Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

“No. Duh. They work.”

“Precisely.”

“It’s not like I need a babysitter.”

“I’m not sure,” Pescoli said. “So what did you do?”

Her daughter’s eyebrows drew together. “Hung out. What did you think? Oh, God, I know. You think we were having sex or something.”

Pescoli’s insides curdled. “Yeah, I think that when you’re alone with your boyfriend for hours, lying to everyone about where you are, that you could be getting yourself into some serious trouble!” She heard the accusations in her voice and dialed it back a bit. “Okay. . listen. . tell me, what were you doing? I know, I know, about the ‘hanging out’ part, but let’s get a little more specific.”

“We watched TV, played video games, rented a movie…. It was no big deal.”

“Except that you were supposed to be in school,” Pescoli said, keeping her voice low and serious. “It was a big deal, Bianca. A very big deal. I don’t know what’s going on between you and Chris, but I do know that whatever it is, it’s not worth cutting school and getting behind in your classes.”

“You’re so ridiculous! I just watched some movies!” She started huffing her way out of the kitchen, trying to act like she was affronted. Pescoli caught her elbow as she passed and spun her around.

Nose-to-nose with the fifteen-year-old, she said, “We’re not talking about me, Bianca. Don’t try to deflect. This is about you, your behavior, consequences, and yeah, the rest of your life. Because you seem intent on messing it up.”

“Just get off my case!”

“Nuh-uh. Not for a few more years.”

Bianca yanked her arm back. “I could call Child Services on you! You can’t touch me.”

“Is that what Chris told you?”

“You can’t touch me!”

Pescoli reached for the phone, grabbed the receiver, and held it close to her daughter’s face. “Take it. Call. See what happens. If they believe you, they’ll remove you from this home, and where will you go? To your dad’s? To a foster family? Is that what you want?”

“Maybe!”

Despite the pain in her heart, Pescoli said, “Fine. Make the call.” Bianca eyed the phone, and for half a second Pescoli thought her daughter would call her bluff. For another half a second she didn’t care. No fifteen-year-old was going to bully her or try that stupid-ass emotional blackmail on her. She slapped the receiver into her daughter’s free hand.

Bianca sputtered, “They — they won’t believe me. You’re a cop! You’ll twist things around!” She slammed the phone onto the counter, and this time she marched off to her room.

“Slam that door and I’ll take it off its hinges! Bianca, I’m not kidding!”

Slam! The entire house shook. Cisco let out a startled yip.

“Son of a bitch,” she muttered under her breath and left the phone on the counter, then made her way to the garage, where she found Joe’s twenty-plus-year-old toolbox and carried it back inside.

The front door burst open, and all six feet and then some of her son walked inside. A gust of cold wind followed him, and Cisco went nuts again. The little dog yapped and spun in elated circles.

“Hey, Cis,” Jeremy said, bending down and scooping up the wiggling dog in his big, gloved hands. At eleven, Cisco still thought he was a puppy and washed Jeremy’s unshaven face with his eager tongue. “What’s for dinner?”

“I haven’t gotten that far, yet,” Pescoli answered.

“So, what’s going on with Dad’s tools?”

“I was just about to wrestle your sister’s door off its hinges.”

“Oh, Mom, don’t do that.” He set the dog down and pulled off his gloves, then stuffed them in the pockets of his down vest.

“Why not?”

“It’s lame.”

“So is slamming the door so hard, it nearly breaks the jamb.”

He yanked off his stocking cap, and his hair, still filled with static electricity, stood on end, giving him a few more inches and a shocked look.

“You can help,” she suggested.

“No way… uh-uh, I’m staying out of that catfight.”

“What’re you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

He looked suddenly uncomfortable and worked hard at smoothing his hair while avoiding her eyes.

“What happened?”

He hesitated. “Okay, I got laid off.”

Her heart took a nosedive. “Because?”

He shrugged his big shoulders. “Dunno. The economy, I guess.”

“You guess?” Not now. She didn’t need this now.

Jeremy heaved a loud sigh, then fell onto the couch. The old springs groaned. Cisco leaped up to his lap, and he absently petted the wriggling dog’s head. “I got fired,” he admitted.

“Fired,” she repeated in a careful voice.

“Lou claims I stole from the station, that the receipts didn’t add up.” Head lowered, he looked up at her from the tops of his eyes. “Swear to God, Mom, I didn’t do it.” His Adam’s apple bobbed, and his big hands clamped over his jean-clad knees.

“You told Lou that?”

“About a hundred times! You know what? I think it’s either Manuel or Lou himself, like maybe he’s covering his ass. Manuel’s a good guy. Really honest. But I thought Lou was, too. Shit!” He gritted his teeth. “How could this happen?”

Her heart was pounding, and a mixture of anger and fear slid through her blood. “I don’t know, Jer, but you have to fix it. Figure it out. If you didn’t do it—”

“ If? Really? You don’t believe me?” He was shocked and offended, his lips flattening. “Come on, Mom!” Slamming a fist onto the arm of the couch, he declared vehemently, “I’m not a thief! Someone set me up!”

“You didn’t let me finish, Jer. I was saying that if you didn’t do it, then you have to find out who did. Prove it. It couldn’t be that tough. The station has cameras and records of all the transactions.”

“Are you crazy? You think they’re going to let me see any of them?”

“They’ll have to if you sue them and they fight it. Your attorney will—”

“I don’t have an attorney, and I can’t afford one. Get real!” He was starting for the back stairs.

“Where are you going?”

“My room.”

“You moved out, remember?”

“It’s still my room.” Big feet began clomping down the steps.

“I was going to turn it into a sewing room.”

“You don’t even sew!” he yelled up the stairwell.

His door slammed shut, though not with the same righteous, passionate thud as Bianca’s had.

“I’m a failure as a mother,” Pescoli confided to the dog. “A complete and utter failure.” Opening the toolbox, she searched for a screwdriver with which to pry the pins out of Bianca’s door hinges. After digging through the rarely used wire cutters, pliers, and wrenches, she found a large screwdriver with paint drips on it, proof she’d used it to force open stubborn paint cans, and was about to attack the door in question when her cell phone rang.

“Pescoli,” she said as she pressed the talk button.

“Alvarez,” her partner answered her. “I think you should come up to the bluff over Grizzly Falls. Looks like a jogger slipped and fell over the railing up around the park. No ID on her.”

“Dead?”

“Nearly. EMTs are working with her. Probably an accident. It’s slippery as hell out here.”

“Don’t you have enough to do with the cases we’ve already got?” Pescoli asked. “This isn’t even a death yet, much less a homicide.”

“Hmmm. . yeah.”

“Well, it beats what’s going on here,” Pescoli decided. “I’m on my way,” Pescoli said, tossing the screwdriver back into the open toolbox. Clicking off, she yelled loudly toward her daughter’s closed bedroom door, “This is a reprieve, Bianca, but only a short reprieve. I’ll be back.” For once she didn’t change her voice into her pathetic Arnold Schwarzenegger impression.