Stranger in the Room: A Novel (8 page)

“You’re a freak.” I smiled.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?”

I touched his rough cheek. “You better.”

Loud voices from the outer room drew our attention. Through the glass walls we saw Miki with Balaki, Williams, Velazquez, Bevins, and Angotti from Homicide and a handful of other detectives, some I recognized vaguely from Robbery. Some I didn’t know at all. A few uniformed cops had joined the mix, all of them looking up at the wall-mounted screen at the head of the detective cubes. I followed their eyes and saw Steven T. Wriggles slapping himself in the face
with the handcuffs, then my own image leaping out of the way of his filthy finger. My Glock came out. It ended with me telling Wriggles, “I’m not letting that nose of yours in my car.” Text shimmied across the screen:
Booger Bandit Bounty Hunter
. The room came apart.

“She is
so
kicked out,” I murmured.

Rauser’s phone rang. He pulled it from a back pocket, listened for a minute. “What kind?” he asked. “Frank, give me the short version.” He waited. “Well, can we get a profile?” He waited some more, let go of a half growl, half sigh, returned the phone to his pocket. “Loutz,” he said, meaning Fulton County’s medical examiner. “Forensic light source picked up some kind of fluid on the Delgado boy’s skin. ME’s gotta send it to the lab.”

“Where was it?”

“Left shoulder and the side of his neck.”

“The boy was on his stomach,” I said. “So this happened while the offender was behind him, probably on top of him during the murder.”

“Or after,” Rauser said.

“Was Frank able to exclude anything?”

“He’s knows it’s not blood.”

“In this heat and from that position, sweat would be a good bet. Saliva.”

“Semen or urine,” Rauser added. “They found it by accident. Some kind of fluorescently labeled dye one of the techs had, something they don’t use on skin, ended up on the body. It’s for eyes or something. UV picked up drops and spatter from the fluid under the dye. Frank said it lit up like a Christmas tree.”

“When will you know?”

Rauser chewed his lip. “We send everything out now. GBI is back-logged, even on priority cases. Budget cuts have been unreal. Everybody wants smaller government. Well, this is what you get.” He blew out air and tension. “Jesus, I want a cigarette.”

Rauser had quit smoking last Thanksgiving, but he had not stopped wanting one. He pulled a packet of nicotine gum from his pocket. “Can you believe I’m eating this pansy shit?”

  
7

I
picked Neil up at his house in Cabbagetown, an old mill workers’ district turned hip. I hoped we’d be able to function without drawing too much attention to ourselves up in Creeklaw County. Okay, so it’s rural North Georgia, I’m Chinese, and Neil’s a ’60s beach movie on downs. But, hey, it could happen. It was our first road trip together. In the past, Neil had shown only sporadic interest in anything beyond his job description, whatever that was. He seemed to always be tweaking it. I’m never quite sure what will pique his curiosity. Apparently cement mix, chicken feed, and dead people do it for him. That and too many girlfriends.

I glanced over at him in the passenger’s seat looking down at the phone in his hands. This was normal—busy thumbs on tiny keys, a downy coating on slender knuckles that looked like corn silk in the bright sunlight. He might have been Tweeting or stealing the formula for Coca-Cola or making the garage doors in his neighborhood go up and down. One can never be sure where Neil’s perpetual boredom and freakishly overdeveloped technological skills will lead him.

We took I-85 North out of the city with the top down in my old Impala, sped past exit ramps with office parks, chain restaurants, furniture outlets, and shopping malls that became sparse as we moved farther north toward rolling farmland and orchards and long stretches of forests.

We split off on 985 and crossed Lake Lanier on 129. I pulled into a filling station. I needed to suck it up and call my mother, and I knew she would not appreciate the background noise of my convertible. Neil lifted his head, took in our surroundings briefly—gas pumps, convenience store, racks of propane tanks for rent—and went back to his phone.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Keye? What’s wrong?”

I floundered. “I just thought I’d say hi.” Neil looked at me.

