The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(64)
Leventhal folded his arms across his chest. “Like what?”
“Anything you think would help.”
“What would help is you do what I tell you.”
Flinging open the door, the boy stomped to his car, revved the engine, roared off.
“Well,” said Milo, “looks like we’ve been given our marching orders.”
He examined the posts, handed them to me. “Diagnosis?”
I said, “Twitter allows you two hundred eighty characters. All of these are a fraction of that.”
“Meaning?”
“Maybe a boy of few words because verbalizing is a challenge. Then there is the matter of the animals.”
He exhaled. “So there is.”
Working his phone he searched crispin moman. “No address, no surprise, he’s a minor…here we go: An Adrian Moman lives on the 1200 block of Benedict, could be Mommy or Daddy. The Beverly Hills side but yeah, not far.”
He googled. “Daddy.” Showing me a thumbnail of a small, bespectacled, blow-dried man in his fifties with the smile of a carnival barker.
“Agent at CAA…it’s worth a look-see. School won’t be out for a while but if Todd’s right and the kid misses a lot, he could be home. Want to take a chance and stop by? Meet another child of privilege?”
CHAPTER
31
The house was a two-story white Georgian Revival with a black door and matching shutters. Ungated succulent garden in front, double-width driveway, a silver Mercedes taking up half.
At the front door, Milo let a bronze, lion-shaped knocker fall on solid wood.
A maid in a black-and-white lace uniform opened. “Yes?”
Milo’s badge made her step back. “Is Crispin home?”
“One min.”
The door shut for two and a half minutes before opening on a pretty blond woman in her forties wearing pink velour sweats and black-and-white checked sneakers. The pale end of blond, a smidge past gray, thick mop of it, pushed back from an unlined forehead by a rhinestone band. A scrunchy circled one wrist, a fitness watch the other.
She said, “I’m about to head for the gym. Police? Why in the world?”
Milo said, “Are you Crispin’s mom?”
“I am.” Quick glance toward the house. Trembling lips.
“Sorry to bother you but we’ve had a complaint about Crispin.”
“I see.” Unsurprised. “What’d he do? Say something inappropriate to an overly sensitive teacher or student?”
“A little more than that.”
Pink velour shoulders rose. “Meaning?”
“Our report is he threatened some other students. Is he home?”
She slid a silver nail under the rim of her watchband. Flicked leather a couple of times. “It’s complicated. You can’t just approach him like everyone.”
“Could we talk to him in front of you?”
“Who’d he supposedly threaten?”
“Could we talk inside, ma’am?”
“Don’t you need a warrant?”
“We could come back with one, ma’am. But if it turns out to be nothing, why make a big deal and have it recorded as an incident on Crispin’s record?”
“Hmm.” Freeing the nail and inspecting her cuticle, she began stepping in place. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen: You’ll talk to me first and if I approve of your approach—and if Crispin’s receptive— we can reach out to him. With sensitivity.”
“More than reasonable, Ms.—”
“Haley Moman.” Eyelash flutter. “I used to be Haley Hartford.”
As if we were expected to know that.
Both of us faked it and said, “Sure,” at the same time.
That made her smile.
She said, “C’mon in, guys.”
* * *
—
The house was a precisely calibrated mix of taupe and aqua. A taxidermy shark took up one high wall, a wooden frame filled with stuffed teddy bears, another. Wall three hosted a scatter of family photos: Haley Moman née Hartford, blow-dried, shorter than her by half a head, and a boy, always caught with his head down, features obscured by long, lank, tan hair.
Wall four was a life-sized painting of Haley Moman née Hartford in a strapless silver gown with an abdominal cutout that honored her navel.
“Taken from a red-carpet shot at the Emmys,” she said. “Back in the back-then. Wait here.”
She crossed the living room and an adjoining dining room, passed through what was likely a kitchen door, and returned moments later holding a bottle of Vitaminwater.
Milo muttered, “No graham crackers, shucks.”
Haley Moman said, “Pardon?”
“Nice house.”
“We try.” Sitting down with the poise of a yoga master, she dangled one leg over the other and swung it from the ankle down, uncapped the bottle, and took a long swallow.
“Okay, go. What’s the alleged claim?”
Milo showed her the tweets.
She said, “This reads like teenage garbage—and this part about the doctors is absolutely nothing dangerous. Crispin is reflecting his reality. He’s always being trucked around to appointments. Allergist, pediatrician, ENT, orthodontist, behavioral optometrist.” A beat. She bit her lip. “His psychotherapist. So you see we are aware that he’s got issues. But this? It’s a joke.”