Danger Comes Home (Kelly O'Connell Mystery) (2 page)

“Hi, Jenny. I’m Mike. What are you doing in my living room at—what? Twelve-thirty at night?”

“She ran away from home,” Maggie volunteered. “She’s scared of her dad and the men who come to see him in the middle of the night.”

If Mike was shocked or surprised, he didn’t show it. “I’m really sorry. Did you just run away tonight?”

“No.” The voice was soft and scared, but her eyes were big and pleading. “Three days ago…this is the third night. Counting the night I stayed on the bench in the schoolyard.”

“Why do men come to see your father in the night?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. He says it’s his business.”

Mike looked thoughtful. “People come to see him at night?”

“Yeah. He mostly sleeps during the day.”

“Have you talked to the school counselor or principal or some other adult about this?”

“No. He’d kill me then. Or kill my mom.”

“Has he ever hit your mom?”

Looking away, she whispered, “Yes?”

Twenty-four-dollar question came next. “Has he ever hit you?”

She shook her head. “No, but I’m always afraid he will.”

What terrible fears for a child to live with!
I wanted to put my hands over my ears. Instead I cuddled Em who had sidled up close to me and was staring with fascination, getting a verbal glimpse of a world she never knew existed. My girls had unfortunately seen murder up close and personal, particularly their father’s death, and I thought they’d heard too many bad things go bump in the night, but this was new. They didn’t know that family abuse has a name.

Mike talked softly to Jenny a few more minutes and got more information, while I slipped away to put on stretched-out knit pants. When I came back, he made an announcement:

“Jenny can sleep with Maggie tonight—one of them can have a pallet on the floor. She’s convinced me it would only anger her dad more if we went right now. I’ll take her home in the morning.”

“We’ll both take her home,” I said, holding my ground.

“Kelly, you take the girls to school. I’ll take care of Jenny.”

“Keisha will take the girls to school. I’ll go with you.” I tossed my head, which I hoped showed determination and independence. Probably all it did was try Mike’s patience, but I marched off to get blankets for a pallet for Maggie’s room and set the alarm clock for six-thirty so I could call Keisha. She, bless her, doesn’t confine her duties to office work. She’s available to babysit and, in crises, to do whatever is needed. I deemed this a crisis.

Once we were back in bed, I managed to ask Mike if anyone had filed a missing child report.

“Not as far as I know, but if they had, Kelly, the whole world would know. There’d be an Amber Alert.” Then he turned over and went to sleep. In no time, the girls were also asleep—I crept down the hall and checked—and I was tossing and turning, which I swear I did until the alarm went off. Okay, I might have dozed a bit but I sure didn’t sleep soundly.

When I called Keisha, she never asked why when I said I needed her to take the girls to school. All she said was, “Drat. There goes breakfast with José at seven-thirty. I’ll be late to the office, ’cause we’ll eat at the Grill after we take the girls to school. Then you can tell me what kind of a mess you’ve gotten us into now.”

True to her word, she appeared promptly at quarter to eight to pick up two grumpy girls who wanted to find out what would happen with Jenny a lot more than they wanted to go to school. I shooed them out the door with kisses and lunch money—a real treat to buy lunch instead of eat what Mom packed.

Jenny was silent, refused breakfast, kept her eyes down, and I thought my heart would break. But she showed no signs of bolting, and the three of us got into Mike’s car. The Wilson house was, as I expected, another one with signs of deferred maintenance, but this one did not share the neighborhood’s classical architecture. There are fewer and fewer houses like that in Fairmount these days, so a neglected house practically shouts at you. A nondescript structure of wooden siding with peeling paint, the house sat on posts, if you could call them that, of brick that leaned dangerously. The porch was littered with rusting furniture, a kitty litter box, and some straggly, dying plants. Iron grillwork, which couldn’t have been cheap, covered windows and provided a protective barrier to the front door. It was locked and the doorbell had a tape over it—how did we tell the Wilsons we were there?

Jenny provided the answer, opening the locked door with a key and then stepping back while Mike rapped loudly on the inner wooden door.

The woman who answered may have been my age, late thirties, but the years had been hard on her and she looked wary. An older version of Jenny, but with more strength in her eyes, one of which was blackened. I wondered what other bruises and scars her long-sleeved shirt hid. When she saw her child, she held out her arms, eyes filled with tears, and cried, “Oh, Jenny, I’ve been so worried about you.” She clutched the girl to her so tightly that Jenny squirmed a bit. “I thought…,” the mother began and then stopped herself, burying her face in Jenny’s hair.

