Splintered (5 page)

Two houses down from Maddy’s bus stop, a white-haired old lady in a housecoat sat in a wicker chair on her front porch. The patrol cop’s notes stated that he’d knocked on her door at 8:10 a.m., but that there had been no answer.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

“Oh, yes. How can I help you?” The old lady fussed with the material of her floral housecoat, straightening it at the sides. Her shoulders bowed over slightly, like the small hump on her back was too heavy to keep her petite frame upright.

“I’m Detective Terrance Wallace with the Temple Terrace Police Department. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Surely. How ’bout you come up here and sit a spell?”

Wallace pushed open a rusty chain-link fence gate and took a seat next to the woman. She introduced herself as Mrs. Addie Alexander and insisted he call her Addie. “Earlier this morning a police officer came by, Addie, but no one answered—”

“That’s right. I don’t open my door for strangers,” she said proudly.

“That’s a good rule to live by, Addie.” Wallace was glad she’d been sitting on her porch—he may never have gotten to talk to her otherwise. “This morning there was an attempted abduction of a girl at the corner bus stop. Did you happen to see anything?”

“Good gracious, an attempted abduction. Is the girl okay?”

“Yes, she broke free. Did you happen to see anyone suspicious in the neighborhood this morning or these past few days?”

“Suspicious, yes.”

Wallace readied his pen over his notebook. “Can you tell me what you saw?”

Addie brought a finger to her lips, patted the wrinkled skin, seemingly searching her memory.

“Did you happen to see a vehicle parked on your street or at the corner that didn’t look like it belonged?” Wallace prompted.

“A vehicle, yes. I saw a suspicious vehicle.”

“Can you describe it?”

Again, Addie quieted down.

“Mom, are you still on the porch?” The screen door opened and a woman poked her head out. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize she was visiting with a neighbor.”

“No, ma’am. I’m Detective Wallace. I’m asking Mrs. Alexander about an incident that happened in the neighborhood this morning. Do you live here?”

“Me? No, but I come over every evening after work to stay with her for a few hours. A hired companion stays with her during the day. She arrives at nine o’clock. Were you asking Mom about what she saw?”

“Yes, it seems she witnessed a suspicious vehicle in the neighborhood, but she can’t quite remember it clearly enough to give a description.”

The younger woman chuckled, but quickly stifled it with a hand to her mouth. “Sorry, but it wouldn’t matter if a man came into the house with a bomb strapped to his body. She wouldn’t remember it. She has Alzheimer’s, detective. If you ask her about something that happened twenty years ago she can describe it in vivid detail, but inquire about an event she experienced this morning and she’ll turn into a parrot.”

“Excuse me? A parrot.”

“When she’s in this dementia state, which seems to be happening more often than not, she’ll simply repeat back what you say to her.” The daughter turned to her mother. “Mom, did you see a redheaded girl skiing down the sidewalk today?”

“A redhead skiing, yes.”

“See? I’m afraid she wouldn’t make a very reliable witness. Every once in a while she’ll have a good day, but I’m afraid this isn’t one of them. I’m sorry to waste your time.”

Wallace said his good-byes and continued canvassing the neighborhood. No one he talked to reported seeing a white van on the street, but they provided Wallace with a list of companies that performed services regularly—everyone from exterminators to home-repair businesses. All the while, the good folks pumped him for details of the alleged crime. A crime they couldn’t believe had been committed on their street. Some of the neighbors asked out of concern for their own families, while others merely displayed a morbid curiosity. The rumors swirling around the neighborhood had blown up by epic proportions. Marie Delacroix, who lived directly across from the Eastins, spun Wallace’s favorite tale: she had heard a girl had been kidnapped because her father worked for the CIA, and that the men were holding her hostage until the government released a captured terrorist from Guantanamo Bay.

Tomorrow Wallace would contact the list of local businesses the neighbors provided to create a timeline for when employees had been in the neighborhood. He’d go back at least a couple of months in case the men had been casing the house, planning the abduction. He’d also find out what personal vehicles the employees drove. Most people were immune to seeing a work van parked in the street. They hardly gave it a second glance. Especially in the daytime. He doubted if any of the neighbors would turn out to be reliable witnesses.

