Faye Kellerman: Double Homicide

Marcus Breton was on the floor, bringing the ball down the court just as McCain made it to his seat-seventh row center. Dorothy barely acknowledged McCain’s presence, she was so focused on her son. He handed her a hot dog. She took it, held it, but didn’t eat, eyes fixed on the court.

Marcus dribbled in place for a moment, then made his move toward the basket. As he went for the layup, he was challenged and responded by doing a showstopping ninety-degree turn and behind-the-back pass to the center, who dunked it in the hole. The crowd roared, but no one was as loud as Dorothy. She gave her hands a hard clap and only then realized she was holding a hot dog. Her wiener went flying out of the bun, hitting the chair in front of her.

Dorothy burst into laughter. “Did you see that! Did you see that?” She thumped McCain on the back hard enough to propel him forward. It was a good thing he had placed the tray of food under his seat. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have been a pretty moment.

“Yes, I saw,” McCain answered. He looked at the stranger on Dorothy’s left. “Where’s Spencer?”

Her face lost its joy. “He’s home being punished, that’s where he is.”

That gave McCain pause. Dorothy’s younger boy loved b-ball, and he idolized his brother. For Dorothy to lay on something that drastic, it was serious. “What’d he do?”

“Tell you at halftime.” She began to chant, “ Dee fense… dee fense… dee fense.”

Marcus was now guarding a player who had at least four inches on him. What the boy lacked in height he made up in speed. He was pestering his charge like a gnat, forcing him to pass the ball. The Seahawk center caught it, went in for the layup, and missed but was fouled in the act. He made the first free throw, then the horn blew and double substitutions were made. Marcus went out and the starting guard, a fleet-footed nineteen-year-old named B.G., came back in. But his reentry went unnoticed. As soon as Julius rose from the bench, the noise factor doubled. He swaggered onto the court and took up his position at the side of the key. Van Beest’s mere presence rattled the shooter. The opposing center missed the second shot, and Julius came down with the rebound.

A whistle blew. Time out, Pirates.

Dorothy sat back, colliding against the hard stadium seat. “Any movement out there?”

Referring to the stakeout. The question would have been jarring coming from anyone other than Dorothy. The woman was the compartmentalizer queen. She called it multitasking, which was the new sleek word of the moment. It left McCain wondering why the young kids today took nouns like party and task and turned them into verbs.

“Nothing,” McCain answered. “Feldspar promised to call if anyone showed up, but in my humble opinion, he split.”

“What about the girl?”

“Nothing.”

“Check with her parents?”

McCain flicked his wrist, exposing a fifteen-year-old Timex. “As of twenty-six minutes ago, they still hadn’t heard from her. What’s with Spencer?”

“Didn’t I say something about halftime?”

“I thought you could give me a brief synopsis.”

“It’s complicated, Micky.”

McCain arched his eyebrows.

The game resumed.

By halftime, the home team was leading by a cool dozen. As the Pirates walked off the court, Dorothy shouted accolades to Marcus, who gave his mother the courtesy of a wave.

“Why do you do that to him?” McCain handed her a fresh wiener.

“Do what?” Dorothy took a chomp out of her hot dog.

“Scream at him… embarrass him.”

“It don’t embarrass him.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“No, it don’t.”

“Yeah, it does.”

Dorothy gave him a sour look. “Can I enjoy my hot dog, please?”

“What’s with Spencer?”

“Think you can give me a minute of peace before you bombard me with unpleasant business?”

“You’re the one who brought up business.”

“Nooo. I brought up business business. You bring up unpleasant business.”

“I love you, too, Dorothy.”

She patted McCain’s knee. “What’re you gonna do with that extra hot dog that was obviously meant for Spencer?”

“Want it?”

“How about we split it?”

“You split it,” McCain said. “I’m not in the mood to get my hands all filled with mustard and onions.”

With keen dexterity, Dorothy split the hot dog, licking mustard and relish off her fingertips. She gave McCain his portion, then bit into her half. “He had a gun, Micky.”

McCain stopped midbite. “What are you talking about?”

“Spencer.” Another bite. “I found a gun in his backpack.”

“Whoa… that’s not good.”

Dorothy’s face darkened from mahogany to ebony. “I’ve never been so mad in my life!”

“You were pretty mad when Gus Connelly bit you on the hand.”

“Madder than that.”

“How’d you find it?”

“Cleaning out his things.” She turned to face him, mustard on the corner of her mouth. “He had a four-day-old lunch in there that stank to holy heaven. I cleaned it out and just saw it.” She shook her head. “Micky, I was so mad… so disappointed !”

“You ask him why he was carrying?”

“Course I asked him!”

“What’d he tell you?”

“The usual crap that they all give. ”It’s a bad world out there. A man needs protection.“ I just wanted to smack him. After all the talks we’ve had about guns, all the lectures, all the postmortem pictures! What is wrong with that boy?”

“Maybe he felt threatened.”

“Then he should come and tell me about it!”

“Maybe a fifteen-year-old six-foot-four boy feels embarrassed about complaining to his mother the cop.”

Dorothy turned fierce. “What are you? His friggin‘ shrink ?”

McCain shrugged and took another bite of his hot dog. “What’d you do with the gun?”

“I got it at home.”

“Gonna run it through NCIC?”

“Probably.” She shrugged. “You never know. He won’t even tell me where he got it. That’s what really pisses me off.”

“You want your son to be a fink?”

Again, she glared at him. “Go be useful and get me another coffee.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dorothy watched him go. Fighting off apprehension, she called home. To her immediate relief, Spencer picked up on the second ring. She had grounded him and he had stayed grounded. Good start. “It’s me.”

No response over the line.

Dorothy said, “Whatcha doing?”

“Watching the game.”

“By yourself?”

“Yeah, by myself. You said no friends. What’re you doin‘, Ma? Checking up on me?”

Yes, that was exactly what she was doing. She heard the accusation in his voice: You don’t trust me. “Well, if one of your buds wants to come over and watch with you, I won’t object.”

A pause. “What’s goin‘ on, Ma? You feeling guilty or something?”

“I have nothing to feel guilty about, Spencer Martin Breton. I’m just showing some flexibility. Are you complaining about that?”

“No, not at all.” A pause. “Thanks, Ma. I know Rashid is at Richie’s house watching the game. Can both of them come over? I swear we won’t make a mess, and if we do, we’ll clean it up.”

“Yeah, I suppose-”

“Thanks, Ma. You’re the best!”

“There’s a bag of pretzels and potato chips in the pantry. Soft drinks, too. No beer, Spencer. I mean it.”

“I don’t like beer.”

How does he know ? Dorothy said, “We still have to talk about it, you know.”

“I know, I know. Can I call them now before halftime’s over?”