A big teenage boy in Amish clothes shoved past us, bumping Mrs. Prescott against a table in his hurry. “Pardon, ma’am,” he called.
“Hey!” Ainsley called, steadying his mother with one hand.
I caught a bright line of blood down the boy’s face, from his nose to his chin. He didn’t stop. He sprinted toward the bright light of the main doors, lunging around the crowd toward the exit, like a critter on the wrong end of the hunt. His fan club appeared down the other end of the hall. There were five of them.
The Amish boy had already cleared a path through the crowd, so the boys chasing him were able to move quickly up the hall.
It flashed through me so fast, I couldn’t say how I went from angry to action. I put my best boot forward and turned the boys running toward us into a split of bowling pins: three in front toppled, two in the back still wobbling.
Ainsley had stepped forward to shield his mother. I stepped back, swung my camera off my shoulder and started shooting photos.
“What the hell!”
“Quit taking my picture, bitch!”
“That’s enough!” Mrs. Prescott snapped. “You watch your mouth, mister, or you’ll be in more trouble than you can handle.”
As the two boys in front scrambled to their feet, a swarm of uniformed cops hustled up the hall. I hadn’t seen them coming, being too busy looking through the lens. All the men were very concerned about Mrs. Prescott and very un-concerned about the tumbled teenagers. One of the cops put a heavy hand at my back and directed me up the hall toward a door labeled Sheriff’s Department.
We all trooped past the front desk, to an open desk zone, full of busy people and the constant under-hum of electronic services: a scanner, two-way radio buzzer going off, telephones. The usual. Felt like a newsroom to me-except the men were more butch.
The Amish boy had been nabbed as well. He was sitting in a wooden armchair, with a paper towel full of ice melting against his nose. He looked like a kid waiting to see the principal.
“I’d better go with Maddy,” Ainsley told his mother after the paperwork had been organized. She waved him on, deep into a tête-à-tête with one of the officers. Sounded like the boys would be picking up tot-park litter until they graduated college if she had her way. Power used for good is so appealing.
Curzon appeared in the doorway next to where the Amish kid sat waiting. He stepped back and thumbed the kid into his office. Before he shut the door, he shot a glance my way.
Guess who was next for the principal’s office?
“You still plan on asking Curzon for a press pass?” Ainsley sounded sorry for me.
“Sure. No harm in asking,” I answered. “So your uncle runs the local television station and your mom is the mayor-elect. Any other family members you want to tell me about?”
“Um…no?” Ainsley waved at one of the cops who’d raised a hand in greeting.
Shit, my boy was better connected than a Daley democrat.
I crossed my arms and propped my butt against the desk behind me. “What does being mayor-elect get you in this town anyway?”
“A parking place. Free rides on fire trucks.” He smoothed his sunny hair back off his brow with a casual brush that mimicked a cartoon whew. “Oh, and a cable television show.”
“Maybe I should ask your mom for the press pass.” I would have laughed out loud if there weren’t men everywhere. “Cable, huh?”
“Everybody’s got to start somewhere.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, elbows locked.
“What’s it called?” I asked.
Cable shows are the pulp fiction of television. I concede a secret fascination for them.
“One Heartbeat Away.” Ainsley’s grin stretched another inch. He cocked a shoulder in half-a-shrug. “I was into Tom Clancy at the time.”
The sheriff’s office door opened and the Amish boy shuffled out, Curzon behind him. The boy was hunched over, elbows pressed to his sides, the brim of his hat clutched between his hands as if that black anachronism were the lifeline to his identity.
Curzon pointed toward the way out. A man in uniform with a freshly shaved skull guided the boy away. Curzon’s back was to me. That world-weary slump wasn’t his usual stance. One hand came up to rub his forehead, in that classic masculine indication of simultaneous feeling and thinking. Always looks to me as though it gives them a headache. Suddenly, he snapped around to look at me. I expected hostility, but his expression was mostly wary, as if he wondered what do you see?
I didn’t look away which was the only answer I knew.
The things we see change us. I know this in my bones as much as in my head. I wouldn’t do what I do, if I didn’t believe it. That old saying, “the eyes are the window to the soul,” means more than just a view from the outside; it’s a way to enter someone’s soul, as well.
The thing is, Sheriff Curzon and I probably had a lot in common. We both made a living walking through shadows looking at stuff nobody wants to see. Neither of our souls were all that shiny anymore.
Of course, when I felt threatened and shot at things in the dark, nobody died.
The sheriff signaled get in here with a snap of his head. I waved back.
“I’ll go with you,” Ainsley said.
“Oh, most definitely,” I replied, grabbing a handful of his jacket above the elbow to keep him close.
Curzon held the office door open and I slipped past. Ainsley was stopped at the threshold.
“Rick,” Curzon called. “Show Prescott’s kid the break room.”
Rick was the skinhead cop who’d escorted the Amish boy. He had a chest circumference that would have matched Ainsley’s and mine combined. I could feel his voice, like bass notes through a subwoofer, when he reverberated, “Do they let you drink coffee yet, kid?”
Ainsley answered with a long-suffering sigh as Rick led him away. He shot me a look over his shoulder that was part woe, part vengeance.
“Trade with you,” I called out. I freely admit it’s easier to play hard-ass on home territory. I was not looking forward to a private meet in the sheriff’s inner sanctum.
The wood blinds clacked against the office door glass as it shut behind him.
“Talk,” Curzon rumbled.
“Nice place you got here.”
His office had an old-world gangbuster air. Dark, paneled walls, designed to muffle everything from shady deals to gunshots and a mahogany desk larger than some of the parking spaces downtown. On top of the desk sat a stack of files, a pad of paper and a phone. Everything was laid out in parallel precision to the desk’s edges. Including the shiny, brass plaque that faced a pair of parochial wooden chairs. It read Sheriff J. Curzon.
The man himself took a seat behind the desk. “What’re you doing here, Ms. O’Hara?”
“I came in for a press parking pass. There was a little altercation in the hall, and…” The intro sounded lame, even to my ears. I cut to the chase. “I heard your cousin is connected to Tom Jost’s suicide.”
He folded both arms across his chest. “Says who?”
Tough talk is a variation of playground rhetoric; to do it right you have to get in touch with your inner child.
“Says me.”
“They had an interaction almost a month before his suicide,” Curzon stated.
“Which led to an ‘interaction’ with his boss over at station six. And further ‘interactions’ with his co-workers. You heard about any of that?”
He smiled at me curiously. He wasn’t a bad-looking man under the right circumstances. But I didn’t like the glow behind those green eyes. Didn’t like the timing, either. According to playground rules, he shouldn’t be smiling.
“Where are you going with this, Ms. O’Hara?”
“Wherever it leads, Sheriff.”
“Uh huh.” He opened a file on his desk and in an extremely polite tone of voice asked, “How is your niece-Jennifer-getting along these days? She doing all right?”