Wallace knocked on the front door of the house across the street from Maddy Eastin’s corner bus stop. When no one answered, Wallace rang the bell a couple of times. He heard an angry male voice holler something about impatient imbeciles always trying to sell him things he didn’t want.

A man swung the door open. “Whatever it is you’re sellin’, I’m not interested. I only got up out of my chair because it didn’t sound like you was goin’ away anytime soon. Now get outta here.” A permanent scowl seemed etched onto the old guy’s face. He had more white hair coming out of his ears than on top of his head, where a few tufts still managed to hold on.

“Pardon the interruption, sir. My name is Detective Wallace. I’m not here to sell you anything. I’m with the Temple Terrace Police Department, and I need to ask you a few questions about an attempted abduction on your street this morning.”

“So that was the cause of all the commotion?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, what was your name?”

“Why are you sorry? You didn’t even ask me my name. It’s not like you asked and then forgot what I told ya. Sheesh. George. George Lumpkin.”

The man grabbed his lower back in obvious pain. His other hand firmly gripped a cane, and was clearly balancing most of his weight on it.

“Are you okay, sir? Why don’t we sit?”

“Damn sciatica. It don’t matter if I’m sittin’ or standin’, the pain’s all the same. But if you want to plop yourself down, come follow me.”

George Lumpkin led Wallace deeper into his house. Once he reached a well-loved chair, he exhaled a big puff of air and fell back into it. He clicked off the television as Wallace sat in the only other chair in the room, a brown metal folding chair.

“Officer Santos told me you weren’t home when he came around to talk to all the neighbors this morning.”

“Nope. On Mondays I head over to Denny’s to meet with my buddies. When I pulled out of the garage, I could barely make it through the throng of people millin’ around.”

“So you haven’t talked to any of your neighbors about it?”

“Ain’t none of my business.”

“Mr. Lumpkin, did you happen to see any vehicles parked outside your house early this morning?”

“In front or on the side of the house?”

“Either.”

“I reckon so.”

Excitement built inside Wallace. He wondered if this would be ‘the lead.’ There was always one lead in a case, the one that started all the dominos falling. “Do you remember what time?”

“I have no idea. Not like I live my life by a watch. Not anymore. When I can’t stand to be in bed any longer, I get up and have my coffee. It’s impossible to sleep anymore with this damn sciatica. I remember taking the trash to the curb. Later, after I read the paper, I decided to throw it away before the truck arrived. Doctor’s always bitchin’ at me to move around more. It hadn’t come yet, so I put the paper in the garbage can. That’s when I noticed a van, thought it was broken down. It looked like it was on its last legs.”

“Do you remember the make and model, maybe the color?”

“Why would I? It had nothing to do with me. Anyway, it was still dark out.”

“You have a clear view of the corner bus stop from your front door and west window. Did you happen to notice a girl waiting for her bus this morning?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, Mr. Lumpkin. Can you give me a list of anyone who’s done work at your house? Maybe a bug guy or a lawn service?”

“Social security don’t cover none of that. A neighbor boy down the way cuts the lawn for me. Little punk’s jacked up the prices twice on me. Now I gotta shell out six bucks every time he starts that piece of crap lawn mower of his. Oughta be a crime. Extortion, that’s what it is. That’s the crime you need to look into.”

The glamorous life of a detective. Nothing like how the TV crime dramas portray it.

Wallace spent much of his time interviewing “witnesses,” though he thought they should be called “people who never seem to witness anything.” These people usually fell into one of two camps. The first saw the police interview as an excuse to complain about someone in their lives. A person who’d invariably committed a small infraction against them that they felt should be punishable by law. The other group was just as bad. They wanted to tell their life stories instead of answer Wallace’s questions.

As he stood to leave, he glanced around the house one last time. Though run down, the place looked immaculate. “Who cleans your house, Mr. Lumpkin?”

Hopefully the housekeeper is able to squeeze more than six bucks out of the old guy.

“No one.”

“Come on, now. You can barely walk. Never mind bend over to pick up something off the floor.”

