Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 03 - A Deadly Change of Heart (10 page)

“Yes
.  Detective Wright,” Sam said, showing him his badge.

“What’s on the tape?” Lawrence asked.

“We’ll all watch it together, if you don’t mind.  You’ll be interested, I’m sure,” Sam said.

Lawrence nodded toward his wife.  “The boys around?” he asked.

She frowned.  “I don’t know.  They may have gone out to get a pizza.  They said something about being hungry when I got home from work.”

“Well, go see,” he instructed her.  She gave him a concerned look, then left the room.

The home was exceptionally clean and neat for a household with teenagers and two working parents.  It looked almost unlived-in.  The only sign of human life was Mr. Lawrence’s jacket tossed over the back of the recliner.  I contemplated that for a while, then decided either Mrs. Lawrence was an overachiever, or she had a housekeeper.

When she returned without the boys, Lawrence told her to check the back yard.  Again, she flashed him a concerned, questioning look, then disappeared through a door.  Minutes later, she returned with the two boys from the video on her heels.

Josh and Jeremy looked very much the same as they did on the video.  Josh, the older son, was still pale with jet-black locks, skin-tight black clothes and silver symbols hanging from the chain around his neck.  Jeremy had apparently settled on a single color for his hair since the video was made.  Pink.  Hot pink.  His body piercing had been expanded to include rows of earrings down both ears, and a stud in his tongue.  The lizard tattoo was concealed under the sleeves of his oversized T-shirt.

The boys plopped down on the sofa.  Jeremy glanced at the faces around the room.  “What’s up?” he finally asked, wondering who the strangers were.

Sam asked to play the video.  We all watched together.  I studied the boys’ reactions.  They were not concerned in the least.  Mr. Lawrence, on the other hand, was sweating profusely.  Mrs. Lawrence gaped at the television, unable to form a coherent sentence.  Sam’s eyes were glued to the screen.  Even though I’d prepared him, he still seemed to be surprised by the tape.  When it was over, the boys were smiling.

Jeremy scooted to the edge of his seat.  “Cool.  Where’d you guys
find
it?  Someone stole it out of my locker before we could turn it in to Mr. Clayton,” he informed us.

I pictured a juvenile thief, breaking into lockers and taking anything that looked interesting.  When he saw what was on the tape, he must have developed something of a conscience and mailed it to the newspaper in hopes of exposing the Lawrence boys.

Sam shot a cold, hard stare at Jeremy.  “We’re not here to return stolen property.  It’s illegal to possess plutonium.  If we’re to believe this video is for real, I want to know where you got it.”

Jeremy laughed.  “Oh, man.  Mike’s dad has a bunch of it in his garage.  We just
—
“

“Shut up, Jeremy,” Josh hissed.

Jeremy frowned at his brother.  “But
—
“

Mr. Lawrence stood up.  “He’s right.  Shut up.  I don’t want to hear a word out of either of you.” 

“Karl,” Mrs. Lawrence snapped.  She’d finally managed to regain her voice.

“Go call Stan.  Now!” he ordered his wife.

“Stan?  Oh, Karl.  What’s happening?”

“Just do it!  I won’t discuss this anymore without talking to my lawyer first.”

Then the senior Lawrence marched over to his youngest son and lifted the sleeve of his T-shirt, exposing the evil-looking tattoo.  “When did you do this?”

I gawked at the scene.  The boy had a large tattoo on a part of his body that couldn’t have been concealed twenty-four hours a day, and his father was oblivious to it for at least a year.  On top of that, why was Mr. Lawrence suddenly concerned about a tattoo when he’d apparently ignored the pink hair, mutilated ears, eyebrows, and tongue?  Had he not noticed the bizarre appearance of his sons before?  The answer was clear.  He didn’t pay enough attention to know they were building nuclear bombs in the garage. 

And what about Mrs. Lawrence?  Was she too concerned with her career to pay attention to her family?  I often wonder why people have children they obviously are not interested in.  They think it’s a right, when in truth, it’s a responsibility.  It’s like people who get puppies, then abandon them in the backyard, or take them to the pound after they grow up because they’re not cute or entertaining anymore.  Maybe if every parent were accountable for the actions of their children, they’d take a more active role in making sure they produced decent human beings, instead of letting the
village
create potential monsters.

“Do you still have this bomb?” Sam asked.

Karl Lawrence shoved his pointed finger in both boys’ faces.  “Don’t say a word,” he ordered.

Sam raged.  “I can haul them both downtown and make life miserable.”

“Do it, and you’ll be hit with the biggest lawsuit your department has ever seen,” Karl Lawrence shot back.

“On what grounds?” Sam growled.

