Little Lamb Lost (10 page)

“She wasn’t. I know that for sure. She
hates him.”

“Then I went by the jail to see her.
There was a guy there. They looked like they knew each other pretty well. He
had kinda wild hair, brown, and a scraggy beard. Short and heavyset. Ring a
bell?”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. “I
don’t know —”

“You heard about the autopsy, right?”

Her eyes went wide. “No.”

“Michael died of a GHB overdose. It was
in the orange juice in the fridge and in his sippy cup. The detective on the
case told me there was enough to kill both of them in the pitcher. Do you think
Ashley would pour Michael a cup of juice she knew was laced with drugs?”

Now she looked horrified. “No!”

“Then something else is going on. Rumor
has it Ashley’s going to plead guilty. For some reason she won’t tell anyone
what’s up. If this guy, whoever he is, knows something about what happened that
night, someone needs to talk to him.”

A small bell rang behind her. She turned
and grabbed three plates off the window, and, balancing one effortlessly on her
forearm, delivered them to one of the tables. Then she came back.

“Well?” I asked.

Her voice lowered almost to a whisper.
“His name’s Jimmy. Jimmy Shelton. He’s a maintenance worker in some building
around here. He came in for lunch right after Christmas. He and Ashley started
talking, then he came in more and more often till it was, like, every day.
They’d flirt, you know, and I was picking on her about it a few months ago. I
asked her if she was going to go out with Jimmy and she was like, nah, and I
said how come, if you like him and all, and she said but he’s so much older.
And I said that didn’t matter. And then she said that she could never go out
with anybody that didn’t want kids.”

Uh-oh. “She said that? That he didn’t
want kids?”

“That’s what she said. So anyways,
lately she’s been acting weird. Like she’s always in a good mood. So I asked
her what was going on and she was like, nothing. But I got the feeling that
maybe she had a boyfriend. But she wouldn’t tell me nothing about it for some
reason. Maybe it was Jimmy. I don’t know. I know it wasn’t Flash. Maybe he was
giving her a hard time, but she wouldn’t hook up with him again.”

From the way Ashley’d looked at Jimmy
from behind the glass at the jail, I’d bet money he was the mysterious
boyfriend. Could Ashley have killed Michael because the man she loved didn’t
want him? It had happened before. A famous case about a woman who’d drowned her
kids in a lake drifted into my mind.

The bell rang again and Brandi took my
hamburger and chips from the window and set the plate in front of me. “Enjoy,”
she said, and went to take an order at a table. It dawned on me that she was
very busy, working alone in Ashley’s absence. I wondered how long the manager
would let that go on before hiring a replacement for Ashley. Not long, I would
imagine. Too bad, because Ashley had really enjoyed this job.

My hamburger was tasty in that
greasy-junk-food kind of way, but I ate less than half and only a few chips
before asking Brandi for a box. She brought me one and watched as I loaded what
was left into it, then clasped the lid closed. Wiping my hands on a napkin, I
asked, “Will you call me if Ashley says anything about what happened the night
Michael died?”

“Sure. I’ll see if I can get her to talk
to me.”

“And if Jimmy Shelton shows up here call
me, okay? And give him one of these?” I fetched two business cards from the
holder in my purse and handed them to her. One for her and one for Jimmy. My
cell number was handwritten over my name.

“Anything else?”

“I’m going to go by and see her next
week. Monday, I hope. I want to see if she’ll let me look around her apartment.
Maybe I can get some idea of what might have happened.”

“Monday’s a holiday. I wonder if they’ll
have visiting hours? And I have a key to Ashley’s place.”

She was right. Today was Friday, July
first, which meant Monday was the Fourth. I had a long weekend.

“Do you want the key now?” Brandi asked.
She pulled a dense cluster of keys from her apron pocket and began to unring
one.

“No, that’s okay.”

“Okay.” The keys went back in her apron.

“Michael’s funeral is Tuesday at Harris
and Sons. It’s at eleven.”

“Dang, I have to work. There’s nobody to
cover. Do you think they’ll let Ashley go to it?”

