Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

Amrita plopped a teabag into the cup. “I never make a proper cup anymore. This will have to do. Don’t tell Barton.”

“I won’t.”

“So what do we do, Mary? What is our plan?” Amrita fetched a spoon from the silverware drawer and the mug of tea, its paper tag fluttering like the tiniest white flag. She came to the table and set the spoon and mug down, the tea releasing a humid cloud.

“We’ve requested the testing, so they have sixty days.”

“In the meantime, Dhiren suffers.” Amrita sat down heavily in the opposite chair.

“There’s another way, but it’s expensive. We can do an independent evaluation, but it costs. Three thousand dollars.”

“We can’t afford that. Can’t you get us somebody sooner, cheaper?”

“I’ll look around.”

“Let’s crack on, then.”

“Will do.” Mary got the gist of the Briticism and noted that Amrita made the decision without Barton. A software programmer, he traveled for work and wasn’t Indian, which Mary sensed had strained the relationship with Amrita’s parents. “Now, tell me how Dhiren is.”

“Not good. I don’t know what I’d do if I worked full-time. He says he’s sick, most mornings. He doesn’t want to go to school.”

“That’s typical. They call it schoolphobic. How many days did he go last week?”

“Two only.” Amrita closed her eyes, trying to remember. “Before that, he went three days. Of course that only makes it worse. He falls behind. He misses class discussion.”

“Did you start volunteering at school?”

“Yes, twice, as you asked. I see what happens now.” Amrita sighed. “They started a new unit on the Revolutionary War. They write entries in a battlefield diary, as if from Valley Forge, and read them in class.”

Mary’s heart wrenched. It would be a disaster for Dhiren.

“I helped him with the diary, but he had to read it himself, out loud. They mocked him. Dummy, they called him, instead of Dhiren. They mocked his accent as well. This I heard with my own ears.” Amrita’s expression remained stoic. “Imagine, with all this talk against bullying on the TV, on the news.”

Mary thought again of Trish.

“Last week, he got into a fight. One of the other boys called him dummy, and Dhiren hit him. The teacher, appalled, sent Dhiren home. I had a strop, a hissy fit, you call it, and now, it gets worse. I’ll show you.” Amrita stood up. “Dhiren, please come here.”

“I got a present for you, Dhiren.” Mary reached into her briefcase, and by the time she’d pulled out the bag, the boy had arrived at the threshold, his dark eyes shining. She handed him the wrapped package. “I don’t know how to work this, but I expect a smart guy like you does.”

“Cool!” Dhiren ripped off the paper and pulled out a shrink-wrapped box, a new game for his Game Boy.

“Say thank you, Dhiren.” Amrita frowned.

“Thank you!”

“Hope you don’t have this one, it’s called Dogz.” Mary pointed to the word, though its corrupted spelling wouldn’t help the cause. “You choose a puppy and you get to name it.”

“Dhiren, bend your head down for me,” Amrita said, and the boy bent over while his mother rooted around in his gorgeous hair, then exposed a bloody scab on his scalp. “See, Mary. Look at this.” Then she let the hair go and displayed another scab behind his ear, bloodier. “And see this, here.”

“Who did this to him?” Mary asked, disgusted. “The kid he fought with?”

“Not him.” Amrita removed her hand, and Dhiren straightened up, his knees wiggling again. “Son. Tell Miss DiNunzio what happened in school.”

“Did someone hit you?” Mary asked, softly.

Dhiren shook his head.

“No,” Amrita answered for him. “The hair is gone in patches. It’s pulled out at the root.”

“Yikes.” Mary could only imagine how much that hurt. “Who pulled your hair, Dhiren? Please, tell me.”

Amrita answered, “He goes in the boys’ room and pulls it out himself.”

Mary gasped, astonished, but Amrita remained impassive.

“He does it himself. He’s so upset, so frustrated, he’s tearing his own hair out. It started last week. Tell her why you do this, son.”

Dhiren kept looking down, his new video game forgotten. “I don’t know. I go and do it. I can’t help it.”

“You can help it,” Amrita snapped. “You must not do it. Simply, you must not.”

“Dhiren,” Mary interrupted, “can I ask you a favor? When you feel like pulling out your hair, could you please pretend your hair is like a puppy and pat it instead? Like in the game?”

Dhiren nodded. “Can I go now?”

“Yes, you can,” Mary answered, though she knew he was asking his mother. “Go. Play. Have fun.”

Dhiren hurried off, leaving the two women in the still kitchen.

Amrita’s features slackened, and she surrendered to a sadness as familiar as an old sweater. “Please, Mary,” she whispered, over the untouched tea. “Won’t you save my son?”

“I’ll do everything I can,” Mary answered, sick at heart. She had no better answer. The law was failing everyone today. Or she was.

Outside the kitchen window, it was getting darker.

And nightfall was Trish’s deadline.

A troubled Mary left Amrita’s house and stood outside for a moment, surveying the street. A cold night had fallen but lights were on in the rowhomes, glowing a warm gold. TVs flickered behind gauze curtains, sending bluish flashes into the night. Down the street, a young woman stood smoking on her stoop, the cigarette tip burning red.

He’ll kill me. Tonight.

Mary slid her BlackBerry from her purse, ignored the e-mail, and hit Redial. She listened to the phone ring and ring, but there was no answer at Trish’s mother’s house. Where was Trish now? Was she okay or was she lying dead somewhere? Mary hit End, slid the phone back into her purse, and scanned the city skyline, looking for answers that weren’t there.

She hadn’t gone two steps when a door opened and Elvira Rotunno reappeared, a stocky silhouette in the doorway, her timing too good to be coincidental. She called, “Yo, Mare, did you eat yet?” she asked, which came out like Jeet jet?

“Yes,” Mary lied again. “I gotta run.”

“Why don’t you come in for some dessert? Dom wants to say hi.”

“No thanks, gotta go.” Mary looked around for a cab, or a gun to shoot herself.

“Where you goin’ this time a night?”

“To my parents’,” Mary heard herself answer, though she hadn’t thought of it until this minute. It was a good idea. She needed an escape, a meal, and a hug, but not in that order.

“Hold on then. Dom can give you a ride. You won’t get a cab out here, you know that.”

“I can walk.”

“To your parents’? That’s twenty blocks.”

Mary made a mental note to move. “I’ll get a bus.”

“Here he is.” Elvira was joined at the door by an equally wide silhouette in jeans and an Eagles sweatshirt.

“Ma,” Dominic bellowed. “I can’t drive nowhere, you keep forgettin’. I got no license since the DUI.”

Gulp.

Suddenly a silvery Prius turned the corner and slowed to a stop in front of the rowhouse. “Oh, here’s my Ant’n’y.” Elvira walked down the steps, holding on to the wrought-iron rail. “He can take you home, Mare.” When she reached the sidewalk, she pulled Mary close and whispered in her ear, “I’d fix you up with Ant’n’y, but he’s gay.”

Perfect.

Mary turned in time to see Anthony emerge from the driver’s side of the Prius. She didn’t know him from high school, but she knew only the boys who needed tutoring. Anthony Rotunno looked like a nice guy; tall, slim, and ridiculously well dressed in a brown leather jacket, white shirt, and charcoal pants.