“Harassment.  Minors.  No evidence.  All you have is a video and it might all be fiction,” Lawrence replied.

Sam’s color turned deeper red.  I was concerned he might actually lose control and punch Mr. Lawrence in the stomach.

I decided to get involved in the conversation.  “I was talking to Mr. Clayton at your school today.  He watched the video.  He told me you boys are very bright
—
almost genius.  His concern was that your intelligence is not being channeled in a positive direction.  He also explained that the bomb you built is exactly what you claim
—
seventy million pounds of dynamite
—
but the manner in which you put it together makes it very unstable.  It’s extremely susceptible to barometric changes and sensitive to fluctuations in temperature and humidity.”  He, of course, said nothing of the sort, but I thought I could put a scare into one or both of the boys, or maybe even the mother.

Mrs. Lawrence shuddered.  “Karl?” she cried.

The boys exchanged glances with each other.

“If you boys are as smart as Mr. Clayton says, then you realize how dangerous it is to have that thing anywhere within miles of here.  Are you that smart?” I asked.

The previously cocky Jeremy had a change of heart.  Tears began streaming down his face.  “It’s in the garage!” he blurted before his father could shut him up.

Sam called for the bomb squad.  Within minutes, cars with flashing lights and squawking radios surrounded the house.

When the bomb experts finally appeared with the device, their report to Sam was clear.  It was for real.  The boys had actually built a nuclear device capable of destroying most of the city.

After the nuclear device had been removed and a string of yellow crime-scene tape put up around the house, Sam took me by the arm and led me to his car.

“Give me your keys,” he said.

I looked at him quizzically.  “What for?”

“So I can have one of the officers take your vehicle to the impound lot.”

“What?  Why?” I insisted.

“Because you’re coming with me to the lockup.”

“Lockup?”  I had the same sinking feeling I’d gotten the first time my mother made good on her promise to spank me just as soon as we got home if I didn’t stop doing gymnastics in the back seat of the car.

Sam hauled me to the police station, filled out an arrest report, had me fingerprinted, and locked me in a holding cell.  Three hours later, he returned, yanked me out of the cell and told me all charges were dropped and I could go home.  He handed me my keys and pointed me toward the door.

I was beyond boiling mad.  “How much did this little display of macho authority cost the taxpayers?” I snarled.

He drove his eyebrows together and shoved his finger at my face.  “Not as much as it will the next time, cause if it happens again, I’m throwing the book at you.  It won’t be a little slap on the wrist.  You’ll do real time.  Don’t you ever withhold evidence and put me in a position the way you did today.  Got it?”

I swallowed hard and nodded my head.  My mother’s tactic worked.  I never did another somersault in a car again.  Only time would tell if Sam’s punishment would stick.  

Chapter Ten

I
cursed under my breath when I skinned my knuckles trying to loosen the oil drain plug on the Explorer.  As I lay on my back under the vehicle, I watched the tires of Craig’s Lexus roll into the driveway.  I saw his feet land on the pavement and stroll over to where I was working. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, addressing my bare legs and deck-shoe
-
attired feet, which were the only parts of my body exposed from under the Sunkist-mobile.

“Changing the oil,” I replied.  “Hope you don’t mind me doing it in your driveway.  There’s not a good place at the marina for me to work on it.”

He squatted down and peered at me.  “Why?” he asked.

I continued loosening the bolt as I explained.  “My dad always told me to use synthetic oil in my cars.  Said it would make the engine last longer.”

He chuckled.  “No.  I mean why are you doing it yourself?  You can take it down to Speedy Oil and have it done in ten minutes.”

“Why would I want to pay someone to do something I can do myself?” I asked.  I scrambled to get the oil pan positioned under the stream of thick, black oil that poured out of the drain I’d just opened.  “Shoot,” I grumbled after I accidentally dropped the plug in the pan of dirty oil.  My knuckle stung where’d I’d peeled the skin off when the wrench slipped.  I scooted myself out from under the vehicle and rose to my feet.  I’d had the foresight to wear an old T-shirt, on its way to the ragbag, but hadn’t intended to ruin the denim shorts.  I grimaced at the large oil stain just below the right pocket.

Craig disregarded the greasy mess I was, and wrapped his arms around me.  “You’re right.  Why would you deny yourself this pleasure?”  He kissed my forehead, which was probably the only spot on my entire upper body that wasn’t covered in grease.

I gazed up at this ever-patient man I’d been so fortunate to find and smiled at him.  “Plus, I’m saving at least thirty dollars,” I added.

“Well, there you go.  You’re having an enjoyable experience, and you’re saving yourself the cost of a new pair of shorts and a Sea World T-shirt.”

I let out an embarrassed laugh.  “You’re right.  Next time, I’ll take it to the shop.  It’s just such a habit to try to save money.”

