Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles) (24 page)

“I’ve been reading that Bible,” Madison blurted out. “You really believe it’s the truth?”

Karen sat up and ran her fingers through the back of Madison’s frizzy hair. “Yes, I do. That’s what gives me hope.”

“It makes me feel better, when I read it.”

The words floated out there for a second, and Karen examined each one. “There’s a reason for that. God’s showing you how He wants you to feel, all the time. Safe. Secure. Loved. That’s what happens when you invite Him in, sweetie. He becomes that Father we talked about, that close friend.”

“I don’t know if I can trust that, or if I even have the energy to put into it.” Raising her head, Madison’s pretty face was pink and wet and sadly distorted from anguish. “I don’t want to get hurt anymore. All I want to do is be here with you.”

Karen stood and gently guided Madison’s legs onto the couch. She adjusted a pillow beneath her head and draped a throw blanket over her. “You can stay here as long as you want,” Karen whispered. “I’ll be here for you. We all will.” Then she kissed her lightly on the forehead, dimmed the lights, and went off to worry about her husband.

Everett drove at the speed of his racing heart. Just thirty minutes and he was swinging the slate-blue Audi into Tony Badino’s neighborhood in Pelham Village, a middle-to-upper-class section of town northeast of the Bronx. Gliding past a mailbox decorated with a glowing white wreath, he eased to a stop just down the street from Badino’s stone house at 944 King’s Court.

No cars were in the driveway, and Everett couldn’t tell if any were in the detached two-car garage out back. Yellowish lights glowed from within. Turning off the car, he monitored the grounds for any sign of movement—cars, people, whatever.

He could still feel the December air whipping through the living room at Twin Streams; see the brick with its shrewd white paint lying on the carpet amid the shattered glass. He relived the terror when the Yukon invaded his property and smashed the manger scene. And Millie, poor Millie—she couldn’t even whine.

Everett was ready to make some noise. But with a hand on the door handle, he stopped.
This can lead to even more trouble.
Firing the Audi back up and hightailing it home would be the safe play, the wise play, probably what Jesus would do.

But he wasn’t Jesus, and he’d taken enough
bullying
!

Drawing a deep breath, he popped out of the car. Looking around three hundred and sixty degrees, he locked the Audi and hoofed it down the street, crossing as he did. As he marched up Badino’s driveway, the moon was bright, the asphalt was wet, and he could see his breath.

Up five stone steps quickly, he ignored the faint orange light from the doorbell button and rapped loudly, then stood back from the door. His weight shifted repeatedly from one foot to the other, adrenaline pumping.

Within seconds, a dim white light flicked on above him, and a brunette peered through the glass. “What do you want?” she yelled.

“I’m here to see Tony.”

The door opened four inches but stopped abruptly at the end of a six-inch gold security chain. “He’s not here.” The pretty lady shook her head. “Who are you, may I ask?”

“Everett Lester. Are you Mrs. Badino?”

“I am. What is this about?”

Everett looked out at the still street then back at her. “I just really need to see Tony. Do you know where he is, ma’am?”

She squinted. “Why do you want to know? Are you with the police?”

“Do you know when he’ll be home?”

“I have no idea.”

God’s trying to protect me. Maybe I should just leave.
“He does live here, right?”

“Most of the time. But we don’t see him much. He has his own quarters,” she eyed out back, “above the garage.
Who are you?
”

You can still bail…
“I’m the uncle of one of Tony’s best friends, Wesley Lester.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. But you seem familiar…”

“I was in a band. DeathStroke. My name’s Everett Lester.”

Her head practically hit the door. “I knew I’d seen you.
People
magazine,
The Enquirer
. You quit the band and became religious. Then you were involved in that big murder mystery, with that psychic—”

“Mrs. Badino,” Everett looked around, “may I come in for a minute?”

“Oh, dear.” She glanced at her watch and twisted the tip of her index finger between her front teeth. “I know it’s cold out there. I guess it’s all right, just for a minute.”

The door closed, and Mrs. Badino fluffed her hair and welcomed him into the small foyer, but no further. The wood floor squeaked when Everett stepped in, and the place smelled like cigars. The ceiling was low, and he could hear the ticking of the ornate grandfather clock.