“I don’t know.”

Brandi reached again into her pouch and
tore off my check. “Here. I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

“Thanks.”

“You really think she’ll go to prison?”

“I’m sure of it, unless someone finds a
way to prove she didn’t do it.”

I paid the cashier with a twenty and
left Brandi a generous tip. I decided to leave my car where it was and walk to
the Criminal Courthouse. It was just a few short blocks away and driving would
be more trouble than walking. I put my leftovers in the car and fed the greedy
meter fifty cents for another two hours.

The familiar logo-covered television
station vans were clustered outside the courthouse. I took off my ID, ducked
around them, and walked as quickly as I could through the door. I had my bag
X-rayed at security and, after asking the guard to check the docket, made my
way to the Honorable Charles Rollingwood’s courtroom. I appeared often at
family court, and on rare occasions at civil court in custody battles, but this
was my first trip to a criminal court. I had no idea what the rules were. At
family court everything was pretty casual, with social workers, probation
officers, and attorneys coming and going in and out of the courtroom as they pleased,
so long as a trial wasn’t going on. Here, I figured I’d go in and sit down and
if I wasn’t supposed to be there, someone would let me know.

I opened the heavy wooden door to the
courtroom and saw the judge’s tall bench was empty. Four pew-like rows of oak
seats were to the left, and I immediately spotted Dee and Nona, sitting
together. Dee had on a blue-gray tweed jacket over a brownish-black dress. The
jacket and dress didn’t quite match. Her long hair was rolled at the ends into
soft curls that she fidgeted with, twirling them around her fingers. Nona was
in one of her usual African-inspired prints, a somber black and olive green
outfit with a matching turban over her hair. She smiled a greeting when she saw
me and I sat down next to her.

“Hi,” she said. “How are you?”

“Hi, Dee. Hi, Nona. I’m hanging in
there. How about you?”

“Staying busy,” Nona answered. “You got
my message about Michael’s memorial?”

“Yeah, thanks again for doing all that.”

“Reverend Croft is doing the ceremony.
He’s good.”

A man in a trendy suit sat down on the
bench in front of us. I vaguely recognized him from the TV news. Lawyers began
to trickle in and out, conversing, and Samuel Hamilton came in and took a seat
at one of the two tables that faced the bench. The D.A. entered and sat at the
other.

A uniformed guard brought Ashley in,
handcuffed. She was dressed as I’d seen her before, in the orange stripes that
hung off her small frame and made her look so tiny and vulnerable. The
handcuffs were removed and she sat by her lawyer, only turning once to see the
three of us sitting there and giving us a small nod. She was poised on the edge
of the chair, rigid, as though by holding herself tight she could keep it
together.

I turned, hearing the door open again,
and saw Jimmy Shelton ease in and quietly sit two rows behind us. He had tamed
his wild hair a bit, and wore a striped tie. As Ashley turned around and
spotted him, the corners of her mouth curved up in a small smile as if to say
she was okay.

I was on the verge of getting up to go
sit with Jimmy and introduce myself when the door opened yet again and in
walked — surprise, surprise — Kirk the Jerk. He saw me, slid down the bench,
and nudged my arm playfully with his elbow. “Long time no see.”

My instinctive reply was to tell him to
go straight to hell, but I didn’t. Instead I ignored him.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to
your friends?”

“Sure.” I turned to Dee and Nona.
“Ladies, this is Kirk Mahoney. He’s the man who’s been writing all the lovely
articles in the paper lately about Michael’s case.”

Nona looked at Kirk like he was
something dead that had washed up onshore. Dee didn’t know what to do, and
muttered “Hi.”

“Gee, thanks,” Kirk said to me. “I’m
sorry I upset you earlier.”

There was no point in responding to
that, so I opted for stony silence again. He said, “I don’t understand why
you’re so upset. I’m just trying to tell the truth.”

