Twisted Justice (5 page)

Today, Carmen looked clear eyed and perky. She wore a halter
top with matching slacks in bronze and black patterns and her hair was arranged in a trendy French braid secured with a black ribbon. As Kim splashed water on her face, tenderly fingering the deepening bruise around her eye and cheek, she wondered why her friend had come over so early. Impromptu visits like this usually meant Carmen needed something — money, usually — but Carmen also knew that Kim often slept until noon after her late TV gigs. Something was wrong, she knew it.

“Here, sweetie.” Carmen handed Kim a mug of black coffee. “As usual, you don't have milk or cream, so I'm having mine, ugh, black too.”

“Sorry. Can't risk the calories.” Kim yawned as they settled at the table in her small alcove of a kitchen. “So, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Honey, we need to talk. Where were you last night?”

“What do you mean? I was on the news, in front of all of Tampa Bay.”

“No, I mean after,” Carmen persisted.

Kim frowned. “Why?”

“Frankie called looking for you.”

“Shit, no.” Coffee leapt from her cup as Kim lurched forward. “What time? What did you tell him?”

“I didn't know what to tell him. It was two thirty, and I'd just walked into my place. At first I thought maybe you came over, that you two'd had another fight after what he already did to you the night before. But what could I say? I said I didn't know where you were.”

“Uh-oh,” Kim exhaled.

“He was pissed. I mean freakin' uptight.”

“He was supposed to be in Miami.”

“Said he stopped off at the station to say good-bye first. How sorry he was, flowers and all. Some flunky kid at Channel Eight said he thought he saw you go off with Steve Nelson. God, Kimmie, tell me that's not true.”

“He…he knew I was with Steve?”

“Damn,” Carmen leaned forward, her eyes wide. “You were?”

“I didn't plan it. I mean, I had to tell him about maybe leaving Tampa for that Atlanta job. After the other night with Frankie though,” she paused and touched her face, “I just lost it. Plus, you know how Steve always makes me feel safe — so buttoned up and all. The truth is I always did want to do him and last night it just happened.
Dios mio
, if Frankie finds that out —”

Carmen put down her coffee cup on the table. “All Frankie knows is that some kid
maybe
sees you going off with Steve, honey. He doesn't know the rest. God, I can't believe —”

“Neither can I,” Kim cut in. “That's not even the worst of it. His wife walked in on us.”

“You're fucking kidding.”

“I wish. Talk about being pissed. She's harmless, but Frankie—”

“What's gonna happen? To Steve, I mean. He's got all those kids, right?”

“I don't know. I've got my own problems.” Kim got up and started to pace back and forth in her small kitchen. “Shit, if Frankie went to the station first, he probably came here after. What am I going to do?”

Carmen tried to smile. “You're the only friend I've ever had, honey, and as much as I hate to say this, you'd better get out of Tampa. Take that Atlanta job. After the other night, Frankie's gonna keep beatin' the shit out of you whether he finds out about last night or not. What you told me about him wanting kids and you don't. That's a blow to his macho ego and that fucking guy's in love with you. You told him your career is more important to you than he is? He can't handle that.”

Kim's eyes welled with tears. “You're right. I'm so scared. And his work stuff scares me too. The people in Miami he's dealing with — his plans for here.”

Carmen nodded. “I've heard some stuff in the Ybor clubs about his boss. You know it's Carlos Tosca in Miami?”

Kim shook her head. “Whoever it is, I know he's dangerous.
Carmen, you better keep your mouth shut out there. These guys don't fool around.”

“Like I don't know that. That's why I brought you this.” Carmen proceeded to remove an object from her purse and laid it gingerly on the table.

“That's a gun.” Kim's eyes were wide.

“Yeah, a pistol or a revolver? I don't know shit about guns. The guy I got it from did tell me it's got a hair trigger, so be careful.”

Kim stood back, shaking her head, dilated eyes still focused on the weapon. “Carmen, are you crazy? I've never even shot a gun.”

“Doesn't matter, there must be some kind of a safety. Right? Don't all guns have one?” Carmen gingerly rotated the gun in her hand, inspecting. Then she shrugged and set it down on an end table.

