Little Lamb Lost (26 page)

“See you around,” Jimmy said with a
glare that bore right into my brain.

I left Jimmy and the woman and made it
outside in a flash. By the time I reached my car some six blocks away, I was
soaked in sweat and breathing hard. The bastard knew where I lived.

I punched a number into my cell phone.
“I need a favor.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

I went back to work and tried to
concentrate on putting together the chart regarding the family I’d seen this
morning. I had to redo two forms because I wasn’t paying attention. After
documenting the interviews, scheduling the intervention meeting for tomorrow,
and following up with the therapist, I left the office at six, still uneasy and
with only half my mind on anything I was doing. As arranged, I met Grant at
High Tech.

I knocked above the logo on the front
door. Grant emerged from the back office and unlocked the door with a key to
let me in. I followed him back to his desk, where he put his bookkeeping away
before tailing me back to my house.

He hadn’t asked any questions on the
phone when I told him I needed a place to spend the night. Hadn’t asked any
questions when I’d arrived at the store, and without comment entered my house
first to make sure it was safe. He waited patiently while I packed an overnight
case, threw in the list of suspects I’d made, and locked up.

Grant lived in an apartment complex near
the mall, two minutes from his shop. A people stable of a hundred units, high
on a hill, shielded from the commercial traffic below by a long drive and lots
of trees. He lived on the third floor.

He gave me the fifty-cent tour. The
place was definitely function rather than fashion. White walls. Minimal
furniture. A big-screen TV in the living room. Two bedrooms, one an office that
held trestle tables like the ones he worked on at the shop, full of computers.
They hummed quietly. A bookcase, black, with thick tomes on mysterious subjects
such as C and Visual Basic and Dot Net. In the next room lay a king-sized
mattress set, no frame, unmade navy sheets and a brown bedspread. A clock radio
was plugged in next to it. A dresser spilled clothes from every drawer.

After the tour we sank down on the
leather couch. Grant picked up a fancy remote control that looked like a
handheld PC and used it to turn on the lamps. “You okay?”

I wasn’t. I wanted desperately to be
home and for all this to be over. I wanted Michael alive, happy, and playing,
and Ashley working and doing well. I didn’t want awful men threatening me and I
didn’t want to have to look over my shoulder twenty-four-seven. I didn’t want
to feel like I had failed. And I hated burdening Grant with an uninvited house
guest. I teared up before I could stop myself.

He scooted over and wrapped both arms
around me. My cheek rested on his shoulder and my face pressed against his
neck. He patted my back and shoulders and said, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” until
my fit subsided.

When it was over I sat back, wiped away
tears, and apologized.

“What happened?” he asked.

I told him about Jimmy and our
conversation earlier. Grant said I was an idiot for seeking him out. I agreed.
Grant brought me some toilet tissue from the bathroom. “Here. Why don’t you get
cleaned up a bit and get comfortable while I make us something to eat?”

I locked myself in Grant’s bathroom. A
plain, clear shower curtain enclosed the tub. His hairbrush and shaving kit lay
on the counter, and that was it. I washed my face with cold water and studied
my reflection in the mirror. My blue eyes were pink and puffy, my nose red, and
my skin splotchy. Nice. Claire, I said to myself, you really owe this guy. As
soon as this is over, go out and buy yourself a hot new dress, get your hair
and makeup done, and take him out for a steak.

I stripped off the clothes I’d worn to
work and stood in a hot shower for twenty minutes, lingering with Grant’s
shampoo and soap. I brushed my hair and put on the shorts and T-shirt I’d
brought with me.

Grant was frying bacon and eggs when I
joined him in the kitchen. Two TV trays were set up in front of the couch, with
paper napkins and forks. “Hungry?” he asked.

The smell of the bacon was getting to
me. “Yeah.”

I poured us each a glass of water from
the pitcher in the fridge and we dug in. After supper, Grant put in a movie. By
nine thirty I was sinking ever lower into the sofa. Grant went into his
bedroom. He returned carrying a striped comforter and a pillow, wearing cotton
shorts and a navy T-shirt that fit tight across his shoulders. The sleeves
hugged his arms halfway down his biceps. He shut off the television, put the
pillow gently under my head, and tucked me in.

“Need anything?” he asked.

Boy, did I. I leaned toward him and
said, “How about a kiss good night?”

I slid his glasses off and put them on
the floor next the sofa. Several minutes later, I began to ease his T-shirt up
and over his head. He stopped me, catching my hands in his. “Not tonight.”

“Why?”

He found his glasses and slid them on
again, then brushed my cheek with his hand. “Good night.”

I heard the click of his bedroom door
shutting as I closed my eyes.

The next morning I awoke to the whine of
an electric razor. The hollow, ashamed feeling was still with me. I drifted
back to sleep and woke a few minutes later to the aroma of brewing coffee. I
threw off the comforter and padded my way to the kitchen. Grant was dressed for
work, in khakis and a polo with his store logo on it.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

He handed me a full mug. “Cream and
sugar?”

“No thanks.” I sipped the hot, rich
liquid as Grant stirred his. “Thanks for letting me stay last night.”

“No problem.”

“I’m sorry about —”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Before he left for work, Grant made me
promise to meet him that evening. I got ready and faced a challenging day
head-on. First on the agenda was the intervention meeting regarding the case
from yesterday. I refereed a room full of people including parents, kids,
grandparents, a teacher, and the therapist I’d contacted. Everything was going
fine until one of the grandparents commented that the bruises never would have
happened if her daughter hadn’t married the stupid sumbitch in the first place.
Then the yelling started. I sent the kids out of the room and got everyone calm
by announcing that I was about three seconds away from putting the kids in
foster care. That shut them up.