He winked at me.  “Are you about done?  I’ll fix us some dinner,” he offered.

“Just about.  I’ll get cleaned up and give you a hand.”

“Did you give the tape to Detective Wright?” he asked.

I bit my lip and wondered how much of my experiences that day I dared to reveal.  I decided the truth was always the best approach, but that didn’t mean the truth all at once.  “Yes,” I said and left it at that.  Someday, I’d tell him the rest, but I didn’t want him to worry unnecessarily.

We sat on the back deck and dined on prawns Craig had grilled on the barbeque.  We watched neighbors’ boats setting out from their docks toward the open sea.  Craig poured us each a glass of white wine.

“What did Detective Wright say about the video?” he asked.

“Not much.  One of the boys told us they’d gotten the plutonium from the garage of someone name Mike.  I offered to go over to the high school and search through the yearbooks for all the boys with that name.”

“Us?  You went with him to talk to the boys?” Craig questioned.

Oops.  I’d let that slip.  There was no way out.  I’d have to tell him the whole story.  He listened in silence as I described my day, finishing up with my three-hour stay at the police station in a holding cell.

Craig just shook his head and let out a chuckle.  “I’m marrying a grown-up Nancy Drew.”

I relaxed and joined in his amusement.  “Anyhow, he told me if I set one foot in that school, he’d personally lock me up and feed the key to his neighbor’s Rottweiler.”

“And you let that stop you?”

“I learned my lesson.  He’s not opposed to me helping, as long as I don’t put him a position like I did today,” I said, knowing full well that the man would keep his promise the next time.  The sun had moved so that I was no longer in the shade of the table’s umbrella.  I repositioned my chair closer to Craig.  “I’ve been thinking, and I’m definitely going to hyphenate.”

“Hyphenate?” he asked.

“Yeah.  You know.  Devonie Lace-Matthews.  What do you think?”

“Oh.  Right.  Lace-Matthews.  Sounds good,” he said, easily taking the new course of conversation in stride.

“A lot of women are doing that now, you know,” I said, almost as if I were defending my decision.

Craig nodded.  “I know.  Makes sense.  I can’t blame women today for not wanting to give up their identity.  You’ve got a mind of your own.”

I watched the sails fill on a beautiful boat as it glided past the private dock Craig shared with his neighbor.  “He never said anything about
you
not setting foot in the high school,” I said, switching to the original subject.

Craig eyed me over his sunglasses.  “We’re back on the case now?”

I finished the last swallow of my wine.  “We need to find out who Mike is.  The last thing Diane wrote in her notebook had to do with that video.  Maybe she’d uncovered something.  Maybe she found out about the plutonium, and if she did, maybe it got her killed.”

I waited in Craig’s car while he went into the school to look through the current yearbook.  It would be a tedious process and I felt guilty for asking him, but he wanted to help and it felt good to accept his aid.  He returned with a list of twenty-nine names.  We both stared at the list in silence, wondering what to do next.

“What’s our next move?” he asked.

I scratched my head.  “I didn’t think there’d be this many.  I guess the best thing would be to give the list to Sam.  If I tell him that I didn’t go in the school, and if you’re with me when I give it to him, maybe he’ll go easy on me.”

Craig started the car.  “Then we’re going to the police station?”

“Yeah.  I think it’s best.”

“Mind if we drive by the infamous bomb house?  I’m kind of curious,” Craig said.

“Sure.  Just take that street,” I said, pointing toward Pearl Street.  “That’ll take us by the Lawrence house.”

The deserted house was marked off with yellow tape all the way to the street.  Anyone walking on the sidewalk would have to detour.  Craig parked a couple houses away and we both stepped to the sidewalk. 

A little boy peddling a tricycle rang his bell at us to warn us not to get in his way as he rolled along the sidewalk.  We paused to let him pass.  He stopped and studied us.  I grinned at him.  He was about five years old, wearing a green and white striped T-shirt and faded blue jeans with grass stains on both knees.  He had a mass of curly red hair and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose.  A large Band-Aid covered his left elbow.

“You can’t go inside that yellow tape,” he warned us.  “The police will get you if you do.  You might go to jail.”

“Is that right?” Craig responded. 

“Yep.  My dad told me so,” he said.

“Well, we for sure’ll stay away from the yellow tape then,” Craig assured him.

“That’s good.  What’s your name?” he asked, pointing toward me. 

“Devonie,” I answered.  “And this is Craig.”

“Devonie?  I never heard that name before.  How come that’s your name?”

“’Cause that’s what my parents named me.  What’s your name?”

“Mike,” he said, smiling proudly.

