Window of Guilt (16 page)

“What’s a side street?” he asked quizzically.

“Sounds like a question I’d get from my students,” laughed Mitzy.

“It’s a street that has apartment buildings and houses instead of stores and bus stops,” said Laurie.

“Mrs. Atkins?” yelled a petite princess, running towards her.

“Yes, Odalis?”

“My mom has to work late at the bank today. She wants to know if I can stay at your house when we’re done trick-or-treating.”

“That’s fine,” said Laurie. Giving her a quick grin, Odalis ran
ahead.

“Like banks are open on Sundays,” whispered Mitzy.

“Estella cleans the offices,” said Laurie.

“No one else at home?” asked Mitzy.

Laurie shook her head. “Her husband works night shift as a nurse’s aide at Children’s Memorial. Wheels patients to lab, x-rays, and surgery.”

“You got it way easy as a teacher, Mitzy,” joked Maggie. “Big bucks, little work.”

“One more crack out of you and I’ll bop you one,” said Mitzy in an offended tone.

“Oh my gosh!” said Laurie. “Did you guys see that black SUV swerve in front of the Ford Escort just before reaching the stoplight?”

“Mrs. Atkins,” called a three-foot Batman.

“Yes Eric?”

“My tummy’s hurting.”

“Did you eat any of the candy you collected?”

Batman nodded.

Laurie knelt beside him. “We talked about not eating the candy until I check it.”

“I was hungry,” the little boy whimpered.

“After we hit Uncle Dan’s, we’ll go home.”

“I don’t want to hit Uncle Dan,” said the little boy, his voice quivering.

Laurie knelt down and drew the three-foot Batman to her. “Oh, honey. Uncle Dan’s is a store.”

“What’s wrong with Eric?” whined a Yu Gi O figure.

“Sounds like this party’s over,” observed Maggie.

“It’s getting dark anyway,” said Laurie, as she jumped to her feet. “Let’s head on home, everybody.” She sauntered after a few stragglers. “So how’s Jeffy boy doing?” Maggie teased.

“He’s temporarily out of the picture,” said Mitzy.

“Says he’s can’t date someone so unpredictable.”

“Say, my former insurance agent is single,” said Maggie. “He’s a hottie. Maybe you two will burn some rubber.”

“Burn some what?” asked Mitzy.

“Finally a cliché you don’t know.”

“Quit trying to make me feel like George Bush at a Hindu Temple,” said Mitzy. “You want to introduce me to this guy, go for it. What’s his name?”

“Brad Hamilton Jr.”

20

Ryan yanked the dog leash. “Move it.” The tuxedoed white fluff ball had left his signature on every tree down their block. Feeling the frustration shared by dog owners everywhere, Ryan checked his watch. 9:00 p.m. Rocky strained on the lead. Ryan eyed a plop of poop left untouched by a negligent dog owner. “Knock it off,” he warned, tugging the leash.

Tonight, Golden Retrievers, German Shepherds, and Wheaten Terriers dressed as ballerinas and clowns. How weird was that? But Laurie had pleaded with him to keep Rocky in costume during their walk. Laurie had also pleaded with him to dress up. No way was he going there. Not when his memories of Halloween past were filled with cold pricklies, as his mother would have put it.

Rocky finally ventured across the street, catapulting them into a white tornado of smoke on the sidewalk. Four witches and werewolves stood outside a gray Victorian house flashing skeleton lamps as they chanted magic spells over fiery potions. Rocky high-tailed it down the street, dragging Ryan after him.

When they reached the corner, Ryan scooped the little dog into his arms and nuzzled his tuxedoed chest. “You’re one brave little guy.” Now there was a compliment that had withered and died before ever brushing his father’s lips, at least where he was concerned. His lack of academic agility in every subject save math had rained frustration and despair in a family where education was king. His parents hadn’t been the only ones to engage tutors and educational psychologists in hopes of unlocking their children’s hidden abilities. Without a college education, you were stuck working at a retail clothing store for minimum wage.

