The Wild Inside (33 page)

“Anything interesting pop up?”

“Not really, Mark is kind of arrogant, maybe a little pissed off that daddy left the cabin to Lou and not him, but according to his wife, Angela, he got the house Roger and Eloise lived in C’ Falls, which he’s sold already and made some money off of. Mark wasn’t all that chatty, but Angela was, so most of what I got was from her.”

“What about the kids?

“I only spoke to the oldest daughter, Sara, a cousin of Victor’s. You probably saw her at the funeral. She lives in Whitefish now and works at a hair salon. She and her husband have three young children.”

“She say anything of interest?”

“Nothing in particular. But she did mention that she was never superclose to Victor or Megan. That they were kind of weird. She said”—Monty raked his fingers through his hair and crinkled his face—“that she always wondered if the two of them had been abused when they were younger.”

“Physically, sexually?” I asked.

“She didn’t say, but I got the feeling she meant sexually. Said that Penny dated a few interesting men that kind of gave her the creeps when she was a teenager. Victor and Megan were younger than she was.”

“So not by the father?”

Monty shrugged. “She only mentioned the boyfriends.”

“Well, it wouldn’t surprise me. It would explain Victor’s drug use and abusive tendencies.” I looked at my watch. “Good work,” I said and meant it. Monty must have done something right for a family member to give that much personal information to a cop. “Think you can be as smooth with Lewis?”

“I’ll try,” Monty said.

• • •

When we got to the mobile home, no one was there. We poked around, then sat in the car in the driveway, out of the chill and the light drizzle. I kept wondering about the collapse in Monty’s home life, so I asked him how it was going with his wife. He said all was cool for the time being. That it was amazing how much pressure was relieved the minute you got two people not getting along out from under the same roof. I thought of Shelly and how we couldn’t speak for months after the split, but eventually became cordial.

“Suddenly, some manners come back—you know, some decency. It’s amazing how that all seems to go out the window and be taken for granted when you’re together in the thick of it.”

I listened, rolling my quarter, watching its shiny surface cascade over each knuckle, then I broached the subject. “The separation, your idea or hers?”

“Hers. Definitely hers.”

“Why?”

Monty made a long sigh. “Oh man, it’s complicated, right?”

“Always is, but there’s always that last straw, that one thing that makes someone take action.”

“You sound like you’ve been there?”

“I was married before. When I lived here.”

“Oh.” Monty leaned farther back in his seat. The vinyl squeaked as he shifted. “When you were on the force?”

I nodded.

“What happened?”

“She had a miscarriage, and I guess we . . .” I stopped my quarter, moved it to my palm and squeezed. I surprised myself that I gave that information up so freely because I’ve told no one about the miscarriage besides Ma and my sisters. “We,” I added. “Or maybe not we, maybe I should say
I
, I wasn’t much help in how we dealt with it.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

I shrugged. “It’s history now.”

“You never remarried?”

“Nah, man, are you kidding? With this job and all the traveling I do, it’s definitely for the best that I stay single.”

Monty furrowed his brow as if he was considering that for himself, weighing what a big decision that actually was. I had made it sound so simple—as if being alone was weightless and easy and exactly as it should be for a detective. No questions asked, spoken like a teenager with the world before him. “That’s a pretty big sacrifice,” he said.

“Well, it’s not as hard as you think. It’s not like I’m meeting lifelong potential mates that I’m having to turn away constantly.”

Monty blew out a stream of air again. “Marriages are hard. They’re really hard. No one tells you that when you’re young. Even when you watch your own parents go through their shit, you think it will be different for you, riding off into the sunset and all, but then you end up making a mess of everything in spite of your best intentions.”

I sat quietly in case he wanted to continue, wondering what kind of mess Monty—Mr. Tidy—could possibly make.

“I mean, it’s not like she didn’t know my deal when we got married.”

“Your deal?”

“That I didn’t want to start a family.”

“Because of your work?” I couldn’t imagine his duties at Ford’s desk somehow precluding him from raising a family, but then he said, “No, that’s not it.”

“So that was the
thing
—the last straw?”

Monty nodded. “I guess that’s a big part of it, but it’s never really just one thing.” Monty flicked his finger over the edge of the window control.

