The Word of a Child (10 page)

The girl cast Connor
a
frightened glance before bowing her head again and mumbling to the floor,
"Tracy said he gave her the creeps."

The girl's father was staying out of it, just listening from
his seat on the piano bench behind his daughter.

Connor dutifully noted,
Gave her the creeps
in his
notebook. "Did she say why?" he asked.

Her brow crinkled. "Whaddaya mean, why?"

"Did she say whether Mr. Tanner had said something?
Touched her?" Connor spread his hands as if to suggest other
possibilities.

She shook her head.

Stifling a sigh, he asked, "What were you talking about
when Tracy said that about Mr. Tanner? Did it just pop up at lunch? 'He gives
me the creeps'? Or did something lead up to it?"

She mumbled something else.

Most cops tried to wring the truth out of scumbags at a
biker bar. Connor's fate was to politely coax it from shy or sly teenagers.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you."

She stole another look up, making him realize momentarily
that she might be a pretty girl if she'd brush her hair back from her face and
smile.

"We were, um—" she rolled her eyes toward her
father "—talking about whether any of the teachers who are guys—you know,
the male teachers—are hot." She drew a deep breath and launched into a
spate, her cheeks pink. "Just, you know, talking. Because lots of the
girls think Mr. Garrow, who teaches choir, is really cute. I mean, he's old,
but not
that
old. It's like his first year of teaching."

Translation: he was twenty-two. Connor made an encouraging
sound.

"And we were trying to think of all the guy teachers,
and somebody said Mr. Tanner, and Tracy said,
'Eeew,
he
gives me the creeps.' Like that."

"And she didn't say anything more?"

She gazed anxiously at him. "I don't think so."

"She's never talked to you about Mr. Tanner
otherwise."

She shook her head.

"Do you know whether Tracy has had a boyfriend
recently?"

This provoked another burst of speech. Tracy didn't really
have a
boyfriend,
not like they were actually
going
together,
but Jesse Rodriguez liked her, and last week she said this junior at the high
school was flirting with her and said he'd sneak into the next dance. So guys
liked
her,
see?

Too well, apparently.

Feeling he'd learned all he could, Connor thanked the girl
and her father and left.

In the car, he looked at his notebook. Amy Weinstein was next.
She lived, by coincidence, in the same apartment complex as Mariah Stavig.

Which meant nothing. He wasn't going to casually drop in at
her place and say, "Hi. Just happened to be in the neighborhood."

Connor did, however, note her apartment as he wended his way
through the complex looking for Building D. Mariah was in B103: ground floor,
with a small patio. The first two were bare concrete slabs; hers was a small,
luxuriant garden. Big wooden half barrels held topiary trees or boxwoods or
something, below which ivy tumbled out. Terra-cotta pots and urns crowded the
edges of the patio, flowering plants cascading out and clambering upward on
wire trellises. He thought there was a round table and chairs in the midst, but
his slowly cruising car took him past the corner of the building, and he lost
sight of her oasis.

Amy's parents were less enthusiastic about their daughter
being interviewed by a police officer, although they conceded the necessity.

Sitting to each side of her on the couch, they started answering
for her almost immediately.

"Amy doesn't really see Tracy that much," Mrs.
Weinstein assured Connor. "I don't know why anyone suggested her at
all."

He smiled vaguely at them, then carefully watched the pale,
thin girl as he asked, "Has Tracy ever mentioned Mr. Tanner to you? Beyond
complaining about homework or whatever?"

She gazed back at him with odd composure. "She hates
him."

Her parents rushed into speech, the mother first. "I
can't believe Tracy hates anyone!"

Mr. Weinstein said loudly, "Not liking a teacher is
hardly 'hating' him."

"Why does she dislike him?" Connor asked.

The girl gave a cool shrug. "Most of the teachers take
late assignments, and he won't. Plus he doesn't like what she wears. Once he
made her change. She says he picks on her."

The parents tried to downplay her every word—of course Mr.
Tanner didn't pick on Tracy! Why would he? Just because he expected the best of
his students was no reason for them to dislike him. Why, they should be
grateful that he cared! They certainly hoped Amy was.

Amy didn't say a word. She sat between them, a shadow, yet
they seemed not to exist for her. She waited politely for the next question,
her hands folded on her lap.

"Are you in her computer class?"

Amy was.

"Does it seem to you that he treats her differently
than the other students?"

She gave it serious thought. "Um, I don't know. I sit
on the other side of the room."

"Has she stayed after class to talk to him?"

"A couple of times, I guess."

"Did she say what they talked about?"

"She doesn't turn stuff in. And we're doing
keyboarding, and you take these tests, and you're supposed to take so many a
week, but I know she doesn't."

"Have you seen her right after she's stayed to talk to
him?"

"You mean, like, when she comes in to lunch?"

He nodded.

Amy shrugged. "I guess."

"Did she seem upset? Excited? Anything different?"

Amy didn't even blink. "I don't know. I guess she was
kind of quiet or something."