This was a mother who was devoted to her child, and I could only imagine the agony she went through for three nights. But then again, she apparently hadn’t made any attempt to find her child. Finally, she raised her head and looked at us, her expression clearly questioning. “If you took care of Jenny, I’m grateful.”

“My daughter did,” I said. “We didn’t know she was hiding her in our guest house. I am so sorry. You must have been frantic. Did you call the police?”

She ignored my question and simply muttered, “I can never thank you enough for bringing my daughter back to me.” She still clutched the child.

Mike apologized, said he was concerned about Jenny’s story about being frightened. He never mentioned the black eye, which of course would have been the first question out of my mouth if he hadn’t had an iron grip on my wrist. He spoke concisely with no show of emotion, when I wanted to be begging this woman to let me help Jenny, to leave the abusive father, to do something!

“Jenny will be all right,” Mrs. Wilson said. “I look after her.” This was added in a fierce tone, and I wondered how far she would go next time to protect Jenny. Would she leave her husband?

“May we come in and talk with you and your husband?” Mike had his foot in the door so that she couldn’t slam it. He was still calm and matter of fact in his approach.

“No. Now is not a good time. He’s sleeping. He works at night.” She looked over her shoulder and then back at us, her eyes worried. Finally Mike moved his foot, and she closed the door. I caught a last glimpse of Jenny throwing me a look of desperation.

Once we were in the car, I demanded, “Why didn’t you show your badge, tell her you’re a police officer? Or at least shove the door open? You’re stronger than she is.”

“I believe that’s called forced invasion, Kelly. And I wasn’t there on official business. We’re lucky that they probably won’t bring any action against us, because I bet the father doesn’t want their lives investigated. I’m sure now there’s been no missing child reported. The father, if he is the father, wouldn’t allow it. It would bring us down on his head.” His tone lightened. “Let’s go meet Keisha and José at the Grill. I’m starving. You can ask José about the missing child report. I bet he says no.”

Keisha was already halfway through a platter of eggs, bacon, biscuits and hash browns, while José ate a bowl of oatmeal. José Thornberry took Mike’s place as the Fairmount Neighborhood Police Officer and soon became our close friend when Keisha set her cap for him. He’s tall like she is, but thin like she’s not, and they sometimes remind me of Jack Spratt and his wife. But these days, they really are a happy couple, and I’m delighted.

We both talked at once, trying to get the story out. José did say there was no missing child report. Keisha murmured, “That poor baby. If I were that mama, I’d take my iron skillet to his hard head.” Then she rolled her eyes at me and said, “Kelly, you’re gettin’ us in the soup again.”

After breakfast, Keisha headed for the office, José went home to sleep because he had a night shift coming up, and Mike drove me back to our house to get my car. We rode in silence for a minute, until I said, “Mike, you see those ads all the time saying if you even suspect child abuse, you should call the authorities. Is that you?”

He shook his head. “Nope. I’m Narcotics, and you know it. It’s Child Protective Services.”

“Fine. I’m calling them this morning to report my suspicions. Her father may not beat Jenny, but at the least she’s emotionally abused.” I waited for the inevitable protest.

Instead, he said mildly, “Harder to prove, but okay. As far as we know, Jenny hasn’t been physically abused. Just the mom. I’m not sure the law covers spousal abuse. You could try for emotional abuse—that’s certainly true. Or endangerment of a child. But we’d have to prove the nature of those late-night visitors. And if they do anything, they’ll take the child from the mom. That would be a disaster for both. I sense each of them depends on the other. They’re sort of together against the dad. Boy, I’d like to meet him.”

“You can. Late night visits are drug dealing,” I said without a moment’s hesitation. “If you could arrest the father, then Jenny and her mother would be safe. As it is, we can’t count on the mom to protect Jenny. She apparently doesn’t protect herself.”

Concentrating on driving, he barely glanced at me. “Gee, Kelly, why didn’t I think of that? I’ll tell Buck Conroy you’ve figured out how to handle the increased drug traffic we’ve suspected in Fairmount. He’ll really be grateful. All true.” Then, more seriously, “Kelly. I suspect as much myself. But we have no proof. This Wilson fellow is on my radar now. Does that help?”

Buck Conroy was Mike’s captain. He’d been the cold-case detective on the skeleton case and had even hinted that I was a suspect in the death of my ex-husband. Besides, I thought Conroy distinctly lacking in manners and tact. Now he was Mike’s boss and, to boot, married to my friend, Joanie—but that’s another long and old story. Joanie and I had glossed over our differences—well, really, my hurt feelings when it seemed possible my ex was the father of her first child. Now Mike wanted Buck and Joanie to be part of our extended family, but I dragged my heels on that one. And I could hear Buck’s sarcastic comment when Mike repeated my suggestion to him.

