For the Children Page 8

“You live around here?”

  “Around the corner.”

  “In the trailer park?”

  “Yep.”

  “Just you and your mom?”

  The heat was getting close. “Yeah.”

  “You like it there?”

  He shrugged, forgetting about the cigarette for just that second. And almost hollered as the movement brought the smoldering tobacco in contact with the flesh of his hand. He dropped the cigarette. And just kept walking.

  He wanted to put it out. There was no way he wanted to set anything on fire. But he just dropped it and kept walking.

  He couldn’t help it.

  “It’s okay, I guess,” he answered a little jerkily.

  But the coach didn’t seem to notice.

  Was it possible that he hadn’t noticed the cigarette, either? For some reason Abe seemed to get lucky breaks around this guy.

  “You got a pool there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it heated?”

  “Nope.”

  They reached the corner. Turned. And started to sweat when it occurred to him that Coach Chandler might be planning to walk him home.

  He’d step out in front of a car first.

  “You like to swim?”

  “I guess.”

  “I thought I might have a swim party for the team. What do you think?”

  Was this guy for real?

  Abraham knew the answer to that. And hated himself for hoping.

  Abe was nothing but a stupid wimp.

  “Sure, that’d be good,” he said. “You got a heated pool?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.”

  The trailer park was only a block away. But there was a convenience store just before the entrance. He’d make up some story about getting stuff for his mom.

  And hope to hell the guy left him.

  Because there was no way he could buy a damn thing. He didn’t have any money.

  “Well, my car’s down this street, so I’ll be seeing you,” Coach said, turning away.

  “Yeah, see ya.”

  With a lighter step than he’d had in a while, Abraham headed home. His mom always kept Saturday evenings just for him and her, and it was after four o’clock. Their time.

  But before he went in, he ran back to peek around the corner so he could watch Coach drive off. He didn’t know why. Maybe he just had to make sure he was really leaving and not coming back to spy on him or something.

  Coach got in a car, all right. A Milano Maroon 1965 vintage Corvette.

  Sweet.

  THE THIRD Friday in November, at night no less, and Valerie was sweating as though it was midsummer. Whacking the tennis ball as hard as she could to deliver an impressive spike, Val stumbled on the court of the fitness complex not far from her home. She righted herself in time to land her racket on the return that came speeding over the net. Unfortunately, her responding volley was uncontrolled and the ball landed outside the line. Actually, it landed outside the court.

  She should have agreed to have dinner with him. Then maybe he wouldn’t have asked her to play tennis.

  “That shot wasn’t too impressive,” Kirk called over his shoulder, jogging over to the next court to retrieve the ball she’d hit.

  “Sore winners aren’t too impressive, either, Chandler,” she called back. She was tempted to walk off the court and refuse to give him this last serve to finish off his game, set and match victory.

  Except that would make her a sore loser.

  And she was having fun.

  Kirk was back, wicked grin and all. Beneath the bright lights of the tennis court, he reared back to administer another one of the lethal serves that had been killing her all evening. His leg muscles stood out in stark relief beneath the white tennis shorts, his shoulders and forearms those of a natural athlete. His slim midsection, as he lifted the racket and tossed up the ball, was more distraction than she could easily deflect.

  The sharp sound of his racket connecting with the ball had barely reached her ears before the ball itself was there. She thought about standing there and letting it whiz on past.

  But Valerie was Valerie. She never just stood around, gave up or otherwise turned away from a respectable and honestly delivered challenge. Even if the outcome was already certain.

  With an effort of which she could be proud, she leaped for the ball, made a satisfying comeback. And didn’t even see his return hit.

  Only because it was dark, of course.

  “You’re buying.”

  His grin victorious, Kirk met her at the net.

  “Buying what?”

  This was the third time in two weeks that they’d met for tennis. The third time he’d beaten her soundly.

  “Dinner.” And the third time he’d tried to get her to go out with him afterward.

  “It’s eight-thirty. I had Mexican take-out with the boys three hours ago.”

  With the net between them, they walked over to the bench on the side of the court. Valerie was sweating in her short-sleeved knit top and black exercise slacks—but not as much as he was.

  “We’re just in time for dessert, then.”

  The boys were at a friend’s for a birthday party. They’d taken sleeping bags.

  “I have responsibilities, Chandler. I have to get home.” He always stayed at the courts after she left, to hit volleys against the side wall. Each time, as she’d driven away, he’d been there, smacking the wall so hard he left marks.

  As Kirk dropped the balls into their canister and snapped on the lid, his grin faded. “I’d like to talk to you,” he said. “Remember I told you I was concerned about the new center on the team?”

  Abraham Billings.

  “Yeah?”

  “I saw him last weekend.”

  “And?”

  “Come have coffee and we can talk about it.”

  Leah had left the latest report on the Billings case on her desk yesterday afternoon—a report from the doctor who’d provided the mandatory counseling she’d ordered. Abraham had given no indication of problems at home.

  His probation officer, Diane Moore, said Abraham was one of the best-behaved kids she’d ever had.