“Why don’t you want to have kids?” I wanted to add that I thought he was definitely the father type. Careful, controlled, and thoughtful. Maybe too serious, but kids would probably loosen him up a bit, make him giggle and laugh, but I didn’t. I thought of Ryan in his dad’s lap, tickling him under his armpits, and Ian’s huge smile and bursting laughter.

Monty shrugged, a sliver of a shadow suddenly inserting itself into the air between us, mostly settling on him, for a change. Since I’d stepped foot on this case, I felt that shadow cling to me like resin. “That’s a whole other story,” he said.

I looked down the empty drive. “Looks like we’ve got time.”

He continued to flick at the control. “Let’s just say I don’t trust my family line.”

“What, your dad into alcohol or something?”

Monty laughed. “Oh,
hell
, yeah he’s into alcohol. I
wish
that was the only issue.”

Again, I waited, looking down the road. The shadow settled back between us, and I thought maybe Monty would offer more, but decided it best not to pry. Out of my peripheral vision, I could see Monty shaking his head slowly. “Nah, this issue tends to skip a generation and go right to your offspring.”

“Oh,” I said, “that sounds fairly serious.” I glanced at him, then looked back down the road, nonchalantly rolling my quarter again.

“It’s serious enough to not fool around with.” Monty followed my
gaze down the drive. He didn’t offer any more, and I didn’t ask. We sat silently for another moment or two, the quiet needling me and making me fidget. I shoved down the stubborn little voice telling me I was an idiot for mentioning my private life with Shelly to anyone other than my family. I started to pull out my phone to check to make sure it wasn’t on silent mode and that I hadn’t missed any important calls, when a silver car suddenly turned onto the drive. Monty sat taller, and I put my quarter in my pocket. We both opened our doors and stepped out.

Lewis and Leslie got out of the car and Leslie ordered him to go in and change out of his dobok. She opened her trunk and grabbed a bag of groceries. She looked better than the last time we saw her, as if she’d put on a pound or two and her hair seemed—I wouldn’t say shinier—but at least less dull and less stringy.

“Need some help?” Monty offered.

She didn’t answer immediately, just studied us with suspicion. “Why are you here?”

“We were hoping to speak to Lewis.”

“Lewis? What for?”

We explained that it was nothing serious and that we just wanted to speak to him since he was involved with Victor, even minimally. “It’s perfectly fine for you to be present,” I said. “Although if you were okay with it, I have Officer Harris here with me since it’s procedure to not speak to a minor alone, and the two of us could talk to him if you have other things you need to be doing.”

She eyed us both, suspicion fully returning to her face. “What are you going to ask him?”

“The usual. How long he knew Victor, if he liked him, and if he didn’t, why not?”

“I can answer all that. He knew him the amount of time I had him in our lives, and no, I don’t think he particularly liked him.”

“And I’m sure he’ll say the same, but again, if this ever gets to court,
we need to have it on record that we spoke to all of the people who were involved in Victor’s life.”

“That’s a bunch of shit.” She set the bag of groceries back in the trunk and looked at the front door Lewis had just entered. Then she grabbed at her purse around her shoulder, and I was thinking she wanted to get a cigarette or her Bible or both. “What does my son have to do with any of this?”

“So you’re not giving us permission to speak to him?”

Leslie brought her free hand to her mouth and chewed her fingernails.

“I’m kind of thinking that you don’t want it going on record that you wouldn’t let us talk to him, that you maybe were afraid—”

“I’m not afraid.” She let go of her purse, letting it swing back under her arm, and picked up the grocery bag again.

“Here, let us help you with those,” I offered again.

She nodded and we each grabbed two paper bags and carried them into her kitchen and set them on the counter. Even the mobile smelled less stale than it had the week before. Immediately, she grabbed a cigarette out of a pack that she’d retrieved from her purse and lit it and deeply inhaled, her cheeks going hollow.

“Lewis just came from a Tae Kwan Do meet in Columbia Falls at the high school,” she said proudly. “I was just there.” She seemed to calm considerably with the cigarette, even wore a small smile as she described her whereabouts, perhaps pleased that she was acting like a normal mom attending her child’s event. “My sister was there too.”