I heard the screen door open at my parents’ house. I’d heard it a million times, same door, the one going to the back deck. My father had cans of WD-40 in strategic locations, one just outside the door my mother had pushed open, and he could quiet creaky hardware in the wink of an eye—a quick-draw Clint Eastwood with an oil can and a flathead screwdriver.

“Howard, it’s your daughter calling to say hi. Do you remember the last time she called
just
to say hi?” An indecipherable grunt from my father. “No you don’t, because your daughter
never
calls
just
to say hi.” The hinges squeaked again. Mother was back inside. “I swear I don’t know why I even bother to speak to him. He’s so full of himself lately. Ever since he sold another one of those metal sculptures. And to an art gallery, Keye. Can you imagine? For thousands of dollars! Now all he says are things like
target audience
and
the World Wide Web
. Lord help us.” Mother’s buttery southern accent was heating up. Emily Street always became more southern when she was in the middle of transforming herself—outrage, courage, martyrdom, offense—Mother deftly seized any opportunity. She was a born actress. “I’ve got your father out on the deck right now blistering some poblanos. Might as well put that torch to good use.”

“Mother, he’s getting thousands a pop for his sculptures. It sounds like he’s putting it to work just fine.”

“Thousands a pop? I swear, Keye. Where did you learn to talk like that?” She paused. “You’re going somewhere dangerous, aren’t you? That’s why you’re calling. No, don’t tell me.”

“It’s not dangerous.”

“You always say that. What kind of riffraff are you chasing after this time?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“We’ve told everyone you’ll be here with Aaron for the big neighborhood barbeque.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. Rauser has an impossible caseload right now. And I really needed to take this job up north.”

“Well, at least his work is important.”

“There goes another year of therapy.”

Mother fake laughed. “Oh please! You are not that fragile, Keye. And why do you have to call him Rauser? Why can’t you call him by his name? I’ll tell you why. Because
Rauser
is impersonal. It’s exactly like Dan said. You have a problem with intimacy.”
Zing
. Score one—Dan, ex-husband, sensitive area. Intimacy—a slam dunk.

“I learned it from the best,” I said, and the bitterness in my voice surprised even me.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Mother pounced. “And you wonder why relationships are difficult! Maybe that’s what you should be talking about in therapy instead of your parents, who worked hard their whole lives to take care of you and your brother.”

“Okay, well, this has been really fun. Listen, Mother, I need you to check on Miki and White Trash at my house, okay? I’ll only be gone a couple of days. Will you just call and make sure she’s taking care of my cat? And if she’s not, will you?”

“What’s wrong with Miki? I just spoke to her the day before yesterday.”

“There was a break-in at her house. She seems, well, jumpy. She’s staying at my place while I’m gone.”

“Oh my Lord. Was she hurt? What happened?”

“She’s fine. She wasn’t hurt. Maybe you should call her,” I suggested.

“I’ll invite her over for our cookout. I’m making black-eyed pea and roasted poblano salsa, butterbean humus, tomato-and-eggplant bruschetta with artichoke pesto, and we’re going to grill some pizzas and pile them up with arugula and feta.” Emily Street was self-taught, but she could flat-out cook her ass off. A line formed at her door when she was testing new recipes.

Her voice turned sugary and singsongy. “I just can’t decide which
of your favorites I should make. Peach empanadas with homemade crème fraiche ice cream or red velvet whoopie pies.”

My mouth watered. First of all, we know how to grow peaches down South. They are meaty and sweet, and when they’re lightly cooked, all that juice runs out and seeps into the pastry, and it will damn near take your head off. And red velvet cake, well, when it’s done just right, it’s a southern delicacy. No picnic or family gathering I could remember came without it. Of course my mother had to put her own spin on everything. Over the years that peach pie on the checkered tablecloth evolved into a plate of gorgeous empanadas. The red velvet cake now comes in personal handheld sizes, with vanilla cream that squeezes out between the layers.