He had the feeling she was lying, but he couldn't tell whether
she hadn't noticed anything different about Tracy or whether she'd seen more
than she wanted to say to him. Or wanted to say to him in front of her parents.

On the subject of boyfriends, she was more relaxed. A couple
of guys had asked Tracy "out," but she wasn't interested.

"I hope her parents wouldn't let her date any more than
we would you!" Mrs. Weinstein said indignantly.

"I don't think they actually date when they go
out," Connor said.

But Amy's mother sniffed. "They're twelve years old!
They're barely getting interested in boys."

Amy said quietly, "Tracy is thirteen."

"Big difference," her father scoffed.

Connor's eyes met the girl's, and they shared a moment of
silent astonishment at her parents' naiveté.

"There was this older guy at the dance," Amy
offered. "Tracy said before that she might make out with him."

Over her parents' cries, Connor probed. "Older?"

"I don't know. Like, a high school kid?" She
sounded uncertain. "I didn't really see him."

Connor eventually thanked her, handed her a business card
and said, "If you hear anything, think of anything, please call me."

Her mother snatched the card and said, "Of course we
will, Detective, but I can't imagine what Amy would hear. As we've been trying
to explain, she and Tracy aren't really friends."

And wouldn't be in the future, if she had anything to do
with it.

He nodded and left them all gathered in the open doorway,
young Amy still calm, watching him gravely as he thanked them and left.

If he was going to hear from any of Tracy Mitchell's
friends, Connor thought, it would be Amy Weinstein. The kids he'd interviewed
at the school that afternoon hadn't offered any useful clues. If they were to
be believed, their friendship with Tracy was casual. Lucy Carlson had insisted
she hardly knew Tracy.

"We were just in a group when she started asking if
there were any teachers you could really trust, if you had to tell something
big. I said Ms. Stavig."

Now dusk was settling as he backed his car out of the
parking slot. Driving out of the complex, Connor slowed again as he passed
Mariah Stavig's building. This time, lights were on inside the greenhouse
kitchen window and the sliding glass door. He saw movement inside, and his foot
touched the brake.

The next second, he gritted his teeth and deliberately
speeded up. He couldn't knock on her door and ask her out to dinner. So he sure
as hell wasn't going to peep in her windows.

Frowning, jaw still clenched, he turned onto the road
without looking in the rearview mirror.

Time to grab another wholesome meal on the job, courtesy of
Burger King, and go visit Tracy Mitchell herself one more time.

The policeman tried to act
really
nice, but Tracy knew better. He was hoping to trick her into saying she was
lying, but she wouldn't. It wasn't fair! she thought resentfully. Teachers
could do anything, and everybody believed them. Nobody believed a teenager.

Her mother the traitor let him in when he rang the doorbell,
even though Tracy had cramps and was scared and sad and had been huddled in her
bed most of the day.

"Tracy!" Mom called. "Put on your bathrobe
and come talk to Detective McLean."

"I don't feel good!" Tracy yelled back.

There was a murmur of voices. Ten seconds later, the bedroom
door shot open.

"Tracy Ann Mitchell," her mother hissed,
"when a policeman comes to talk to you, you drag yourself out of bed even
if you are sick." Her tone made plain that she knew perfectly well Tracy
wasn't.

"I already told him everything," she mumbled.

"Then tell him again," Mom snapped, and went back
into the living room.

Tracy said the F-word and got out of bed. Down the hall she
heard her mother laughing as if he'd made some incredibly funny joke. She
probably wanted him for her next boyfriend. After the big fight, Jason hadn't
been back. Mom couldn't
live
without a boyfriend.

"Just because I like having a man around," her Mom
always said when Tracy complained because some jerk was going to move in.

Tracy did put on her bathrobe and brushed her hair. Eyeing
herself in the bathroom mirror, she decided she looked sweet and pretty without
makeup and with her hair all shiny and loose. Alice in Wonderland.

Clutching the robe around herself, she went barefoot to the
living room and curled up on one end of the couch.

He started to rise from where he already sat in the recliner
that matched Mom's and belonged to whichever boyfriend lived here. Both of them
faced the TV.

Whenever Mom was home, the TV was on. Soaps or talk shows in
the daytime, whatever stupid sitcom she could find in the evening. Even if she
was cooking dinner or on the telephone with a friend, the TV would be on.

"I like the company," she'd say.

But she had turned it off for the cop.

Tracy looked at him and waited.

He smiled easily at her. "I talked to some of your
friends today."

She hugged herself. "Yeah? So?"

"Tracy!" her mother said sharply. Her face looked
pinched. Yesterday she'd been all maternal and worried and mad at that SOB who
had touched her little girl. Today she just wanted it all to go away, so Tracy
could go back to school and be out of her hair.

"One of them remembers you saying Mr. Tanner was a
creep," the cop said.

She tucked her feet under her. "He is."

"She says you were discussing which male teachers were
'hot.' Do you remember that?"