I faced him and said in a fierce
whisper, “Really, Kirk? Is it really about the truth? Or is it about finding
the most convenient person to blame? Making everyone believe that it’s the
government’s fault instead of focusing on what really killed Michael. The
drugs. And all the horrible things that people do to each other. The cycle of
abuse that makes people want to get high.” I glanced at Dee, making sure she
couldn’t hear me. “Ashley’s problems started long before DHS got involved. They
started the day she was born. But you never hear about that, because there’s no
easy solution.”

His eyes narrowed at me as he grinned.
“You know, you’re kinda cute when you rant.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“All rise.” The bailiff’s sonorous voice
echoed throughout the room. We dutifully stood as Judge Rollingwood took his
place behind the bench. He had an air of being in a hurry. The whole court
staff, come to think of it, looked a little rushed. All of them were trying to
finish work and start their long holiday weekend.

“Be seated,” the judge said. After
everyone complied, he studied a sheaf of papers for several minutes. “Mr.
Hamilton.”

Ashley’s attorney stood behind his
table. He had full, salt-and-pepper movie-star hair, and a beautifully tailored
suit. All ready for the cameras.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“I understand you have a plea agreement
for me.”

“We do, Your Honor.”

I held my breath, unable to do a damn
thing as Ashley’s fate unfolded.

Chapter Nine

The courtroom was dead quiet as everyone
waited for the judge to speak. “Very well,” he said. He flipped back through
the papers again until he came to the first page. “Ashley Louise Hennessy, you
are charged with one count of negligent homicide and one count of possession of
a controlled substance. How do you plead?” The D.A. had dropped the other
charge of child endangerment, I noted.

Ashley stood, ramrod straight, and in a
clear, high voice announced, “Guilty.” She said it like she owned it.

I was the only one not surprised. Kirk’s
eyebrows lifted as he scribbled furiously in a pocket-sized notebook. Dee
sucked in a sudden short breath and covered her mouth with her hand. Nona’s
head bent quickly as if to pray.

On second thought, maybe I wasn’t the
only one who wasn’t shocked. I caught a glimpse of Jimmy in the back row, head
nodding in support. What did he know about it?

The judge answered Ashley. “You have
entered a plea of guilty and are hereby sentenced to a term of five years,
serving not less than one year in custody, with the remaining four years to be
served on probation. Do you understand the terms of this sentence?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have anything to say?”

“No.” Her tone was confident.
   

Judge addressed the D.A. “Anything to
add?”

“No, sir.”

“Mr. Hamilton? Anything else?”

“Yes, sir. We would like to request that
Miss Hennessy be allowed to attend the memorial service for her son. It’s
Tuesday at eleven at Harris and Sons in Southside.”

Judge nodded. “I’ll send the order to
the jail.”

“Thank you.”

His Honor wished Ashley good luck before
rising. We all stood again as he ducked into chambers. Ashley nodded to all of
us before the bailiff led her out through a door at the back of the courtroom.
Dee was crying, Nona was comforting her. The attorneys and the D.A. milled
around together, talking. I turned to the back pew quickly, intent on asking
Jimmy to wait a minute, but he’d vanished.

With a touch on my arm and a flirtatious
smile, Kirk said, “See you around,” before he left. Nona got Dee calmed down
and we walked outside together. I told them I’d see them Tuesday, then went
back to the office.

The place was starting to empty out early
just like the court. I waved good-bye to Russell, who was driving out of the
parking lot as I pulled in. I scanned the parking lot for a lime green Charger.
Nothing. I took the stairs to the second floor and anxiously checked my voice
mail.

Nothing from the tire slasher. The first
message was from Mac asking me to come to his office when I got in. The next
two were from clients needing various items and information. I wrote them down
on my list of things to do, which was growing longer by the second. The fourth
message was from Royanne, and in typical Royanne fashion was one rambling sentence:
“Hi Toby and I wanted to know if you want to come over Monday for a cookout and
we are going to grill some hot dogs and ribs and Mamma and Daddy are coming and
she’s making cole slaw and you can just bring whatever so call me.”

Really wanting to avoid Mac altogether,
I picked up the phone and dialed Royanne’s cell. I confirmed I’d be at her
house Monday at noon, and said I’d bring dessert.

