The Word of a Child (16 page)

Irritated at himself, Connor still hesitated. How many
contented domestic scenes had he walked into? How often had he left behind
people whose lives would never be the same? Here he was, a man who lived in a bare
apartment, who was unmarried, had no children, and his specialty was smashing
families.

That was unjust, of course; he knew that. If
sixteen-year-old Chad Glazer had raped a seventh-grader, he had to be called to
account. Now. Not ten years from now when he'd raped a dozen women or more.

If this Norman Rockwell family behind the leaded glass was
damaged, it wouldn't be Connor's doing. It would be the son's.

The woman who answered the door was pretty, with smile lines
that made her likable from the get-go. She called for her husband right away.
Despite his slight stature, he carried himself with an unmistakable air of
authority.

"I'm Dr. Glazer. May I ask what you want with my
son?" he asked, once Connor had repeated his request.

"Just to talk to him." Connor pocketed his badge.
"I'm investigating an allegation of sexual harassment against a teacher.
I'm talking to a number of kids who know the girl who made the
allegation."

"I see." He didn't look altogether satisfied, but
turned and called upstairs, "Chad! Please come down here."

"Sure, Dad!" Seconds later, a boy came bopping
down, taking two steps at a time, one hand skimming the banister and his
sneakered feet thudding on the stairs.

Heart sinking, Connor thought, damn it, he looked like a
good kid. Cargo pants bagged, but his plain T-shirt more or less fit, no
visible body parts were tattooed or pierced, his brown hair was short and a
little spiky and his expression was pleasant.

He leaped down the last three steps. "Hey, what's
up?"

"Chad, this is Detective…" The father hesitated
and looked inquiring.

"McLean." Connor held out a hand. "Chad, I need to talk to you about a girl named Tracy Mitchell."

"Tracy?" he repeated, mouth hanging open.
"She hasn't been in an accident or something, has she?"

"Nothing like that."

The woman, who had waited quietly to one side, said,
"Why don't we all sit down."

"Thank you," Connor said.

"You won't mind if we stay," the boy's father said
in a steely voice.

"Of course not."

The living room—or maybe parlor was the right word—was
furnished with antiques, from leaded, glass-fronted bookcases to a cherry
secretary that had to be nine, ten feet tall. Plushly upholstered settees
clustered around a river-rock fireplace. Even the rug underfoot was valuable,
if Connor was any judge; once vivid blues and golds were faded to umber and
navy and cream, but it had a silky luster and a delicacy of pattern that you
didn't see in the rug department of the local department store.

"I'm Mrs. Glazer," the woman said. "May I get
you a cup of coffee?"

"Thank you, but no." As standard practice, Connor
avoided accepting refreshments. It seemed wrong, somehow, to "break
bread" with folks you might arrest.

The parents flanked the boy when sitting down, a form of
protection he accepted without typical teenage resentment. Even now, while his
expression was anxious it was also open and basically unafraid.

He wasn't a big kid. He was probably going to be built like
his father and maybe not reach more than five-eight. He had the wiry strength
of a wrestler or runner.

Connor asked, and the boy said, "Yeah, I run track and
cross country both. Man, I wish I could be a hurdler, but I'm just not tall
enough."

His dad smiled at him with pride. "Chad finished a half marathon this past summer."

"Good for you." Connor took his notebook from an
inner pocket as much to signal that he was ready to get down to business as
because he really needed notes. "Chad, how did you meet Tracy?"

"I don't know." Now
that
was
standard teenage response. But he corrected himself immediately. "I guess
she was hanging out with some people I know. I thought she was pretty, and we
got to talking. I really don't know her that well."

"And how did you see her after that?"

The kid flushed. "Well, the first time I didn't know
she was in middle school. She looks older. When I didn't see her at the high
school, I asked."

"And then?"

"She's a walker," he said simply. "Like I am.
I just run into her crowd downtown. You know. At Tastebuds, or places like
that."

"Did you ask her out?"

The flush in his cheeks deepened. "She's only an
eighth-grader."

"Actually," Connor said, "Tracy Mitchell is
in seventh grade."

He jerked.
"Seventh?
You mean, she lied?"

"It would seem so."

Dr. Glazer said, "Is this going somewhere,
Detective?"

"Yes." Connor looked straight at the boy. "I
want to hear about the middle school dance you sneaked into."

The mother let out a small gasp; Dad only raised his
eyebrows. "Is that a crime?"

"Not one that would interest me if it is," Connor
said easily.

The boy kept his chin high. "A couple of the guys and I
did. Just, you know, to see if we could."

"Tell me about it."

"We just, like, took turns hiding in the middle of a
crowd all holding up their ASB cards. It was easy."

The principal would be thrilled to hear that, Connor was
sure.

"How long did you stay?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "Maybe an hour?
It was boring."

"I understand that you told Tracy you were coming so
you could dance with her."

The kid twitched a little. "Um, I might have said
something like that. Just … you know … to, um, flirt or something."