“Jesus. That sounds amazing.”

The door squeaked again. “Howard, do you know your daughter just used the name of the Lord in vain?”

“Bye, Mom. Love you.”

“Keye, wait.” The screen door again. “I have some news, and I want you to hear it from me.”

I braced myself.

“There was this video recipe contest on that cooking network, and mine won.”

“That’s fantastic. What did you win?”

“The opportunity to submit an audition tape for my own cooking show. Miki knows TV people who will help me make it. My own cooking show, honey!”

“You’re auditioning for a television show?”

“Isn’t it wonderful? I may have to go to Hollywood.”

“Is that where they make cooking shows?”

“Okay, well, maybe New York. Or someplace.” Her voice lowered to just above a whisper. “But you know your father won’t support me. Frankly, Keye, we’re moving in different directions.”

“What? It sounds like you’re going in exactly the same direction. You’re both beginning second careers and finding things that make you happy. Lots of couples do it, Mom. Dad always liked you doing your own thing.” He liked it when she stayed busy and left him alone, but I decided not to say that.

“Maybe you’re right, honey. But I tell you one thing, nobody’s going to get in my way. I’m going to be the next Paula Deen.” She paused. “Only prettier.”

I laughed. “What does the current Paula Deen think about that?”

“Oh come on, Keye. She’s in so much hot water. You know that slot is going to open up.”

“Bye, Mom. I love you.” I disconnected and leaned my head back on the seat.
“God.”

“So how’s Emily?” Neil was smiling at me.

“Brutal. She’s a hammer. A friggin’ ice pick in the eye.”

Neil and my mother had terrible chemistry when they first met. They had each later complained privately to me about the other’s rudeness. But last year when all hell broke loose, Neil stepped up and ran the business and Mother came onboard to handle the phones and filing and billing. Miraculously, they ended up liking each other.

“She’s … the … pick …” Neil was speaking in that strange, choppy way that let me know he was typing the words as he said them. “And I’m the ice.”

“You’re Tweeting that?”

“New Facebook status,” he said. “Forty-five people ‘like’ it already.”

I pulled back out on the road and followed a shady, muscadine-laced two-lane past split-rail fences, fescue pastures, and grazing horses. The magnolias were blooming, and that citrusy scent drifted into the open car, bringing with it the particulars of my southern childhood. I remember sitting under the enormous magnolia tree in our Winnona Park backyard with Jimmy, smelling that delicious scent—like lemon cream and butter. We tried picking them for Mother’s table, pulling flowers off the tree by their short, fat stems without touching them. She had warned us that magnolia blossoms weep when touched by humans. And sure enough, everywhere our tiny fingers accidentally grasped a lush white petal, a brown spot appeared to betray us. And something else—that tree and those big, fragrant blossoms are my earliest memories of coming home with my new parents after losing my grandparents, after the terror of seeing them murdered, and the terror of living with strangers—a temporary foster home, a children’s home. I thought about the wailing woman whose child had been strangled last night and the way the grief webs out through your life.

“It’s the next right,” Neil said, looking down at the map on one of his devices.

White fences surrounded the property. A guard shack sat square in the middle of a two-way entry/exit, painted white with its own little fence to match the others, a miniature Cape Cod design. A uniformed guard came through the door when we stopped, waddled down the steps with a clipboard in his hand. No weapon, I noticed.

“How can I help you?” He was in his forties, thinning hair, his eyes looked puffy. A second job, I thought. This one couldn’t pay much.

“Hi.” I smiled. “We’re going to eight-twenty-eight Murdock.”

“Mr. Tilison’s residence?” He glanced down at his clipboard. “Name, please.”

“Keye Street.”

He glanced up at me. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t see you on the guest list. Was Mr. Tilison expecting you?”

“It’s a surprise,” I said, truthfully.

The guard smiled indulgently. “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Tilison gets a lot of surprise visitors. I’m real sorry. But I can’t let y’all in unless you’re on the list.” He glanced at Neil.