“Look, that's why I came over instead of calling. You tell Frankie you lost your house key. It happened to me once, a busted key chain, you know? So you got back here after work and then you went back to the station to look for it, but you couldn't find it, and you spent the night there. Totally deny anything that kid said about Nelson, okay? That's for starters. And this,” she indicated the gun, “is for protection. Understand?”

“Okay,” Kim said slowly. “Okay, honey, I'll try the key thing — and this. Thanks.”

“Best you get somebody to show you how to use it.”

“Uh-huh. Maybe I'll ask Steve. He knows about guns.”

“Good.” Carmen smiled. “Listen, I'm back in NA. Got a new sponsor. I'm really gonna make it this time.”

“Oh, Carmen, I hope you do. I'll help you all I can.”

“You already have, saved my life so many times. That's why I'm here.” Carmen got up and hugged Kim, avoiding her friend's bruised cheek. “I'm sure gonna miss you, but you have to get out of here, Kimmie. You gotta get out from under Frankie's influence.”

Laura tossed her canvas bag on the kitchen counter, reached for a fresh-baked oatmeal cookie, and glanced up at the clock. Not bad, five thirty. All week she'd managed to get home at a decent hour by postponing all but emergency cases. For the first time in ages, she'd been home five nights in a row for dinner.

“Marcy?” She knew her housekeeper couldn't be far. Pots bubbled on the stove and the smell of roast beef made Laura realize she'd skipped lunch.

“Hey, home early again.” Marcy Whitman clucked as she headed for the stove, grabbed a spoon and started stirring a pot. “You're cheating. I make the kids wait until after dinner before diving into the cookies.”

Rotund, with her salt-and-pepper hair pulled into an old-fashioned bun, Marcy looked older than her fifty-six years. She'd worked for Laura and Steve ever since they'd moved to Tampa, when Laura began her internship seven years ago. Patrick had been only ten months old; the twins, three; Kevin, four; and Mike, seven. Thank God for Marcy, Laura repeated at least a dozen times each day.

As for Marcy, she claimed the children gave her the will to go on once she'd lost her husband to cancer. Fiercely dedicated to the Nelsons, she lived in a small apartment over their attached garage so she could be on call for those frequent occasions when both parents worked erratic hours.

“Friday, I never thought it'd come.” Laura slumped into the nearest kitchen chair. “How're the kids?”

“They're all in the family room,” Marcy said.

Laura started to get up.

“You had a few calls.”

“Who?” Laura grabbed one more cookie and started stuffing it into her mouth.

“Your mother. She wants to know if you'd like her to stay with you over the weekend. You know she's worried about you. And a lawyer. Says you know him, a Mr. Sanders. And then Roxanne. She called about this Mr. Sanders. She wants you to call her before Monday morning.”

“Oh? I'll call them later.” Laura wiped the crumbs off her lips. “I'm going in to check out the kids.”

Laura stepped across the hall and was about to call out, “I'm home,” when she suddenly stopped. She sensed before she saw the serious expressions on her kids' faces. They were deep in discussion and did not notice her arrival at the verge of the door. Mike, her oldest son, sat stiffly on one end of the sofa. He looked so much like a younger version of his dad that she flinched. Broad shoulders, wavy blonde hair, but with Laura's green eyes. Like Steve, Mike was clean cut and smart, yet unlike Steve, he was modest, even oversensitive. Hard for Laura to accept, but Mike was fourteen now. Steve had been nineteen when she'd met him. So much had happened to both of them since then. They were now two entirely different people. Gone their rosy eyed optimism, gone their shared values.

“They're not telling me anything,” Mike was saying. “But Dad was at my baseball game yesterday, and he said he was coming back.” Laura grimaced at the new pitch in his voice. Puberty, a tough transition for any kid under the best of circumstances.

Next to him sat Kevin, age eleven, another blonde, but with fine, straight hair with shaggy bangs brushing his eyebrows. His freckles seemed apt to his role as family clown, but at the moment
his blue eyes — the medium blue of his father's — clouded over with unfamiliar worry.

The younger three were sitting Indian style on the floor in front of their brothers, a half-finished puzzle before them. It was one of those rare occasions when the television was turned off. Natalie and Nicole, identical ten-year-old twins, flanked eight-year-old Patrick.