"And did you dance with her?"

He didn't disguise the flash of hurt quickly enough;
Connor's sharp eyes noted the look the parents exchanged.

This shrug was too elaborate. "She kind of blew me off.
It was okay."

"In what way did she 'blow you off'? She didn't want to
dance?"

"She said no, she was hanging with some friends."
He shrugged again. "Like I said, that was okay."

"Did you dance?"

"Nah. Just … you know. Talked to some guys I knew. And
then I left."

"Did you leave the gym at any time?"

Chad
looked puzzled. "Well, when I left I did. You mean,
before that? They don't let you out. Once you go out, you can't come back
in."

"Unless you sneak in," Connor said dryly.

He grinned. "Well, yeah. But I didn't. 'Cause I didn't
really want to get caught, you know? Anyway, why would I want to go out and
back in?"

"To have a cigarette?"

"I don't smoke. Smoking's dumb."

"To make out with a girl. Or talk to one."

He was smart enough to catch on. "Like Tracy. That's what you're asking, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Like Tracy."

His eyes fired up. "Did she say I did something? I
never even talked to her again after she blew me off! Why would I?"

Connor leaned a little harder. "Did you see her? Maybe
watch her?"

The father stirred but said nothing.

Chad Glazer stiffened. "I don't like her that much. I
saw her a couple of times, just dancing and hanging out. She didn't even look
at me. And that's it."

"Did you leave with the friends you came with?"

"Yeah, we all decided we were bored. Nobody paid any
attention to kids going out, just ones coming in."

"So you walked home together."

"Yeah," he said combatively, his chin thrust out.
"We did. If you don't believe me, you can ask them."

"I might need to do that. If you could write down their
names and phone numbers, I'd appreciate it." Connor kept his tone
scrupulously polite.

Dr. Glazer asked, "Are you done with my son?"

"Yes. Thank you for your patience."

"Will you do us the courtesy of explaining why you're
asking these questions?"

Connor hesitated, considered and decided that at this point
there was probably no reason not to answer. Hell, he might learn something.
"Tracy Mitchell has accused a teacher at the middle school of sexual
harassment. And more. He denies it. We're just checking out the possibility
that in fact she's covering up a different type of incident."

The boy's stare was incredulous. "Like I … raped
her?"

The kid was sharp.

"Something like that," Connor said apologetically.
He would have to check out Chad's, story, but this time his gut told him he'd
heard the truth. Chad Glazer didn't have the temper or ego problems to force a
girl because she'd rejected him.

Mrs. Glazer's back had gone stiff and her voice icy.
"It's ridiculous that you'd think for a minute my son would do something
like that! He's a good student, a successful athlete and a nice boy! Any
teacher would tell you so."

"Unfortunately even nice boys have raped, Mrs.
Glazer." Connor put away his notebook. "Our culture still encourages boys
to think that if a girl leads them on, they're entitled to take what they think
they've been promised."

"I didn't think…" Chad stuttered. "I
wouldn't…"

Connor stood. "I may confirm your story, but don't
worry. This was … just a theory I was following up."

The boy's forehead furrowed. "This teacher …
raped
her?"

"That remains to be seen."

"Wow."

"I've told you more than is general knowledge. I'd
appreciate it if you would keep what I've said to yourself for now."

Chad
nodded. "Yeah. I mean, sure. Oh. I can write down
those numbers for you."

Connor withdrew his notebook again and gave it and a pen to
the boy, who scribbled quickly and handed it back.

"Thank you for your time."

Dr. Glazer saw him out, only saying quietly at the door,
"His mother's right. He is a good kid."

Connor nodded. "Yeah. I got that impression. I'm sorry
to have bothered your family."

A hell of a lot sorrier than his polite but professional
tone suggested.

In the car, he used his cell phone to call the first of the
boys, who confirmed that he and Chad Glazer had stayed together at the dance.
"Yeah, we walked home afterward. I stopped at his place for a while to
hear this new CD he has." His voice changed, became anxious. "Are we,
like, in trouble for sneaking in?"

"No. I'd suggest you not try it again, but … no. This
was about something else."

So much for that theory, Connor thought, putting away his
cell phone, more relieved than he liked to acknowledge. Time to do some more
serious investigation into Gerald Tanner's background.

Tracy didn't want to go
back to
school, but her mom made her.

"Your grades…" Mom said, but Tracy knew Mom didn't
really care. She got mad when teachers called her in to talk, but she had
dropped out of school at sixteen herself, so it wasn't like
she
could
talk. She just wanted Tracy to learn to type so she could be a secretary or
something else respectable instead of a barmaid.

What Mom wanted was Tracy out of the apartment. She probably
already had some guy waiting to "visit" when Tracy wasn't around.

Mom usually got what she wanted.

Resentful, Tracy dressed in her favorite tight boot-cut
jeans, a hot pink T that said Meow on the front, and clunky sandals. People
would notice her anyway.