The meeting lasted four hours. After it
was over, I ate lunch and hid in my office all afternoon, documenting the
family’s intervention plan, nursing a headache, and only coming out of my tiny
space to meet with Mac for an hour. There was no word from the A.G.’s office
yet. It was still too early.

At five I took the Red Mountain
Expressway to Highway 280, jammed with commuters bound for home. I turned into
Mountain Brook. The parking pad at the top of Karen and Alexander Madison’s
drive was full of cars, so I parked in the street. I rang the doorbell and
Karen answered, dressed in a Roberto Cavalli print dress. She looked gorgeous.

“Hello. What are you doing here?”

I could hear the buzz of conversation
behind her as a uniformed caterer passed by with a silver tray of canapés. “I
want a word.”

“We’re having a party. I’m afraid I
can’t right now.”

“I’ll only take a second.” I nodded
toward the garage. “We can go in there.”

I leaned against the bumper of a
Cadillac Escalade, flanked on one side by a Porsche. The other space was empty.
I took out the somewhat sticky photo I’d filched from Ashley’s apartment and
pointed to it. “That’s Trey, correct?”

“That’s right. I don’t know who the
other young man is.”

“What’s Trey’s last name?”

“Baxter. He’s a friend of Zander’s. You
can’t possibly think he has anything to do with Michael’s death?”

“Why not?”

“Oh, that’s ridiculous. We’ve been
friends with his parents forever.”

“When you say he’s a friend of Zander’s,
does he —” I trailed off, searching for the right way to phrase my question.

She picked up on what I was fishing for.
“No. He doesn’t have the same — problems — as Zander has.”

It irked me that she couldn’t bring
herself to say “addiction.” No wonder it was called the elephant in the living
room. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Trey is doing very well,
actually. He graduated early with his undergraduate degree, and has already
completed his Ph.D. He’s only twenty-six. His father was a doctor, you see.”

There was a stiffness to Karen’s
expression as she spoke and a strained quality to her voice. Pain. And envy.
Lots of envy.

“I see. What’s Trey do? For a living?”

“He and his father, Walt, started a
business together. Some kind of medical research facility. Walt was a GP here
for years and always wanted to go into the research end of medicine. He sold
his practice and founded BaxMed with his son. I don’t know why you are so
curious about Trey. He couldn’t have had anything to do with Michael. I doubt
he even knew about him.”
      

I bet he did. “Trey’s just a nickname,
right? What’s his real name?”

“Walter. Like his father. Walter
Arlington Baxter, the third.”

No wonder he went by Trey.

Anxiety distressed Karen’s face. She
continued, “You aren’t going to tell him about Zander and Ashley, are you?
Trey? Or Walt and Mary Ann?”

“I don’t know.”

“They don’t have anything to do with
this. Please don’t.”

“They don’t know about Zander’s
problems?”

“They do. Well, some. They don’t know
how bad he’s gotten. Trey might.”

“I see. I won’t talk to them unless I
have to, I promise.” I thanked Karen for her time, and she repeated that she
didn’t see how any of this was going to be helpful. I didn’t either, but didn’t
say so.

On the drive to Grant’s apartment, I
thought about Trey. For someone who was squeaky clean, he sure hung out in some
strange places. Like Ashley’s apartment. And Kaleidoscope, where I’d seen him
with Lucas. Karen claimed he didn’t have the same “problem,” but I wondered.
Maybe he was just a recreational user. I’d seen people over the years who could
use drugs only on occasion, without spiraling down into the hole of hardcore
addiction that some did. If he used casually, could it be GHB?

I didn’t want to go back to Grant’s
apartment after what I’d done last night. My face burned every time I thought
about it. I had embarrassed myself. Embarrassed him. But this morning he’d
insisted I come back.

When I got to his place, I found he’d
ordered pizza again for dinner. So much for working on my diet. I vowed to do
better once this case was over. Whenever that was. After we ate, I studied my
list of suspects while Grant took care of some work on the phone.

I added
trey baxter
to the list, along with a question
mark. Looking at the list made my head go soft. I had no idea where to go next,
or what to do. Despite the confusion, I felt like I was onto something. But
what? What could Trey Baxter and Zander have to do with Jimmy? Damn it. What
was I missing?

What would a detective do? Look at
motive, for one. Only everyone on this list had that. A detective would also
look for opportunity.

Jimmy was my number one suspect. Chasing
me around with a knife definitely put him in the “killer” category. He had
motive if what Brandi said about his not wanting children was true. As Ashley’s
boyfriend, he had access to her apartment and could have put the drug in the
juice. What didn’t ring true was Ashley’s reaction to him. She’d gotten clean,
straightened her life out, and done it all for Michael. Why stand back and take
the heat for Jimmy if he was her son’s murderer? She wouldn’t have allowed it
to happen, and she wouldn’t forgive Jimmy if he was behind Michael’s death.
She’d be furious, not all lovey-dovey with him as she’d been lately.

Al Mackey wanted money, and could have
tried to kill both Ashley and Michael for the life insurance. He had access to
Ashley’s apartment. But could he have gotten his hands on GHB? He was lazy and
stupid, and somehow I doubted he had the connections to drug dealers. But Flash
did. So did Zander.

Would Zander kill his own child? In
order to save his family’s reputation? He had both motive and opportunity. That
led me to another question: Why now? Why did Michael, and possibly Ashley, have
to die now? Michael had graced this earth for two years before his death. If
Zander wanted to get rid of Michael, why not when he was first born? Or before.
Maybe he could have convinced Ashley to go through with the abortion.

Alexander and Karen Madison had found
out about Michael’s existence the Friday before his death. That might explain
the timing, why Michael died when he did. If they were going to get rid of him,
they’d do it as soon as possible. I hated to think it, but the Madisons were
now at the top of my list of suspects.