I sputtered. “No, that doesn’t help a whole lot, because until you do something that child will be living in fear, and that’s wrong.”

“Agreed,” he said. When we pulled into the driveway, he shut off the engine, leaned over, kissed me on the forehead, and said, “Kelly, I heard you say ‘we’ a minute ago. Are you about to save the world again?”

“No. Just Jenny—and her mom.”

“Kelly, I’m as upset about Jenny as you are—and as horrified that a child lives in such circumstances. A rundown house, constant fear of her father’s anger, a mother who apparently doesn’t stand up for herself no matter what she says she’ll do. But I don’t have the options you do. I’m an officer of the law, and I would need proof, search warrants, all that stuff. You, my darling, can call CPS and should. Let me know what they say, but…well, don’t hold your breath for an instant solution. The wheels of CPS grind even slower than those of justice.”

I kissed him soundly and got out of the car, saying, “I’ll call you.”

I waited until I was at the office to call. Otherwise, I’d just have to repeat the whole thing to Keisha. The call was, as Mike predicted, disappointing. I was shuffled from one person to another until I reached an impersonal voice who said, “One moment please while I see if we have any record of this child.”

I doodled, I sorted papers on my desk, I waved at Keisha and pointed to the coffee pot, which caused her to make a low, subservient bow and then, laughing, bring me coffee.

Finally, the voice came back: “The school has reported the child as truant. Absent two days without an excuse, and they’re unable to reach the parents. If it continues, she’ll have to go to an alternative school.”

At eleven years of age? I don’t think so!
I knew too much about alternative schooling from my friend Joe Mendez. “I’m sorry,” I said in my most polite, slow tone, “but you do understand that I suspect this child is in danger?”

“We have our rules and regulations,” the voice said. “I’ll notify the school to be on the lookout for signs of abuse. My hands are tied. I can’t even question the parents without good cause.”

I slammed down the phone without even saying, “Thank you.” Jenny was caught in bureaucracy. I reported all this to Keisha, who knew me well enough to ask, “So what are we going to do? We can’t just forget about that poor baby. And that woman! She needs help. I could give her some pointers on backbone.”

I didn’t have a plan but I began to formulate one. Susan Smith, the school principal, was a friend I could talk to, though I knew she was bound by a lot of protocol. I called and left a message, but it was late morning before she called me back. Meantime I wasn’t much use in the office, but I didn’t dare leave—didn’t want to miss her call.

There went the visit I planned to pay on Lorna McDavid in her crumbling but wonderful Craftsman house. That really was my project for the morning—until Jenny upset our lives.

Finally, at eleven or so, Keisha answered the phone and nodded to me. When I said hello, I heard a cheerful, “Hi, Kelly, Susan Smith. What’s up? Both your girls seem to be doing fine.”

“They are,” I said. “They’re having a wonderful experience. But I’m worried about Maggie’s classmate, Jenny Wilson.” I didn’t exactly want to go into the story of Maggie having hidden the girl for three nights.

A sigh and then silence. “I can’t tell you much, but she was truant for two days. Today, the mom brought her in late, with an excuse—said Jenny had been sick. I told her if it happens again, we’ll need a doctor’s excuse. Usually I just take a parent’s word, but something doesn’t smell right here. For one thing, the mom had a black eye. For another, Jenny’s teacher tells me she’s subdued, quiet in class, doesn’t socialize. I’m surprised Maggie, your social butterfly, even knows her.”

I explained that Maggie felt sorry for Jenny, always sitting alone on the steps at recess, and stopped to talk to her.

“Maggie’s a good soul,” Susan said. “I’m going to keep an eye on the situation.”

“Susan, can’t we do more? I wonder if the child herself has been beaten, and we just haven’t heard about it. At the very least, the child is scared witless and that’s emotional abuse.”

More silence. “I think you may be right. But our hands are tied until I see real evidence of physical abuse at the school. So far, I haven’t seen any physical signs. If I do, I’m required to report it to CPS, and I will in a heartbeat. Emotional abuse is much less tangible, and CPS doesn’t usually act on it. They don’t have time. Kelly, how do you know so much about Jenny?”

I didn’t exactly want to spill all about Maggie’s hiding Jenny in the guesthouse, so I prevaricated. “Uh, Maggie,” I said.

