Page 28 of Bringing Chelsea Home

Alittle later

“Martin Harrison Driscoll,”Grant Miller said. “Approached an off-duty male officer early this morning and offered sex.” Despite his long night, Miller looked rested, his uniform neat and pressed, and his hair looked freshly cut. “We put him in a cell by himself because some of the other guys we picked up on other charges are homophobes and threatened to beat his ass. When I got here and saw his name, I remembered it from when he and Chelsea ran away.”

“Oh, Martin,” Elaine whispered. The gaunt, hard-faced young man seated in the interview room behind the one-way looking glass stared back as if he could see her. Several days stubble dotted his face, his long sleeve shirt hung on him and his fingers tugged at the small hoop earring dangling from his left ear. His hair was nearly as pale as Elaine’s but the black streaks at his temples proved it was a bleach job.

“I told him I had someone who wanted to talk to him, and he gave me attitude with a capital A, so be careful,” Miller warned. “You may not get anything out of him.”

“Did you run his prints?” Griff asked.

“Yeah,” Miller affirmed. “Oddly enough, we only got one hit for assault in Wisconsin. Two years ago, some guy claimed Driscoll beat him up and robbed him but then refused to press charges. My guess is he was afraid his family would find out he’d approached a male prostitute. Wisconsin said someone bailed Driscoll out and they never saw him again.”

“I’ll talk to him now,” Elaine told him, watching the youth lower his gaze to the table. “Griff, would you wait out here, please?”

“Whatever you want, Elaine.”

She smiled and followed Miller into the room but waited until he was gone before she spoke. “Hi, Martin. Do you remember me?”

He looked up from his study of the battered table to give her a cursory glance, the surprise widened his blue eyes, and his mouth fell open. But just as quickly, his lips pulled into a dismissive sneer. “Well, fuck,” he snarled. “Goody-two shoes Prescott is here. What do you want, bitch?”

Heart aching for him and everything he must have been through, Elaine kept it simple. “It’s good to see you again, Martin.”

“It’s Marty, bitch. That stupid cop didn’t tell me it was you.”

Someone pounded on the glass, but Elaine waved for it to stop. “O.K., Marty. Officer Miller and I are friends. He remembers your name from when you and Chelsea ran away and tried to help find you. That’s why he called me.”

“Bully for him.” Marty stuck out his tongue. “That for a cop,” he challenged. “I got nothing to say. To you or any cop.”

“Okay,” Elaine said. “Let’s cut to the chase, then. When is the last time you saw or heard from Chelsea?”

“Why should I tell you shit?”

“Because she’s my cousin and I love her,” Elaine said simply. “I’d like to bring her home. Can you–would you tell me where she is?”

“What’s in it for me?” Marty challenged again. “Nothing.”

“Wouldn’t you like your parents to know that you’re alive and well?” Elaine answered. “They’ve never stopped looking for you.”

“Ha!” Marty snorted. “That’s a laugh.” Rage contorted his features. “They never even tried to find me.”

“But they did,” Elaine corrected. “They’ve never stopped looking or working with the police. They even put up a website and kept it going all this time. On it, they begged you to call them and said they’d come get you no matter where you were.”

“Bullshit.” But Marty’s tone had less conviction now. “I went by the house the other day and saw them playing croquet in the back yard. They looked perfectly happy to me.”

“But they’re not,” Elaine put as much gentleness in her voice as she could. “They’re still looking for you. They update the site every week with photos and stories. Here, look.”

She took out her phone and found the page entitled, “Come Home Martin,” and handed it to him. Recipes, family gossip and photos filled the screen, along with requests for anyone who’d seen or talked to Martin to please call the listed number.

At first, he remained stony-faced as he scrolled across it. Then his lips trembled into the tiniest of smiles. “Grandma Driscoll put her salsa recipe here? She always swore she’d never reveal it.”

“I remember that salsa,” Elaine said, hoping to coax more from him. “Regular and hot–I could never handle that one, even with a bowl full of chips.”

“But she didn’t list the secret ingredient here.” Marty’s smile broadened. “I’m the only one of us kids who knows what it is.”

He scrolled again, chuckling at some of the things, frowning at others. Then he stopped and blinked hard. “Oh, man,” he whispered. “Frosty.”

Elaine leaned over to look at the photo. In what must have been Martin’s old room, a miniature Schnauzer was curled up on the bed. After it, a photo showed a younger Martin and much younger Frosty, sleeping together, the dog nestled under the boy’s arm, wearing a look of utter bliss.

“Your parents have tried to get him to sleep somewhere else,” Elaine said. “It didn’t work.”

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