around. She can take care of your knee."

"A choir of angels couldn't do much with this knee."

Being seriously involved, at least with a living person, was a rare experience for Burgess. He'd managed to get through most of his life as a solitary man, his energy and his passion going to his work. The demands of being responsible to, and for, another person, made him profoundly nervous.

"A little ice. Anti-inflammatories. Some good sex, you'll be a new man in no time."

"It's because you're so young," Burgess grunted, reaching for the door handle, "that you still believe in miracles." He'd often puzzled over the phrase, "a new man," and the pleasure people took in the idea of becoming one. Why would anyone want to be a new man when the "old man's" calluses and wisdom had been so hard won?

"Oh, lookie there." Perry whistled softly. "Her nice brother's driving her to work."

"My brother, my pimp," Burgess said. "What a family." He shut Perry's door and walked back to his car.

Shauna Martin was heading for the truck, followed by her brother Dwayne. She hadn't noticed that their way was blocked, but Dwayne had, and he was charging toward them, waving an angry fist and spewing a flood of foul language. Burgess, noting the loose flesh on the arms and around the stomach exposed by the man's upraised arms, realized that big as Dwayne Martin was, until recently, he'd been significantly bigger.

Before Burgess could react, Dwayne Martin had decided against charm and persuasion and the truck began backing rapidly toward Perry's car.

He looked to see if Perry was aware of what was happening. Perry was on the phone. He shouted, "Stan!" as Martin's truck hit the car with an explosion of crushed metal and glass and Perry's head slammed against the window.

He called for backup and medcu, then drew his weapon, and forced Dwayne Martin out of the truck and onto the ground. He wrestled Martin's arms around and cuffed him, his cuffs barely fitting around Martin's thick wrists, resisting the urge to kick him in the head. He left the man bitching about police brutality, rushed around Perry's car, and opened the door. Stan Perry, dazed and bloody, was slumped over the steering wheel. In the background, Shauna wailed loudly that she'd be late for work. Like hookers punched a time clock.

He pulled out his handkerchief, pressing it against the wound, and eased Perry back against the seat. Head wounds were nearly always gushers. Perry's chest, neck, and Burgess's favorite shirt were drenched with blood.

"Important phone call?" he asked, grabbing some tissues and wiping the blood from Perry's eyes.

"Michelle," Perry grunted through clenched teeth. "She's at Terry's. Says she can't wake him up."

"What is it?" Burgess asked. "Drink? Pills?"

Perry closed his eyes, gathering the words with an effort. "She doesn't know."

"I'd better get over there."

When he backed out of the car, Melia was there and the place was swarming with cops. He filled Melia in quickly and concisely about what had happened, then nodded at Dwayne Watts, who was stumbling around the yard, cursing. "Take that piece of crap downtown and hold him until I get there." Shauna, her elbows pulled in to enhance the scenery, was trying to charm one of the officers into giving her a ride. "Better take her, too."

He stepped aside so the EMTs could get to Perry. "Good thing young Stanley has a hard head. I've got to go check on something... I shouldn't be long."

Melia gave him a sharp look and didn't ask. Sometimes it was better not to know. "See you downtown." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Watch your ass on this one, Joe. Cote's got such a hard-on for you it's drained what little blood used to get to his brain. I'll do my best." He shrugged. They both knew Cote didn't want Burgess working high profile cases. It was nuts, what they were all supposed to be about was solving crime, but Cote was who he was, and neither of them had been born yesterday.

"I'll do my best."

"You can start by losing the canoe."

Burgess sketched a salute. "Yessir, boss. I'se tryin."

He steered carefully through the massed patrol cars and the ambulance, and past the curious crowd, heading for Kyle's place.

Michelle had the door open before he could knock. She grabbed his arm, the pressure of her fingers telegraphing desperation. "Joe. Thank God. You've got to help him." She looked past him. "Where's Stan?"