Laura felt her heart turn over in her chest. Should she walk in or lurk out here and listen?

“He's never coming home,” Nicole announced with smug authority. “Mom won't let him live with us anymore.”

“You shut up, Nicky,” shouted Patrick, clenching his fists. “That's not true. Is it, Mike?”

“Daddy would never leave us by ourselves,” said Natalie before Mike could respond.

“We're not by ourselves, silly,” Kevin interjected. “We have Mom and Mrs. Whitman.”

“Who cares anyway,” said Nicole in a strangely cold tone.

“You're a mean jerk,” Patrick yelled, reaching over to shove Nicole.

“You're just a stupid baby,” Nicole shouted. “Get away from me. And don't touch my puzzle! I'm not kidding.”

“But he's gotta come home,” murmured Natalie.

“Who cares?” Nicole said again, shrugging. “Mom doesn't want him anymore. He did something mean to her.”

Laura stood silent, listening.

“Oh, just forget it,” Kevin slammed shut the book on his lap. “C'mon Mike, let's go outside and have a catch.” Jumping up, he grabbed his catcher's mitt, and slammed the door on the way out to the backyard.

Laura slipped back into the kitchen as the kids filed out the door behind Kevin.

“What can I tell them that will make them understand?” Laura's shoulders slumped against the refrigerator.

“I'd start with Mike,” Marcy said, nudging Laura aside so she could open the refrigerator. She pulled out a gallon of milk. “He needs to know what's going on. Adolescence is tricky. You have to face up to the facts.”

“I know, but how do I explain about Steve, you know, what he did — what this is all about?”

Marcy shook her head sadly. “Now that you're sure you want a permanent separation, it's better to tell the kids.”

“What if I'm not doing the right thing?”

Marcy left Laura alone as she left to pour the kids's milk in the dining room.

“Kevin seems fine, doesn't he?” Laura asked when Marcy returned.

“That's Kevin.”

Laura always marveled at this child's ability to avoid anything unpleasant or controversial. “But Nicole sounded so — I don't know — tough — that worries me.”

“I'd be lying if I didn't say me too, Laura. I don't know if that's better or worse than Natalie, who cries at the drop of a hat and refuses to even go out to play with her friends.”

“Damn Steve anyway.” Laura wrung her hands. “How am I going to deal with this?”

“I've cooked a great roast with mashed potatoes, fresh string beans, and peach cobbler for dessert. After that, at least tell them that you and Steve are separating, but that they'll still have a father.”

“You're right, Marcy. What would I do without you?” Laura gave the older woman a hug.

“Oh, now. You all sit down to dinner and straighten things out.”

“Come on, kids, let's eat while we talk about this,” Laura began. “About me and Dad. First of all, you're always going to have a mom and a dad. You know that, don't you?”

Each child reacted differently as she struggled to find the right
words to tell them that nothing would be exactly the same, but that everything would still be okay. Mike was studied and solemn and seemed especially protective of her. If he did not reject her outright, the others would follow. After the others went to bed, she'd need to spend time alone with him and try to make him understand.

Kevin said practically nothing, trying to blink away his tears. The twins reacted according to their distinctly polarized personalities, Nicole seeming actually pleased, and Natalie distraught and weepy. But it was Patrick that most worried Laura. So different from the others with his chestnut brown hair and hazel-flecked eyes. The baby of the family, born with a heart murmur, Patrick was used to getting his own way. Everybody said that he was Steve's favorite. And now he stubbornly refused to accept her explanation that Daddy would live somewhere else and see them on weekends.

“That's not true, Mom,” he yelled, pushing his untouched food aside. “My dad is going to live right here with all of us! I mean it.” There were no tears, but the animosity in the little boy's flushed face was blatant. He shoved his chair back and bolted for the door.

“Come on, honey,” Laura rose to go after him, “Dad will be here tomorrow for you —”

Mike jumped up. “I'll go make sure he's okay.”

“I'm goin' with Mike,” snuffled Kevin.

Nicole came over and gave Laura a hug, “Everything will be okay, Mom. Thanks for explaining to us. I tried to tell them, but they just wouldn't believe me when I said I knew Dad wasn't going to live here.”