Seconds Away (3 page)

CHAPTER 4

It began with
a hard knock on the door.

I had been dreaming about my mother and father. We were somewhere I’d never been in real life—my mother, the legendary Kitty Bolitar, was playing tennis.

Before she got pregnant, my seventeen-year-old mother was the top-ranked amateur female tennis player in the world. She quit tennis to have me. And she never played again.

Weird, right?

In the dream, Mom is on center court playing in some big-time match. The crowd is huge. I sit in the stands next to my dad, but he doesn’t see me. Dad just gazes lovingly at my mother on the court. They had been so happy, my parents. Most adult couples with kids, well, they aren’t like that. Sure, they eat together and go to the movies and all that, but they seem to rarely make eye contact. They just occupy the same space, but maybe there’s a comfort in that, I don’t know.

But it was different with my parents. They never took their eyes off each other, as though no one else existed, as though they’d just fallen in love that very morning, as though they were ready to sprint across a field of daisies and embrace with some corny music playing in the background.

Yes, as their son, I can tell you that it was mortifying.

I always assumed I’d find love like that. But now I don’t want it. It isn’t healthy. It makes you too dependent. You smile when they smile. You laugh when they laugh. But when they stop laughing, so do you.

And when they die, a part of you dies too.

That’s what happened to my mother.

In my dream, my mother hits a cross-court winner with a whiplike forehand.

The crowd screams.

A voice says, “Game, set, match . . . Kitty Bolitar!”

My mom flings her racket in the air. The crowd rises to its feet. My dad stands and claps and has tears in his eyes. I try to stand and clap too, but I can’t. It’s as though I’m glued to the chair. I look up at my father. He smiles down at me, but suddenly he starts floating away.

“Dad?”

I struggle, but I still can’t get up. He’s floating toward the sky. My mom joins him. They both wave for me to follow them. Mom calls out to me.

“Hurry, Mickey!”

But I still can’t move.

“Wait!” I shout.

But they keep floating away. I put both hands on the armrests and try to will myself up. But I’m trapped. My parents are still in sight, but they are so far away now.

I will never reach them. I take a deep breath and try one more time to stand.

That is when I realize that I’m being held down.

There is a hand on my shoulder. The hand is strong. It locks me in place.

“Let me go!”

But the hand’s grip tightens. I spin all the way around and there, standing over me, with that same hope-crushing expression on his face, is the green-eyed, sandy-blond paramedic.

More knocks on the door.

The paramedic vanished. So did my parents.

I was back in my basement bedroom. My heart pounded. I sucked down air and tried to calm myself. The knocking grew louder.

Why hadn’t Myron answered?

I rolled out of bed and climbed the steps.

More impatient knocks.

“I’m coming,” I shouted.

Where was Myron?

I reached the front door. I knew I should have asked who it was, but I just opened it. Two policemen in full uniform stood there.

I took a step back.

“Mickey Bolitar?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Officer McDonald. This is Officer Ball.”

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“There’s been a shooting. We need you to come with us.”

CHAPTER 5

For a moment
I couldn’t speak. When I found my voice, I said, “My uncle?”

The one named Ball said, “Excuse me?”

“Myron Bolitar. My uncle. Was he the one who was shot?”

Ball looked at McDonald. Then he turned to me and said, “No.”

“Then who?”

“We aren’t at liberty to discuss the case with you, son.”

“I need to ask my uncle.”

“Pardon?”

I started up the stairs. The two officers stepped inside too.

“Myron?” I called out.

No answer.

I entered his bedroom. Myron’s bed was empty. I checked his bedside clock. It was seven
A.M
. I guessed that Myron had woken up earlier and left without telling me. That wasn’t like him.

I came back down the stairs.

“Are you ready to come with us?” Ball asked.

“Am I a suspect?”

“How old are you, son?”

“Almost sixteen.”

“You really need to come with us.”

I didn’t know what to do, but really, what choice did I have?

“Let me throw on some clothes,” I said.

I hurried down to the basement. My cell phone was blinking. I checked for messages. There were two. The first was from Ema. She had sent it at 4:17
A.M
. Did that girl ever sleep? Ema:
we need to find the paramedic who wheeled away your dad. I have an idea.

Man, I wanted to know what it was, but it would have to wait.

The second text was from Myron:
Had to leave early and didn’t want to wake you. Have a good day.