“I’ve spent my whole life in the church. Never miss.” Mrs. Badino was slim and pleasant; she wore very little makeup. “Saturday night’s when I like to go. It’s just a few blocks from here. Christ the King. You know it?”

“No, I don’t. What about Mr. Badino and Tony?”

“Oh, they don’t go.” She waved a hand and straightened a mirror on the wall. “Tony did. He was interested for a short time, several years back.”

“He had a girlfriend…”

Her head snapped back to him. “You know about Erica?”

“A little.”

“Why, you must know my son quite well. He usually doesn’t open up.” She clasped her hands in front of her and gazed off. “Erica was a fine young lady.”

“She became a Christian,” Everett said.

“Yes.” She shot him a closed-mouth smile. “She actually started exploring religion six months or so before that night she was baptized—the night she died.” The smile disappeared, her eyes drifted, and her upbeat voice went monotone. “Tony’d been a different person that summer. He asked to come to church with me. He wanted to know what I believed. He went to Erica’s church, up until she died.”

She came back to the present. “Would you like to sit down? Have you come far?”

“I’ll sit for a minute.” He followed her into the family room, which featured two matching couches, facing each other and centered on the fireplace. “We live up in Bedford. So it’s not that far.”

“Oh my, Bedford. You’re neighbors with Martha Stewart then, aren’t you?”

“Yes, she lives up there.” He chuckled and found himself losing his edge.

“Do you know her?”

“I’ve met her before around town, at a social event or two.”
What am I doing here? I haven’t accomplished a thing, and now she knows my name.

“Tell me, what is she like?”

“She seems very kind, genuine.”

“Well how ’bout that!”

“Do you have other children, Mrs. Badino, besides Tony?”

“Please, call me Margaret. Tony’s our only child. Sometimes I wonder if that’s… Oh, never mind.”

“You wonder what?”

“Oh,” she managed a smile, “sometimes I just regret not having more. I wonder if Tony would somehow be different if he’d had brothers or sisters. He’s a very independent young man. Being a friend, you must know that. He’s very secretive. And his health habits.”

She winced. “He’s just not…he doesn’t eat right. The only exercise he gets is crawling around those broken-down cars all day. And he’s up until all hours. I see the light on in his apartment.”

“He works at that body shop, what’s it called?”

“Fender’s. In Eastchester. Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Lester?”

“No, thank you.”

She crossed her arms. “He’s also been doing a little work with his father, so I hear. They don’t tell me much, though.”

“Oh, really? Doing what?”

“I think he’s just running errands, trying to make some extra money on the side.”

“What does Mr. Badino do?”
This’ll be interesting.

“Oh, sheesh—what doesn’t he do! He’s an entrepreneur, so he’s into real estate, restaurants, entertainment, waste management, you name it…the vending industry.”

All so proper and businesslike.
“Tell me, Mrs. Badino—Margaret—has Tony ever mentioned my nephew, Wesley Lester? They’re quite close.”

She frowned. “Like I said, Mr. Lester—”

“Everett.”

“Everett, I don’t see a whole lot of Tony, so I don’t know who his friends are anymore. I’ve been getting to the point, quite honestly, where I don’t think he has any. It breaks my heart.”

She seemed to fade out momentarily, as if talking to herself. “Ever since Erica died, he’s gone into his own little world. It’s almost bizarre. But what can I do? He’s an adult, for Pete’s sake. He’s twenty-one. On his own now.”

“He is an adult.” Everett stood and so did she. “But he’ll always be your son, won’t he?”
In other words, don’t bury your head in the sand.

It was quiet as she followed him to the door. Should he say more? His conscience urged him to confront her about her dangerous son. Everett turned to face her before leaving, and suddenly she looked hollow somehow—wrinkled and frightened.

“Margaret, you asked earlier if I was with the police.” He studied her, but she didn’t make eye contact. “You mentioned Tony staying up all night, being gone for days. Ma’am, if you suspect anything—anything that could bring harm to other people—you should call the police. Call me if you want. But do something.”