I looked down the street at the rows of mailboxes.  “Mike?  That’s a nice name.  Do you live here?” I asked, pointing toward the house next to the Lawrence’s.

“No.  I live over there,” he said, pointing toward a two-story, three houses down.

I squinted at the name on the mailbox.  Campbell.  “Is your name Mike Campbell?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“That’s a really neat name.  Is your dad’s name Mike Campbell, too?”

He shot me a look as if I’d just suggested something as stupid as naming a cat Rover.  “No.  His name’s Ralph Campbell.”

“Oh.  That’s a nice name, too,” I told him.

A woman’s voice called Mike from the Campbell house, though she never stepped out the door to see what the little boy was up to. 

“I gotta go,” Mike said as he did a u-turn and peddled his trike down the sidewalk toward his house.

Craig and I exchanged glances. 

“It’s a long shot,” he said.

“I know, but I’ve got a feeling,” I said as I quickly got back into the car and pulled the phone out of my purse.  Craig slid into the driver’s seat.

I dialed information and asked for San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station.  The operator put my call through and a receptionist answered.

“Would it be possible to speak with Ralph Campbell?” I requested.

“One moment, please,” she replied.

A minute later, a man’s voice came on the line.  “This is Ralph Campbell.”

I hung up.  “Pay dirt,” I said to Craig.

My next call was to Sam Wright.

“I found him,” I blurted into the phone.

Sam was confused.  “Found who?” he asked.

“Mike,” I answered, excited.

“How?”

“He lives three houses down from the Lawrence’s.  He’s a five-year-old kid,” I explained.

“Five?  Just because the kid’s name is Mike doesn’t mean it’s the Mike we’re looking for.  You know how many Mikes there are in the world?” he argued.

“Yeah.  But how many live three houses down from the Lawrence boys and have a father who works at San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station?”

Sam was silent.  I wondered if I lost the connection.  “Did you hear me?  I said
—
“

“I heard you,” he interrupted.  “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes.  His name’s Ralph Campbell.  I just called SONGS and asked to talk to him.  He’s for real,” I assured Sam.

“You’d better be, because I’m going to use the special circumstances and your statement to convince a judge to give me a search warrant.  If you’re wrong, I’ll personally
—
“

“I know.  I know.  You’ll lock me up and feed the key to your neighbor’s Rottweiler.”

“No.  I’ll feed
you
my neighbor’s Rottweiler.  Got that?” he threatened.

I replayed the last ten minutes over in my mind.  Yes, the boy’s name was Mike.  Yes, his father’s name was Ralph Campbell.  Yes, he confirmed his name when I called him at the SONGS plant.  How much trouble could I be in if I were wrong?  How much trouble could Sam be in if I were wrong?  “I got it.  How soon can you get here?” I asked.

Sam must have a friend at the courthouse.  He had a search warrant in less than an hour.  When he arrived, he insisted Craig and I stay in our car.  We agreed to cooperate
in order
to avoid another trip to the lockup, although I did ask Craig to turn the car around and get a little closer so I could watch. 

Mrs. Campbell read the papers Sam handed her, gathered Mike up, and shooed him into the house.  She spoke into a portable phone as she watched the proceedings from the front porch.  I could see her face was troubled. 

When Sam rolled up the garage door, Craig let out a low whistle.  “That’s a forty-six,” he said, admiring the shiny car sitting on the concrete.  “Convertible.  Completely restored.  Must be worth about eighty grand,” Craig speculated.

I gawked at Craig.  I had no idea he knew about such things.  “Eighty grand?  You sure?” I asked.

“Pretty sure.  I’ve seen a few sold on that roadster auction show.  Always amazes me how much people will pay for some of those old restored cars.”

I shook my head and turned my attention back to the activity in front of the Campbell house.

The Hazmat team suited up and marched into the garage. 

From my vantage, I could see two Harley-Davidson motorcycles and a pair of Wave Runners on a trailer.  I gazed at the brand new motor home sitting in the RV parking space next to the house. 

“Expensive toys for a working
man,” I said.  I
wondered what Ralph Campbell did
at SONGS that
allowed him to
afford these luxuries.

A red Corvette pulled into the driveway just as the leader of the Hazmat team emerged from the garage carrying what I assumed was a Geiger counter.  Sam conversed with the heavily-suited man, but I couldn’t make out the words. 

The man in the Corvette jumped out of his car and rushed up the driveway.  “What are you doing?” he yelled.  Sam grabbed him by the arm and stopped him from entering the garage.  The Hazmat man pointed to some gauges on the contraption he held, and I could tell by the expression on Sam’s face that it wasn’t good news.

Sam handcuffed the Corvette man and loaded him into the back of a police car.  Mrs. Campbell cried as she spoke frantically into her portable phone.