Terrific. I tried to call Myron’s cell, but it went straight into voice mail. When the beep sounded, I said, “The cops are here. They want to take me . . .” I stopped. Where did they want to take me anyway? “To the station, I guess. They won’t tell me what’s going on. Call me when you get this, okay?”

I hung up.

Ball yelled down the stairs, “Son, we really need to hurry.”

I threw on some clothes and headed back up. Two minutes later, I sat in the back of a police cruiser as we pulled down the street.

• • •

“Where are you taking me?” I asked.

McDonald drove. Ball sat next to him. Neither replied.

“I asked—”

“It would be best if you were just patient.”

I didn’t like this.

“Who was shot?” I asked.

McDonald turned around. He narrowed his eyes. “How did you know someone was shot?”

I didn’t like his tone.

“Uh, you told me,” I said. “When I opened the door.”

“I said this was about a shooting. I didn’t say someone was shot.”

I was going to make a dumb wisecrack—something about how I must be clairvoyant—but fear was starting to take over. I stayed quiet. Up ahead I could see the Kasselton police station. I remembered my last visit there, two nights ago, and now I also recalled that Police Chief Taylor hated Myron and thus by extension me.

But the squad car drove straight past the station.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I think you’ve asked enough questions. Just hang on.”

CHAPTER 6

Fifteen minutes later
, I sat in what had to be an interrogation room in a Newark police station. A small woman came in and sat across from me. She wore a tasteful suit, and her hair was pinned up in a bun. I guessed she was about thirty.

She stuck out her hand and I shook it.

“I’m homicide county investigator Anne Marie Dunleavy,” she said.

Homicide?

“Uh, I’m Mickey Bolitar,” I said.

“Thanks for coming in to talk to us.”

She took out a pen and made a production out of clicking the top. The door opened behind her. When I looked toward it, my heart sank. Chief Taylor stomped into the room as though the floor had offended him. He wore his police uniform and, despite being indoors and in fairly dim light, aviator sunglasses.

I waited for Chief Taylor to say something sarcastic to me. He didn’t. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. I looked back toward Dunleavy.

“I’m underage, you know,” I said.

“Yes, we know. Why?”

“Are you allowed to question me without my guardian present?”

She flashed a quick smile, but there was no warmth in it. “You watch too much TV. If you were a suspect in a crime, it might be different. As it is, we just need to ask you some questions. Is that okay?”

I wasn’t sure what to say, but I settled for, “I guess so.”

“Who is your legal guardian?”

“My mother.”

Uncle Myron had wanted to be, but that had been part of the deal. I would live with him under the condition that my mother, despite being in rehab, remained my sole legal guardian.

“If you insist, we can call her.”

“No,” I said quickly. That would be the last thing Mom’s already fragile psyche would need. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked.

I was going to say that it had something to do with a “shooting,” but that assumption hadn’t helped much in the car.

“No.”

“No idea at all?”

So much for that play. “Well, the officer said it had something to do with a shooting.”

“It does. In fact, two people were shot.”

“Who?”

“Is there anything you can tell us about it?”

“About what?”

“About the shooting?”

“I don’t even know who was shot.”

Dunleavy looked at me skeptically. “Really?”

“Really.”

“You have no idea?”

Chief Taylor remained silent. I didn’t like that. I looked at him and even from this distance I could see my reflection in his sunglasses.

“Of course I have no idea,” I said. “Who was shot?”

She changed the subject. “Can you tell us where you were last night?”

I didn’t like where this was going. I risked another glance at Chief Taylor. He stood with his arms crossed.

“I was home.”

“When you say home—”

“The house where you picked me up.”

“You’re staying with your uncle, is that right? Myron Bolitar?”

At the mention of my uncle, Chief Taylor winced a little.

“I am, yes.”

She nodded and wrote something down. “So tell me what you did last night.”

“I did some homework. Watched some TV. Read a book.”

“Was your uncle home?”

“No, he was out.”

“Where?”

“He didn’t say.”

“And when did he come home?”

“I don’t know. I fell asleep.”

“What time would this have been?”

“What time did I fall asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Around eleven,” I said.

Dunleavy jotted that down too. “And your uncle still wasn’t home?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know for sure. My bedroom is in the basement and I had the door closed.”

“Doesn’t he check on you when he comes home?”

“Usually, yes.”

“But not last night.”

“Unless he came down while I was sleeping.”

She made another note.

“What else did you do last night?”

“That’s it.”