Enmeshed in his reverie, Ryan was caught off guard as Rocky leaped from his arms in chase a stray tabby cat. “No,” he admonished, pulling the leash to his side.

If asked to describe his only son, the word “brave” would never have sprinkled Norman’s tongue. But Ryan knew he’d place in the top one percent of a class in Street Smarts. Ryan spent his high school years stealing from the rich kids and giving to the kids in the projects.
Just do it.
His cunning method of “saving” the world.

While Ryan was fairly certain Todd Gray was awaiting a heart transplant in Australia, he still obsessed over the identity and motive of his summerhouse intruder. Since returning from Urbana, he’d attempted to act cheerful and relaxed so as not to alert Laurie that their lives were still amuck.

Speaking of summerhouse, his stomach tightened at the empty mortgage dollars they’d been shelling out since Shakia’s departure. Laurie had a lot of nerve questioning his fitness center bills when she should lasso a new renter. True, her father had willed her the property, but he’d taken a line of credit to buy out Laurie’s mom when they divorced. It would be five more years before they owned it free and clear.

When Ryan thought about it, this TG fiasco was his father-in-law’s fault. Had he never willed the property to his daughter, Ryan would never have been forced to cart away a dead man. And he wouldn’t be racking his brain, searching for an answer to TG’s motive.

Once again, he must keep Laurie in the dark. If this trespasser had meant his family harm, she and Rory could still be at jeopardy, a condition he’d been on intimate terms with since his abrupt departure from Great Harvest.

*

Norman Atkins watched his grandson systematically arrange his Halloween bounty on the kitchen table. “Why don’t you let Rory eat his treats instead of categorizing them?”

“I already told you, Dad,” Laurie said patiently. She scooped another handful of goodies from her son’s trick-or-treat bag. “Rory’s teacher wants each student to make a bar graph depicting the type of candy and its amount.”

Rory grinned as he placed each candy in the appropriate columns. “Mom promised I can stay up to sort the candy.”

“When I was a kid, my friends and I used to have a Halloween candy-eating contest,” said Norman. “I always won, but my mom made me down half a bottle of Pepto-Bismol afterwards. Tasted like chalk.”

“I ate chalk when I was little, grandpa,” bragged Rory as he sorted two-inch chocolate bars. “Green tastes best.”

“I never saw you eat chalk!” said his mom.

“When your husband was Rory’s age, he was hyperactive,” reminisced Norman.

“You’d never know it now,” teased Laurie, leaning over her son’s shoulder to gauge his progress on the candy graph.

Her father-in-law continued. “This famous pediatrician, Dr. Feingold, theorized that kids like Ryan were allergic to chocolate, dairy, and white flour. Those allergies could make them hyperactive or even deathly ill.”

Rory shot his grandfather a fearful look, then put his head in his arms. “Give away all my candy, Mom.”

“You don’t have any food allergies, son,” Laurie reassured him.

“How do you know?” her son sniffled.

Laurie rolled her eyes at Norman.

Norman shrugged.

“People with food allergies experience different symptoms,” explained Laurie.

“Like what?” Rory asked.

“Some people have trouble breathing or swallowing if they eat food that makes them sick.”

“You’re frightening the kid,” said Norman, shaking his head.

But Rory’s eyes brightened. “Like in
Hangman
”
he quipped, posing with his tongue hanging out and his head leaning on his shoulder. “Uh, right,” said Laurie.

“The Halloween of your dad’s eighth birthday, Nana Bonnie told him he had to donate anything with caramel or chocolate to Children’s Memorial Hospital,” said Norman.

“Wow! I’d be really mad if that happened to me.”

“Your dad was mad, too. He said it wasn’t fair the other kids got to eat all the candy they wanted while he was stuck sucking on hard candy. So he chugged two bags of M&Ms. Oy veh, did he break out in hives!”

“Itchy spots,” Laurie translated.

“Gross!”

“He began to wheeze.”

Rory’s eyes teared. “Was Daddy gonna die?”