It was time to bite the bullet so I
walked around to Mac’s office. He was taking advantage of the fact that most of
his unit had departed early and was hard at work signing off on charts. I
knocked softly on the glass and he motioned me in.

“Sit down.” His office was so much more
utilitarian than Danessa’s. Just two single brown chairs and a row of filing
cabinets along one wall. A place to work, not relax. “How are you holding up?”

I shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Ashley pled
guilty and got a one-four split.”

“How do you know?”

“I went to her hearing.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to see what was going
to happen.”

“But it’s not your case anymore.
Michael’s dead.”

“I know. But I still care what happens
to Ashley. If she is responsible for Michael’s death, then she needs all the
support she can get.”

“What do you mean, if? She just pled
guilty.”

“I know, but it seems weird to me that
she would have been so careless. Stupid enough to have so much GHB in the
apartment, and then give it to her son.”

“That doesn’t change things.”

“I know.”

“We’ll be closing the case as soon as
the State is finished with it, and Ashley isn’t your problem now.”

His get-over-it attitude was ticking me
off. I was getting the feeling Michael was just another number to him. A name
to be crossed off so a slot on my roster could be filled. “I’m going to
Michael’s memorial on Tuesday. It’s at eleven.”

“Remember not to talk to anyone from the
press.”

Christ, what was this? Did the man think
I was in the third grade? I fleetingly wondered if he’d lost confidence in me.
It hurt.

“I know,” I snapped. “I won’t.” No way
was I going to tell him about my run-ins with Kirk the Jerk.

He sensed I’d had enough and dropped the
subject. “What’s going on with your other clients?”

We spent the next hour and a half
talking about the rest of my caseload. Mac appeared satisfied I hadn’t been
neglecting my job in the midst of the Michael tragedy and seemed reassured.
Until I said, “Um . . .”

“Oh, no. I hate that. I hate it when you
lead with ‘um.’ It’s always bad news.”

“Yeah, well, sort of.”

“What?”

I came clean. “I realized as I was doing
some filing in the Hennessy chart that I never ran a background check on
Michael’s stepgrandfather.”

“And?”

“So I did one this morning, and he had
three hits.”

Mac gave a long, frustrated,
count-to-ten sigh. “Why wasn’t it done before?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember when Al
and Dee got married. Maybe they weren’t together yet. Most likely, when we had
the first intervention meeting and it became clear that Dee wasn’t a good
placement for Michael, I just stopped the process and never went back and
finished it after Michael was returned to Ashley. I don’t know.”

“But Al had contact with Michael?”

“Recently Ashley had been bringing
Michael out to the Mackey’s to visit. I didn’t know anything about it. I knew
she got along okay — barely okay — with her mom, and she didn’t like Al, so she
hadn’t seen them in a while. I didn’t know she was working on repairing the
relationship with her mom.”

“What was the allegation against Al?”

“Physical abuse of his daughter. When
she was three and seven. One unfounded and two founded. He was ordered no
contact.”

“You have the Registry report?”

“It’s in the chart.”

“Make me a copy and put it in my box.
I’ll have to forward it to the State with a letter of explanation.”

“Sorry.” I really was.

“Michael didn’t have any bruises on him,
did he?”

“No, not according to the detective. And
I never saw anything on him.”

“It may be nothing. I don’t know what
the State’s going to say about this, though. Does Al have a drug problem?”

“Just booze. Beer, mostly. And gambling.
Dee gave some money to Ashley recently and he got mad about it.”

“Mad enough to kill her kid? That’s a
stretch, don’t you think?” I started to answer, but he opened a file on his
desk, my cue to leave. “We’ll see what the State says.”

I went back to my cubicle and
photocopied the Registry report as Mac had asked, slipping it into the plastic
box mounted outside his door with a sticky note of explanation. Doing so
reminded me of something else I had to do.

I went to the fourth floor. The Adult
Services section was as empty as my own. I wound my way through the maze of
cubicles to Michele’s desk at Records.

She was putting things away when she saw
me coming. “Oh, no. I was just leaving.”