She finally glanced behind her at Chief Taylor. Chief Taylor recrossed his arms and gave me a tough-guy stare.

“What?” I said.

“Did you talk or text with anyone?” Dunleavy asked.

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“Both.”

Chief Taylor spoke for the first time. “And yet you didn’t mention that, did you, Mickey?”

“Excuse me?”

“Investigator Dunleavy asked what you did last night. You gave her some song and dance about homework and TV—but you said nothing about texting and talking. That seems kind of suspicious, don’t you think?”

“I also made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” I said. “I took a shower. The shampoo I used was Pert.”

Chief Taylor didn’t like that. “A wise guy, just like his uncle. Are you being a wise guy with an officer of the law, Mickey?”

I was. I could be stupid with my mouth sometimes, but I’m usually not suicidal. So I stopped.

Dunleavy put a hand on Chief Taylor’s arm. “I think he was trying to make a point, Chief. Weren’t you, Mickey?”

Maybe I did indeed watch too much TV, but even if I hadn’t, this felt a whole lot like a good-cop bad-cop routine. Chief Taylor gave me one more hard frown and went back to the wall. He leaned against it as though it might fall without him.

“Let’s start with your talks,” Dunleavy said. “Did you talk to someone in person or via the phone or what?”

I swallowed. What was going on here? “Via the phone.”

“And with whom did you speak?”

“Just a friend.”

“Her name?”

Her. Interesting. How did she know it wasn’t a “his”?

“Her name,” I said, “is Rachel Caldwell.”

She was staring hard down at the paper, but I saw something I didn’t like in the way her body sort of jerked at the sound of Rachel’s name.

My blood went cold.

“Oh no . . . ,” I heard myself say.

“Did Ms. Caldwell call you or did you call her?”

“Is it Rachel? Is she okay?”

“Mickey—”

“What happened?”

“Yo, kid.”

I glared into Chief Taylor’s sunglasses, again seeing my own reflection.

“Pipe down. You’re here to answer our questions, not the other way around. Got it?”

I said nothing.

“Got it?” he repeated.

Not. One. Word.

“Mickey?” Dunleavy cleared her throat. She had the pen ready. “Did you call Ms. Caldwell or did she call you?”

My head spun. I tried to put it together. What was going on? Suddenly Rachel’s words came back to me:

I have to take care of something.

What had she meant by that?

“Mickey?”

I found my voice. “Um, Rachel called me.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, no. I had texted her first. Then she called me back.”

I quickly filled her in on the brief text exchange. I also told her that I had texted Spoon, but they had no interest in that. Whatever had happened . . .

. . . shooting . . . two people shot . . . homicide . . .

. . . involved Rachel.

“So after your texts, Ms. Caldwell called you back?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what time this was?”

“Maybe nine.”

“The phone records tell us it was 9:17
P.M
.”

They had already checked the phone records.

“That sounds right,” I said.

“So what did you two talk about?”

“I was just checking in on her. We had an ordeal on Wednesday. You probably know about that.”

They said nothing.

“So I was making sure that she was okay, saying hi, that kind of thing. We also have a project due in school. I thought we could talk about that.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you talk about the project?”

“Not really, no.”

“How long have you known Rachel Caldwell?”

“Not long. I just started at the school—”

Chief Taylor jumped back in. “We didn’t ask when you started at the school. We asked—”

“I don’t know exactly. I don’t think we talked before maybe a week ago.”

“Not a long time.”

“Yes, not a long time.” I was getting scared—and when I get scared, I have a habit of getting angry and even sarcastic. So I added, “See, that’s what I meant when you asked, ‘How long have you known Rachel Caldwell?’ and I replied, ‘Not long.’ Sorry I didn’t make that clear.”

They didn’t like that. Neither did I.

“And yet you were both here in Newark on Wednesday,” Dunleavy said. “Involved in that mess at the Plan B nightclub, is that correct?”

“It is.”

“Interesting. Have you met Rachel Caldwell’s father?”

That question threw me. “No.”

“How about her mother?”

“No.”

“Any family member?”

“No. Please. What’s going on? Is Rachel okay?”

“Tell us about your phone conversation with Rachel Caldwell.”

“I already did.”

“From the beginning. Word for word.”

“I don’t understand. Why do you need to know word for word?”

“Because,” Homicide Investigator Dunleavy said, “right after you finished talking to her, someone shot Rachel Caldwell in the head.”