Lumpkin seemed on the up-and-up. He seemed like the kind of guy who would give an uncensored version even if Wallace didn’t want to hear it. In an interview, Wallace always had one ear listening to the story the person told and the other trained on what the person neglected to say. An avoided topic could often be more telling than anything said aloud.

“Mr. Lumpkin, if you’ve got an illegal coming in here working for you, I don’t want to jam her up, but I do need to talk to her. She could have seen the vehicle in question.”

Or a relative of hers could have come back to the neighborhood after taking an unhealthy interest in Maddy.

Ignoring Wallace, Lumpkin started inspecting one of the many liver spots on his arm.

Wallace figured the man’s hesitancy to talk might be due to his apprehension about having to find a replacement housekeeper who’d work as cheap—he doubted it had anything to do with caring about the woman’s livelihood. “Mr. Lumpkin?”

George looked up and glared at him. “Juanita. Juanita Alvarez. She brings me groceries and cleans my house twice a week.”

“I’ll be fine, Mom. Really.”

Standing in the kitchen Tuesday morning, Maddy and her mom were engaging in a battle of wills.

Mom has that look . . .

Hands perched on her hips, head slightly cocked. Her eyes expressed skepticism—she was probably thinking Maddy was up to something.

“Are you sure?” Lily said. “Because I can stay home. After what happened yesterday, I don’t want you here all by yourself.”

“You need to go to work, Mom. You already missed yesterday. Mr. Fahey is a ball-breaker—

Lily shot Maddy a new look, one that made her daughter think better of finishing her sentence.

“Your words, not mine,” Maddy said. “He’ll fire you if you miss too much work. Anyway, I already called Sabrina. She’s on the mend, but her mom’s making her stay home one more day just to make sure she’s over her bug. Sabrina said she’d love it if I could come over and keep her company.”

A bit of an overstatement, but her mom didn’t need to know that.

Lily rubbed her temples. “That’s all I need, you walking around this neighborhood by yourself.”

“Sabrina only lives three houses down. I think I can make it without being kidnapped.”

“Don’t even joke.” Practicality won out. Lily grabbed her purse and keys off the counter. When she leaned in to Maddy to give her a kiss good-bye, Maddy turned her face away.

Lily sighed and headed toward the door. “When you walk to Sabrina’s, make sure you have your phone on and in your hand.”

Yeah, great plan. If the bad guys show up, I’ll call 911. And while I’m waiting for the cops, I’ll throw the phone at them.

Maddy nodded. “Promise.” After her mom left, Maddy locked the door behind her and then fell back against it with a loud exhale.

She was amazed at how smothering a parent could be—even when they were in another room. The night before, Maddy had awakened to sounds of crying coming from the living room. That’s where her mom bunked, because their dive only had one bedroom. The pain filling her mom’s cries ripped at Maddy until she finally couldn’t take it anymore and she jammed earbuds in her ears. She would never understand adults. During the day, her mom acted all frosty, rarely showing any emotion. Then alone at night, the way she acted made it seem like she really was upset about the attack.

Why can’t she just tell me she loves me?

Maddy putzed around the house for a few hours, not wanting to seem anxious by showing up at Sabrina’s house too early. Her resolve finally broke down just before lunch and she headed out, her phone tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. She knew her mom would call to check up on her, and the last thing she wanted was for her to rush home if Maddy didn’t answer right away.

Sometimes it’s hard to breathe with all this hovering.

As Maddy walked down the sidewalk, warring emotions battled inside her. On one hand, she wanted her mom to grab her and wrap her in her arms so tightly that she couldn’t break free. Yet when her mom did show tenderness, like this morning with the attempted kiss, Maddy felt so angry she wanted to turn away.

Why do I do that?

Maddy vaulted up Sabrina’s porch steps and rang the doorbell. She tapped her foot, waiting for an answer.

Sabrina opened the door but leaned up against the frame, blocking the entrance. “Hey.”

“Hey, Sabrina. You’re looking better.”

“Yeah, I could have gone back to school today, but I talked The Mom into one more day of rest.” Sabrina let out a chest-racking cough but then smiled, letting Maddy in on the act she had played out that morning.