“I’m surprised Maggie knows about emotional abuse.” She was sounding skeptical.

“Well, she didn’t use those words, but she talked about Jenny being scared of her dad and how he beat her mom.”

“Still strange. I’ve watched Jenny on the playground, and she keeps to herself. I’m puzzled that she would open up so much.”

“Oh,” I said as lightly as I could, “you know Maggie. She can charm people when she sets her mind to it. And she told me she was worried about Jenny.” Time to change the subject. “One more thing, Susan. I called CPS this morning and all they said was they had truancy report. They threatened that Jenny would have to go to alternative school, and, Susan, that would be a disaster for that child. I know a young man who was sent to alternative school when he was in the middle grades, and he’s told me some pretty horrifying stories. And yes, CPS wasn’t interested in my comments on emotional abuse.”

“I agree an alternative school is not the solution for Jenny. I’ll check on her every morning,” Susan said, “and I’ll get back to you.”

I reported all this to Keisha, who volunteered, “I can ask José to go by that house on patrol, but he goes off between eleven and midnight.” Keisha met José when he was assigned to stand guard outside Mike’s hospital room after the hospital, and she almost literally swept him off his feet. Sometimes loud, always a free spirit, Keisha was a perfect match for the quiet José whose real name was Joe. Keisha said she already knew one Joe and since José’s mother was Hispanic, she was calling him that from now on. It stuck, and we all called him José. They shared an apartment, but I’d asked them not to let it on around the girls. Too many questions.

“I don’t know what he can tell from the street, but it’s worth a try, Keisha. Thanks. I’ll ask Maggie about Jenny tonight.”

That proved less successful than I thought. Maggie was
not
her sunny, cheerful self; in fact, she was sullen. “You shouldn’t have made Jenny go home. She could have stayed with us,” she said in the car.

“Mag, let’s talk about this at home.”

“I want to hear too,” Em piped up. “I think Jenny is sad.”

“She is sad, Em. If Maggie doesn’t mind, we can all three talk about it before Mike gets home.”

“’Cause he won’t understand, will he?” Maggie asked, her tone belligerent.

“Mike understands much more than you give him credit for. But he’s a police officer. He could hardly hide a runaway at his house—he’d lose his job for sure, maybe go to jail.” That thought sobered them both, and Maggie fell silent.

We got home, had snacks, and settled at the dining table. Without my prompting, Maggie said, “Jenny was in school today. She came late, but she was there. She wouldn’t talk to me, so now she has no one to talk to.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Em offered.

I took her hand. “That’s good of you, Em. And Maggie, I think you just have to keep trying. Jenny is a very frightened little girl.”

“Well,” the tone was still belligerent, “I would be too if I thought Mike might beat me any time he was unhappy about something.”

“Not a fair comparison,” I said. “Let’s just all of us watch out for Jenny and do what we can to make her happy. Maggie, could we invite her to spend the night some night?”

Surprisingly, Maggie didn’t jump at the idea. “I’ll think about it.”

I wondered if her hesitation had to do with what her other friends would think. Her best friends were girls like her, from happy, stable homes, who wore cute clothes, worshipped Justin Bieber, and giggled about boys. Jenny didn’t fit into that picture, but there was no sense telling Maggie that her values would change over time.

“There’s one more thing, Maggie, and this is a biggie. You hid Jenny from Mike and me. One of the things I always count on is that you will tell us the truth and bring your problems to us.”

She hung her head. “I told you why I didn’t, and I was right. You made Jenny go home.”

Here we go again!
“You understand why, don’t you? If we hadn’t, we’d be breaking the law several times over.”

“But not if you didn’t know. I did feel bad about not telling you.”

I opened my arms, and she walked into my hug. “No more secrets? Sometimes you don’t understand all sides of a problem and you need us. Okay?”

“Okay.” She hugged me fiercely.

When Mike came home, we didn’t talk about Jenny or her mom, and I had the feeling he didn’t want me to ask if he’d put surveillance on the house. Who am I kidding about a feeling? I knew darn well he’d tell me to stay out of police business.

Maggie seemed to have gotten over her disappointment in us. She challenged Mike to a chess game that went on so long I had to declare it a draw and send Maggie to bed.

Later, when we were curled up with our books, Mike said, “You’re no fun. I was about to beat Maggie.”

Yeah, you’re a chess player! Inscrutable.

Everyone else may have forgotten but my thoughts were with Jenny that night. And I alternated between anger at her mom and pity. It dawned on me I didn’t even know the woman’s name, except Wilson. I had to do something.