Her mouth hung open, but no words came. Everett asked for a pen and paper, scribbled his phone number, gave it to her, and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for inviting me in. I can’t tell you why, but it may be best if you don’t mention that I was here.”

Margaret could only purse her lips and lift a hand as she ushered him into the night. And Everett left wondering how close she was to her husband. Did she tell him everything? Would she say that a man named Everett Lester had come calling?

Time would tell.

As Everett hurried along the driveway toward the street, he was dumbfounded by Margaret Badino’s kindness. He glanced back at the garage. What was it like up in Tony’s nest? Was there a meth lab? Evidence of some kind of bizarre Satan worship? Once to the car, he started it, cranked up the heat, and got on his cell phone with Karen.

“Hey, it’s me,” he said, still breathing steam inside the car.

“Thank God! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He heard her yell to the others that he was all in one piece. “Leaving Badino’s place down in Pelham Village. His mom was the only one home. Believe it or not, she’s a nice lady.”

“You went in her house?”

“Yeah, I’ll tell you all about it. I just wanted you and the folks to know I’m okay. Back to my senses. On my way home. I’ll give you the details when I get there.”

“Okay. Listen, Ev,” she whispered, “Madison’s here. She’s upset. She went on a date earlier, and the guy tried to force himself on her.”

“What?” he yelled. “Who was it?”

“No one we know. She’s sleeping now, but we had a chance to talk. I’ll tell you more later. Hurry up and get here!”

“Love ya. Bye.” Everett tossed the phone on the passenger seat.
Poor Madison.

As he reached for the headlight switch, a car careened around the corner with its tires screeching three blocks away. Thinking it might be Tony, he turned off the ignition, ducked, and lay still—peeking just over the dashboard.

The headlights of the approaching car were dim and yellowish and spread out wide, probably an older model. The car came toward him, slowed, then swung wide left before wheeling right and pulling into the Badino driveway. Two figures sat in the Monte Carlo. He assumed the driver was Tony.

Both young men got out of the car, the driver wearing a long black trench coat and a gray ski cap, the tall passenger wearing a baggy three-quarter-length hiking jacket and a dark baseball cap.

Too bad his window wasn’t down. Everett couldn’t hear them as they met at the rear of the car, talked for a moment, then opened the trunk and peered in—moving something around inside. The tall one pointed to the driver’s stomach, then reached over and parted the black trench coat.

The shorter one, likely Badino, hit his hand away and threw both arms into the air. Then he reached into the trunk, hoisted a backpack onto his shoulder, banged the trunk closed, and huffed toward the side door of the garage, with the gangly guy in tow.

The second the men were inside, Everett unfolded out of the Audi, nudged the door shut, and took off down the street. He scampered through the Badinos’ yard to the far side of the driveway, along the trees and bushes that separated their lot from the neighbor’s. With his eye on the windows of the house every step of the way, Everett made it to the Monte Carlo and the garage. Lights were on upstairs now.

Seeing no way to get up to the second-story windows in the garage, he dashed around back. He found a five-foot chain-link fence, boxing in three large garbage cans, a wheelbarrow with a flat tire, and a dilapidated push mover. Looking up, he saw a window and a two-foot ledge running the length of the garage.

Everett mounted the chain-link fence, then managed to stand while balancing against the side of the garage.
Just don’t fall.
Reaching the ledge, he hoisted himself up and planted his bottom on the wet, narrow shelf.

It was cold. He sat still, contemplating whether to keep going. The window was ten feet away.
It can’t hurt to look.

In the seated position, with his legs dangling over, he shimmied along the ledge toward the light. Once he got right next to the window, he rested with his back to the wall. It was an awkward position. There wasn’t enough room to get up on the ledge and look straight into Badino’s apartment. He would have to crane his head around backward to see inside.

Here goes.

The room was washed out in a pale yellow glow from a dull overhead light. His eyes adjusted. The young men came into focus, oblivious to his presence.

The dreamlike scene before him registered in his brain, forcing him to jerk his head away, retch, and then catch his breath before peering in again.

24

OFFICERS WITH THE BEDFORD
police took a full report at Twin Streams, noting Karen’s suspicions that Tony Badino might be behind both vandalism incidents. She did not mention Wesley.