“Your sister—she teaches Lewis, right?” I didn’t think it wise to bring up the fact that we had a chummy dinner with Leslie’s ma and pa the night before, given the strain between them all.

“That’s right.” Leslie set her cigarette down in an ashtray. “She’s certified to do that. You know, black belt and all. And Lewis loves it. It’s, it’s probably a good thing for him.” She picked her cigarette back up.

“Leslie,” I said softly so Lewis couldn’t hear from his room, and my
voice must have resonated a seriousness because she looked at me, fear in her eyes, “did Victor ever hurt Lewis?”

Her eyes stayed wide and she glanced at Monty, then back to me. “No, no, sir. He just hurt me. He never touched Lewis. Thank God.”

• • •

Finally, Leslie agreed to let us chat with Lewis and we offered to wait outside. He came out in a pair of high-water jeans, old, ripped sneakers, and a blue jacket in need of a washing. I thought I detected a slight limp. “Hey, you hurt yourself at your meet?”

“A little,” he said. “My aunt says I’ve just pulled a hamstring.”

“You did that while sparring?”

“Yeah, I felt something while I was kicking, but it didn’t seem bad at the time. It got worse later. My aunt gave me some cream for it.”

“At your age,” Monty said, “that should heal right up.”

“Have a seat, Lewis.” I motioned to the porch step and he sat down on the dirty green turf covering the step, not looking like his leg was too stiff. Monty and I sat on one of the porch steps as well. “How did you do in your meet?”

“Okay, I lost one round and won two.”

“Awesome,” I said. “That’s great. Hey, do you know who we are and why we’re here?”

“Yeah, you were at my grandparents. You’re working with my grandpa—the guys investigating Victor’s death.” He picked up a twig off one of the steps.

“That’s right. In case you forgot our names. This is Officer Harris.” I gestured to Monty. “And myself: Agent Systead.”

He gave a small nod.

“And since your mom dated Victor for a while and since you knew him too, it’s standard procedure for us to talk to most people who knew him, sometimes even when they knew him only for a little bit.”

Lewis rubbed the twig between his thumb and forefinger.

“Did you like Victor?”

“He was all right.”

“Did you do a lot with him?”

“Yeah, I guess.” He shrugged. “He was over here a lot when my mom was with him.”

“Was he nice to you?”

“Yeah, I guess. Sometimes we played cards and stuff. Sometimes watched TV.”

I glanced at Monty. I’d forgotten how difficult it could be to question a kid. It could either be really simple because they could ramble on and give you all sorts of interesting bits of information without even asking for it, or they could do the opposite, answer with short clips with many quiet spaces between. I looked back at Lewis, at his wavy, blond hair that I figured he’d either gotten from his dad or from his grandfather. He definitely had Leslie’s and his grandmother’s large, dark eyes. I momentarily felt a wave of gratitude flow through me that I had had a father for fourteen years. “And you liked him and your mom together?”

With the twig, he started sketching imaginary shapes on the faded green turf covering the step.

“Lewis?”

“Huh?”

“I asked you a question.”

“Sometimes he could be pretty angry,” he mumbled, his head down.

“You mean, lose his temper?”

He nodded.

“And what was that like?”

He shrugged and looked up at me. “Kind of scary, but it would always blow over and they’d make up. He usually lost it when he was drinking a lot.”

“Did you see him hurt your mother?”

“I guess.” He lowered his gaze to his stick again.

“How so?”

“Slaps and stuff. Sometimes he’d twist her arm.”

“And did you tell anyone about it?”

“Victor said I’d get into trouble if I did. He said he didn’t mean to hit her. I was kind of glad when they broke up, though. I like Paul better.”

“I probably would too.”

“Did you know Victor?” His eyes were curious.

“No, no, but I’ve heard a lot about him. I know he could be kind of volatile.”

“Volatile?”

“Yeah, angry. Fly off the handle, like you said.”

He nodded and went back to drawing shapes.

“Did he ever hurt you in any way?”

He stared at his shapes, kept drawing. “Can you tell what this is?”

I squinted at the step. “Do it again.”

He drew the shape again.