  And his caseworker, Linda James, suspected there was something bad going on in the boy’s trailer-park home. Carla Billings had explanations for the men’s pants hanging on her closed bedroom door one afternoon, and an excuse for her own supposed absence from the home at the time. In spite of the fact that the caseworker had heard her in the bedroom. She also had explanations for the presence of different men on two other unplanned visits from the state. And for her ability to support her son without any proof of being gainfully employed.

  The caseworker was a woman Valerie knew and respected. One who’d told her in confidence that she believed Carla Billings was turning tricks—a crime in the state of Arizona. And worse, doing it in her home while her son was there.

  Kirk stopped walking at the curb of the almost-full parking lot.

  “A cup of coffee.” He reminded her of the question she’d never answered. “What can it hurt?”

  “At The Coffee House again?” It was just a couple of miles.

  His head tilted in surprise. “Yeah.”

  She stepped off the curb. He didn’t. “Now?”

  “Yeah.” He paused. “I’ll follow you.” He still hadn’t left the sidewalk.

  Valerie was in her Mercedes, releasing her hair from its ponytail before Kirk’s odd behavior hit her. She still didn’t know what he was driving. But if, as she suspected, it was that beater she’d seen in the parking lot a few weeks ago, he probably felt embarrassed.

  She didn’t see him again until he pulled into the parking lot of The Coffee House twenty minutes later. He’d obviously done something in between leaving the fitness complex and joining her. She would’ve had enough time to go in, order coffee and drink half of it.

  She’d decided to wait for him, instead.

  “Close your mouth, Judge,” he said
as he slid out of a mint-condition vintage Corvette, locked it and walked toward her.

  “Unusual transportation for a crossing guard.”

  Stupid thing to say.

  But damn, there was a lot about this man that didn’t add up.

  “I haven’t always been a crossing guard.”

  No kidding. “What did you used to be?”

  He held the door open for her. “An unhappy member of the corporate world. Now I’m a happy crossing guard.”

  An explanation of sorts, if somewhat flippantly delivered. But no answer at all. How could someone with his drive and intelligence be satisfied not using his talents?

  “You could always get a different job in the corporate world, one that might make you happier.”

  “You’re probably right,” he said, standing beside her at the counter. “But since I have no desire to do so, I’ll let the opportunity pass.”

  “You’re going to be a crossing guard for the rest of your life?”

  “You have a problem with that?” His tone was light. Valerie wasn’t sure the conversation was.

  “No.” Maybe. It just seemed like such a waste.

  “It’s honorable work.”

  “I completely agree.”

  They were next in line.

  “The kids deserve the best.”

  “Of course they do.” But it didn’t take a young businessman successful enough to drive a mint-condition vintage Corvette to provide that at a low-traffic side street.

  He stepped up to the counter. Ordered a hot chocolate for her—remembering that she liked extra whipped cream—and a coffee for himself.

  And Valerie knew, without another word being said, that this particular conversation was over.

  The man was frustrating the hell out of her.

  “So what’s up with Abraham?” she asked as soon as they were seated in the cushioned armchairs in a private alcove.

  Abraham was, after all, the reason she was there.

  At least in part.

  “He was smoking a cigarette.”

  She set her cup down, carefully keeping her face neutral. Smoking was a violation of Abraham’s probation. She could detain him for it. Get him out of that home for a bit, give the state time to come up with something on Carla, one way or the other. Was she the loving mother Abraham was protecting? Or was she, as his caseworker unofficially claimed, unfit to raise her son?

  Valerie didn’t particularly care what Carla Billings chose to do with her life—except insofar as it affected Abraham.

  “He tried to hide it,” Kirk was saying. “To the point that it burned his hand. He was favoring it in practice this week.”

  “Did you see his hand?” Valerie’s mind was spinning. She couldn’t possibly use this information.

  And she might have to use it to protect a young man in her care.

  “Yeah. The burn’s right in the middle of his palm. Looked painful.”

  “Was he taking care of it?” And where was Carla Billings when her twelve-year-old son was out smoking?

  “It looked okay.” Kirk shrugged. “Making a big deal of it wasn’t going to do anything but make him defensive. I got a close enough look to see that it wasn’t infected and let it go.”

  “I wonder where he got the cigarettes.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  He sipped his coffee. “Nothing.”

  “What?” Valerie sat forward, her arms wrapped around her middle. “You condoned his smoking?”

  “I pretended not to notice. I have a pretty strong suspicion that Abraham needs a friend right now, not another authority figure.”

  “What makes you think you could ever be that friend?” She picked up her cup of chocolate. Stirred in the whipped cream. Took a sip.

  “Because I’ve got the time and the willingness to be the best friend that kid ever had.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Do what? Be a friend?”

  “Play favorites with the kids.”

  Paper cup in hand, he sat back, crossing an ankle over his knee, his tennis shoe glistening newly white beneath the lights of the café. “I don’t play favorites. Ever. I’m there for all of them. Completely. Abe just seems to need more at the moment than most of the rest.”

