The Big Kahuna (Fox and O'Hare #6)(92)

Coleman




Two reckless drivers in one family. What were the odds of that? Pretty good, my husband might say. A chip off the old block. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Like father, like son. But I didn’t put much stock in Ray’s folk wisdom, and I didn’t like that Gorecki was A.J.’s arresting officer. His involvement could give the appearance of police vindictiveness against the Baker family, maybe even create problems for the prosecution of the hit-and-run. So I took the short walk from the station to the jail and asked Lomeli for the arrest paperwork. He set aside the romance novel he was reading and laid out the forms on the counter, Gorecki hovering nervously over my shoulder the entire time. “What’s wrong?” he asked me.

“You got him for excessive muffler smoke? That’s a fix-it ticket.”

“And I was going to give him a ticket, then I found out about his suspended license.”

“You’re telling me this has nothing to do with your girlfriend?”

“It doesn’t. And that’s over now, anyway.”

“Uh-huh.” I was about to give Lomeli the paperwork back when I noticed that A.J.’s address was listed as 8500 Sunnyslope Drive. That was his parents’ address, too. I remembered suddenly that when I’d met with them, their daughter-in-law was in the living room, watching Days of Our Lives, her feet propped up on the ottoman. It was possible to trace from these details the outline of a different story. Maybe the Bakers were getting older, and A.J. had moved in to help them out, take them to their doctors’ appointments or keep track of their medications. Or it could be that A.J. had fallen on hard times himself, and that was why he’d moved in with them until he could get back on his feet. What had that been like? It couldn’t have been easy, living with your folks when you were already married and pushing thirty. Had it led to his drinking and, later, to his DUI? Or was the DUI the reason he had moved back home in the first place? “Where is he now?” I asked.

“B-8,” Lomeli said, and pressed a button to unlock the door.

I went down the hallway, with Gorecki still following behind me. Light from the cell windows fell in sharp lines across the concrete floors, and a faint smell of bleach hung in the air. Hearing our footsteps, A.J. sat up on his cot. I noticed the surprise in his eyes when he saw me, without a uniform but with a detective’s badge tucked into my belt. His gaze traveled to Gorecki, as if to blame him for this new turn of events, and then he lay back on the cot and stared at the ceiling. “Hello, A.J.,” I said. “Is it all right if I call you A.J.?”

He didn’t reply. Down the hall, a door closed in a clatter of metal.

“Do you need anything? A sandwich or some coffee?” He was still ignoring me, and I realized that Gorecki’s presence wasn’t helping. “We have that buffet upstairs today, don’t we? Can you go get him a plate?”

“I’m not his fucking maid. They’ll bring him something tonight.”

I didn’t need to ask if Gorecki knew the guy—everything about his bad attitude suggested it. He stood next to me with his hands on his hips, waiting to see what I was going to do next. The summer sun had darkened his skin, but there were gray hollows under his eyes. “That’s a long time from now,” I said. “I’m sure he could use a snack.”

“You’re wasting your time,” A.J. said. “I’m not talking.”

“Well, we’re not talking,” I said. “We’re just saying hello.”

“You can say hello to my lawyer. When I get my call.”

Gorecki turned to me. See? his eyes said. An asshole, like I told you. But that only made me more curious about the story I was starting to piece together.

“Go get A.J. something to eat,” I said, my tone making it clear that this was an order. I waited until after he’d walked off, then turned back to the cell. “All right, it’s just the two of us now. Maybe we can straighten this whole thing out quickly, get you back home to your family. You’re living with them, right?”

A.J. sucked on his teeth. It could’ve meant What’s it to you, lady? or Yeah, I live with them, and it fucking sucks or something else altogether.

“Listen,” I said. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. These things happen. My uncle is a Baptist preacher—straightest guy you’ve ever met. One time at Christmas, my aunt forgot to get glaze for the ham and he decided to make a quick run to the store, even though he’d had a drink while he was waiting for dinner. Ended up with a DUI. It happens. And a suspended license, that’s just rough, man. You have to get from place to place and you can never find a ride. It’s just bad luck. I get it.”

A grunt. “You don’t get it.”

“What don’t I get? Your license was suspended, right? Like I said, that’s tough. Especially for nine months. Now you have to ask people for rides or borrow your mom’s car just to get around.”

“You’re wasting your time,” he said, and shifted to his side, facing the wall. He was a tall guy, like his father, and his feet dangled over the cot. “Anyway, I’m not talking to a nigger.”

He’d said the word under his breath, but I heard it all the same. Down the hallway, the metal door clattered as it closed behind Gorecki. I was alone. And I was nine years old again. Or eleven. Or fourteen. It didn’t matter, it hurt the same every time. The only thing different was who said it, and what I did. Ran away from the playground in tears. Reported it to the teacher. Got into a fistfight on the stairwell and ended up with three stitches on my eyebrow. And always, always, trying to remove the sting of the insult, but feeling like it was too late, it had already poisoned me. My thoughts flitted to my son; that morning, he’d ridden his bicycle to school with Brandon, and waved me off when I said to be careful when he crossed Yucca Trail. “Don’t worry, Mom!” But I worried about him all the time. That was what being a mom was all about.