Norman patted his grandson’s head. “Your nana and I took him to emergency. Took eight hours before everything was under control.”

“I bet Dad was real sorry he ate the chocolate.”

“He was actually proud of himself,” Norman chortled.

“Why proud?” asked Laurie.

“Because he risked everything and lived to tell about it,” said Norman.

Rory placed the last candies onto the graph. “I don’t get it.”

“He took responsibility for his actions,” said Laurie.

“Had his two best friends accompanied him instead of me and your grandma, odds are he would have accused them of forcing him to eat the forbidden candy.”

“How come you make fun of your own son, grandpa?” asked
Rory.

“Say ‘goodnight,’ son,” said Laurie, gently propelling him towards his grandpa.

Rory threw his arms around the older man. “Night, grandpa.” Norman hugged his grandson back. “You ask some zinger questions. A smart guy knows when to ask questions and when to keep his mouth shut.”

“How do you know when to keep your mouth shut?”

Norman’s eyes twinkled. “That’s the million-dollar question, kiddo.”

*

Ryan fidgeted as he stood before the CEO of Great Harvest Insurance Company.

Brad Hamilton, Sr. briefly glanced at the visitor. Then he pushed his spectacles farther down the bridge of his pudgy nose and returned his gaze to the correspondence before him. “To what do we owe this honor?” he asked congenially.

Ryan recognized the silver-haired man sitting across from his former boss. “I can return at a more opportune time,” he said, scratching at his cheek.

“Not to worry,” said the CEO as his eyes continued to scan the letter. “Mr. MacFerron was just leaving.”

“Indeed I was,” said his business partner. Gerald MacFerron uncrossed his long legs and bent to retrieve his alligator briefcase. He started for the door.

“Actually, Mr. MacFerron might be able to help,” croaked Ryan, attempting to clear his throat. “You see, I’m searching for some answers.”

“Aren’t we all, son, aren’t we all,” mused Brad Hamilton Sr., a smile pasted on his lips. “Could you spare a few more minutes, Gerald?”

With a nod, MacFerron slipped his lanky body back into the brandy colored leather chair.

“These answers involve some information I came across while still employed at Great Harvest,” Ryan continued hesitantly.

With exquisite precision, the CEO removed his glasses, carefully positioned them in an unforgiving black silk-lined case, and snapped it shut. “If I’m not mistaken, my son was your immediate supervisor.”

“I hoped I’d have better luck with you.”

“Why is that?” the older man asked quizzically.

“The last time I broached Brad Junior with this information, he threatened to fire me,” said Ryan.

Hamilton chuckled, gesturing for Ryan to sit. “That boy’s always been a live wire. His mother and I allowed him to watch too many cop shows as an impressionable youth.”

“Yet you weren’t fired. You chose to quit Great Harvest,” said Gerald.

Ryan’s heart beat heavily against the white linen shirt he’d sported for the occasion. “Only when my personal ethics clashed with the shenanigans going down in my department.”

All pretense of jocularity disappeared as Brad Sr. leaned his elbows across the broad cherrywood desk. “You left the company because my son bruised your ego, Mr. Atkins. In that regard, you’re certainly not the first.”

“The state of my ego is not the issue here, sir.”

“I beg to differ,” said Hamilton, his voice cold and controlled. “At some gut level, you realized the meek don’t inherit the earth, so you’ve come here today in an attempt to shatter my son’s stellar career.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan watched MacFerron sneer. Idly, he wondered whether that sneer was in response to him or the CEO’s description of his son. Attempting to relax his body, Ryan breathed in and out slowly.

“Are you all right, Atkins?” asked Hamilton, his voice dripping false concern.

Ryan addressed the CEO. “You gravely misinterpret my motives, sir. It’s apparent I should take my concerns straight to the Illinois Department of Insurance Regulation. Have a nice day.” He struggled to his feet.

Brad Hamilton Sr. shot a quick look at his business partner, then back at Ryan. “I meant you no insult, son.”