  “Most of the rest?” He’d looked away when he’d said that.

  “Has Blake said anything to you about stomach discomfort?”

  The chocolate in Valerie’s cup jostled, splashing over onto her hand. Burning. Valerie hardly noticed. She wiped it away only when Kirk handed her a napkin.

  “No, Blake hasn’t complained to me. Why, has he said something to you?”

  Along with Brian, he’d had another physical a couple of weeks ago, although it had just been a once-over for his basketball eligibility. Still, he’d been in perfect health.

  Unlike his brother, who was still ten pounds under his ideal weight.

  “No,” Kirk said. “But I’ve seen him rubbing it a few times, and the other day I think he was sick before practice.”

  “You think he was?” She sat up straight, scared to death. “You don’t know?”

  “I thought I heard him getting sick. He swears he wasn’t.”

  “Did you ask Brian about it?”

  “He was already out on the court.”

  “Maybe it was just something he ate.” God, she hoped so. She could handle anything—anything—so long as her boys were healthy. Brian’s recent troubles had put the rest of her life very firmly in perspective.

  “Maybe.”

  With narrowed eyes, Kirk watched her.

  “What?”

  “Tell me about your husband.”

  “He was killed in a car accident two years ago.”

  An expression of sorrow crossed Kirk’s face during a long moment of silence.

  “What did he do?” he asked softly.

  Grateful to him for not trying to find words where there were none, she answered, “He was an attorney.”

  “You met at work?” He was holding his cup, but not sipping from it.

  “We met in law school.”

  “What was his specialty?”

  “Family law.” The quintessential irony.

  “Yet he wasn’t around much for his own family?”

  The man had a good memory.

  Sitting back, Valerie held her cup between both hands. She took a sip more for the comfort of having something to do than because she wanted anything to swallow. The Coffee House was relatively busy even after nine o’clock at night, but sitting in their alcove, Valerie felt separated from the rest of the world.

  “We graduated from law school with dreams of changing the world.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  She chuckled, but without humor. “One would like to think so.”

  He grinned. “Too idealistic, huh?”

  “Law school is about the most cutthroat place I’ve ever been,” she told him, remembering the experience of that first year. “They only give so many seats. The schedule is so arduous, you have no life outside your studies. You deal with it or you’re out.” He watched her, the interest in his eyes compelling. “You’re in all the same classes with all the same people getting all the same assignments,” she continued. “Students would check books out of the library and purposely not return them so that a fellow student couldn’t complete an assignment.”

  “Sounds charming.”

  His droll tone elicited a real grin.

  “Yeah, well, it doesn’t take long to figure out who’s decent folk. And to align yourself with them.”

  “I take it he was one of them?”

  She’d been certain of that.

  And never been more wrong about anything in her life.

  “He was planning a career in public law.”

  “I take it he didn’t follow through on that.”

  “For a couple of years, yes.”

  She wasn’t sure quite when her ideals and h
is had grown so far apart. Perhaps because the change had been so gradual…

  “I’d taken a job as a defense attorney in a private firm.” And the more self-supporting she’d become, the more critical he’d been.

  “Defending criminals?”

  “Defending people accused of committing crimes. I always believed my clients were entitled to every protection the system could provide. That was my job, and I took it seriously. I worked hard to ensure that my clients got the best results under the circumstances.”

  “Sounds like an overwhelming task.”

  “Sometimes. It meant I went to trial a lot more often than most defense attorneys. Fortunately, I won the majority of my cases.”

  And the more cases she won, the more prestige and respect she’d gained—and the more her husband drank.

  “Eventually I left private practice,” she continued, “and went to the public defender’s office.” She paused. “Everyone’s entitled to the best defense. Not just the wealthy and privileged.”

  “I take it your husband didn’t share your philosophy.”

  The man was a little too good at reading between the lines.

  “Money was more important to him than it was to me.” Giving up on the chocolate she didn’t really want, Valerie set down her cup. Forearms resting across her knees, she stared at her tennis shoes. “I don’t know what happened to him.”

  And she didn’t know why she was telling this man anything about it. Her life was her own.

  Still, there was such a sense of nurturing about him. Glancing up at Kirk, she couldn’t look away. That quirk in his mouth, the warmth in his eyes—it was as though he was genuinely interested in knowing about her pain. As though he cared. As though he understood something she didn’t think she’d ever understand.

  The sensation was unusual. Compelling.

  “Once he went to work, the job consumed him.”

  “Money has a way of speaking to people.”

  “I don’t think it was just the money.” Running her hand through her hair, Valerie shook it out over her shoulders. “At least, that wasn’t his biggest priority.”

  “Prestige, then?”

  Again she shook her head. “I think it was the winning. The power. He became obsessed. Right didn’t matter. Justice didn’t matter. Not as much as winning the case. It was scary how he’d manipulate the law to benefit his client. At some point beating his opponent seemed to be his prime motivation. He’d strip women and children of everything they had, giving it all to the men who’d left them, and see nothing wrong with that.”