“Come on, one quick check. Please?”

She tapped her watch. “Time to go. Long
weekend. The kids are waiting on me.” Michele had two sweet, smart teenagers, a
boy and a girl. “We’re going to the beach.”

“Please?”

“Oh, all right.” She rebooted the
computer and we talked about her weekend plans while it warmed up. She handed
me the Request for Registry Check form and I wrote Jimmy Shelton’s name down,
aka James and Jim Shelton.

She took it from me. “That’s all you
got, just a name?”

“That’s it.”

She quickly entered the fields and we
waited while the computer searched the files. Michele’s feet tapped on the
linoleum tiles. The machine beeped and a blue message box flashed on the
screen, “No Record Found.”

“Nothing.” Michele said. She printed it
for me and powered down the computer.

We walked to the elevators together as
she told me more about the condo her family had rented for the holiday. At the
second floor we said good-bye and wished each other a good weekend.

I spent an hour clearing my desk and
attacking my to-do list, and by the time I packed up my briefcase and shut down
my computer, I felt like I’d gotten enough done to be able to relax some over
the Fourth. Traffic was horrid going home, the interstate crammed with families
going three hundred miles south to sun worship at Gulf Shores or Orange Beach.
It was almost six thirty when I pulled into my driveway.

My little house was a welcome sight, its
white paint and black shutters giving it a neat appearance. The black iron
scrollwork columns that supported the carport and portico were my favorite
features. I gathered the mail and inspected the small, sloped yard as I walked
the concrete path that led from the driveway to the front steps. The grass
needed cutting, which my father usually did for me, and the boxwood shrubs
against the house were a bit brown. The purple and gold impatiens I’d planted
by the stoop this spring were on their last legs. The plants looked tired, worn
down from the summer heat.

I unlocked the front door and dumped the
mail on the table in the small dining area. The house was cold, chilled by the
air conditioner. I shivered and turned the temperature up. After changing into
shorts and a T-shirt, I poured myself a glass of Riesling, then another, as I
channel surfed in the living room. Nothing good on. My mind wandered to the
barbeque at Royanne’s this weekend, and I took a few cookbooks down from the
cabinet in the kitchen and resettled on the couch. I’m not much of a chef,
lacking both interest and skill. I was browsing through a
Southern Living
cookbook and was about to break into my leftover cheeseburger when the door to
the carport opened and Dad entered, calling hello. He was in shorts and a
Cozumel T-shirt, his ponytail wet from a trip to the pool.

I called hi and put the book on the
coffee table. He spotted it and asked, “Are you cooking? ’Cause I brought stuff
from the diner.” He held up a white plastic bag with two Styrofoam boxes in it.

“No, no. Royanne’s having a cookout
Monday. I’m supposed to bring a dessert. I can’t decide between apple or cherry
pie.”

He walked back to my small kitchen and
put the bag down. “Both are good. And patriotic.”

I set the table with paper napkins and
plastic knives and forks and poured a glass of the Riesling for Dad as he
unloaded the boxes. The Bluff Park Diner was our local meat-and-three, just
minutes down the road from Dad’s house. He’d brought me the meatloaf, which I
loved. It was thickly sliced, heavy on the garlic and onions, and covered with
ketchup. Dad had the vegetable plate. Once we’d tucked in, he asked, “How’re
you holding up?”

“Okay I guess,” I answered, talking
around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. I swallowed. I told him about my tires.

“Who do you think did it?”

“It wasn’t random. Whoever did it left
me a message about it at work. I think it was someone involved with this case,
probably Mom’s ex-boyfriend.”

“You be careful.”

“I will. I haven’t heard anything from
him lately. I think he’s the type who’ll blow off steam and let it go. All
mouth, no muscle. Oh, and Michael’s mother pled guilty and got one to five
years.”

“Yeah, I saw that on the news.”

“Was it bad?”

“They didn’t mention you or DHS. Just
that she’d been sentenced.”

“Michael’s memorial is Tuesday. That’s
going to be tough.” I stabbed a few bacon-laced green beans with my fork. “It
still doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why?”