Page 14 of Delivering David

“OK, let’s cut the crap and have a little courtesy for the lady, shall we?” Kristopher was suddenly beside her, snatching the sunglasses from the boy’s startled face. “Answer the lady’s question, or I just might knock you off your board.”

“Hey, what the fu–give me back my shades, man!”

Kristopher held the “shades” over his head, way out of the boy’s reach. “Answer the question, ‘man’ and I just might do that. Are you T.J. Fielding or not?”

The boy hesitated and Kristopher fixed him with the gaze he’d learned from his first drill sergeant. The one who could have her recruits begging to do more pushups or go on twenty-mile hikes with fifty-pound packs that didn’t include their weapons. Kristopher would have walked through fire for the woman.

“Yeah, I’m T.J,” the boy finally admitted, his expression sullen. “Are you gonna give me back my shades?”

“Not just yet,” Kristopher replied coolly, putting the shades on his own head. “In case you haven’t heard, your neighbor, Mrs. Mercy Phillips was murdered in her home last night and her son David is missing.”

Suzanne tugged on his arm. “I don’t think we’re supposed to tell him that,” she hissed. “It might not have been announced to the public yet.”

“Then Miller can arrest me,” Kristopher retorted. He gave his attention back to the now open-mouthed T.J. “Ms. Bennett says you spent time with David recently so cut the I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude and try to be helpful. Or is that too hard for you?”

Rage twisted T.J.’s features into an ugly mask. “Listen, dude–”

“No, you listen,” Kristopher stepped closer to tower over the boy. “There’s a missing ten-year-old kid who probably doesn’t know his mother is dead. Dead, T.J. As in murdered in their home. Did you understand that part?”

“Kristopher–”

“No, Suzanne, let me finish with this wise ass little punk.” Kristopher’s finger was millimeters from the center of T.J.’s chest. “David might have seen who killed his mom and now he’s gone. Whoever killed her might have taken him, so we’re trying to find him and fast, before someone kills him too. You copy that?”

“I–”

“Ms. Bennett here said she saw you hanging with David at Greet, Eat and Meet or whatever the hell it’s called.” Kristopher took the photo from Suzanne and held it up again. “You must be a damn good actor because in this photo you look like you care about David. Or maybe you’re just a good liar or trying to make yourself look all badass to a kid whose father died five years ago. So, tell us what you know–if you know anything that is–and we’ll leave your sorry self to your selfish little world.”

“You can’t talk to me like that!” Angry red splotches stained T.J.’s cheeks. “I’ll kick your ass!”

“Kid, I kicked more ass during my time in the Army than you ever will.” Kristopher’s sudden, slow grin was nothing short of feral. “So, cut the attitude and at least try to pretend you’re a human who might give a shit about a missing kid whose mom got killed in her own home last night. A kid you know and who’s been nice to you. Are you going to help us or do you even have a heart?”

Open-mouthed, T.J. blinked twice as if sizing Kristopher up, then stepped off his skateboard and put it over his shoulder. “Mercy is really dead?” he asked.

“Very,” Kristopher acknowledged, and T.J. lowered his gaze to his feet as if inspecting his Skate Rowley XLT shoes. They were an odd contrast to the standard teen uniform of ripped blue jeans and oversized flannel shirt, but his shoes looked new. He might have a shitty attitude, but someone cared enough about this boy to get him clothes he could be proud of.

He looked up at Kristopher, the arrogant expression gone. “I don’t know anything, man,” he said. “My foster parents are nurses and got called into work at the ER for a twelve-hour shift and left around seven. I heard someone banging on the door ‘bout three o’clock this morning, yelling it was the cops, but Mr. and Mrs. Johnson told me not to ever open the door to anyone at night, especially if they weren’t there.”

“That’s a good idea,” Kristopher agreed gently, handing back the sunglasses. “Do you know what time they got home?”

T.J. shook his head. “They were in bed when I woke up at nine, so I just let them sleep. And they left a note saying they have to work that shift again until New Year’s ‘cause people are calling in sick like crazy or going out of town. ER work can be tough, especially over the holidays. Lots of fights and drunks, you know?”

“That’s right,” Suzanne agreed. “I’ll bet the Johnsons take good care of their patients. And of you too.”

“I guess.” He gave Suzanne his attention. “I remember you,” he admitted. “At the Meet, some guy with a guitar sang a song with your name. Suzanne, right?”

“That’s right,” Suzanne repeated. “The old Leonard Cohen classic.”

“OK.” T.J. looked away and then back at her. “Mercy is really dead?”

“I’m afraid so.” Suzanne didn’t try to hide the wobble in her voice.

“That sucks.” T.J. dug a toe against the pavement. “She was one of the good ones. Kids in the system would kill to be on her caseload. David said you’re one of the good ones too.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Do you really think David is–I mean–”

“We don’t know,” Kristopher said. “But he was gone when the police got there last night, and no one in the neighborhood as seen him, so we don’t know what happened. Any ideas on where he’d go or hide if he ran?”

“No,” T.J. said quickly. “Mercy–I mean Mrs. Phillips was super strict about where he went, him being only ten. David said she was a good mom.”

“She was,” Suzanne agreed, not wanting to shatter this fragile beginning of trust. “She must have liked you too if she let you call her Mercy.”

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