THE WORD OF A CHILD Page 10

  "Well… It's something I didn't want to say in front of my parents," she said earnestly.

  "Got you."

  "The thing is, that high school guy we were talking about? He did come to the dance. I saw him."

  Feeling an intense burst of satisfaction, Connor said, "Ah. I thought you might know who he is."

  "Will he get in trouble?"

  "Not if he didn't do anything that earns it."

  "Oh." She was silent for a moment. "'Cause he's kind of nice. Funny and everything. You know? He doesn't look right through us just because we're middle-schoolers."

  "I guess not, if he's interested in Tracy."

  "She actually ignored him at the dance. I even heard her say, 'Why did you come?'—like it was really stupid of him or something."

  Thus ticking the kid off, thought Connor. What she was telling him fit his imagined scenario as if he'd scripted it himself.

  "So I don't see how he could have anything to do with … um, what you were asking about, but I thought I should tell you."

  "Calling me was a responsible, smart decision, Amy. My job would be easier if people didn't keep secrets that often have nothing to do with the crime I'm investigating, not realizing how much time I waste trying to find out something that was irrelevant all along." He paused a beat before saying gently, "I will need his name."

  "I know," she said in a small voice.

  He waited.

  "Chad. Chad Glazer."

  "Do you know where I could find this Chad?"

  "Tracy says his parents have a really cool house in Old Town. That's all I know."

  "Amy, thank you."

  "Do you have to tell anybody I'm the one who told you?" she asked in a rush.

  "Nope," he assured her. "My lips are sealed."

  She gave a gusty sigh. "Okay. Goodbye."

  "Goodbye, Amy," but she was already gone.

  Chad Glazer. Sunday evening would be a perfect time to catch even a teenage boy at home.

  A quick look at John's phone book located Connor's target. Only three Glazers lived in Port Dare. A Robert A. had an address not ten blocks from John's place.

  Connor stayed for dinner, a delivered pizza, with his brother's family, mainly out of reluctance to go to his empty apartment or grab a fast-food meal on his own. Afterward, he drove the ten blocks.

  Tracy was right: the turn-of-the-century Queen Anne style house on a corner lot with a terraced yard and glassed-in conservatory was a beauty. On the way up the front walk, a distant bell rang in his memory. Didn't a Dr. Glazer sit on the hospital board and head Internal Medicine? Or was it Cardiac Care?

  With night having settled, Connor was unseen on the dark porch looking in a leaded-glass window at a dining room, where a slight man of perhaps forty was seated at the long mahogany table, pencil in hand and a newspaper spread in front of him. A crossword puzzle addict? He said something; somewhere, a woman laughed.

  Irritated at himself, Connor still hesitated. How many contented domestic scenes had he walked into? How often had he left behind people whose lives would never be the same? Here he was, a man who lived in a bare apartment, who was unmarried, had no children, and his specialty was smashing families.

  That was unjust, of course; he knew that. If sixteen-year-old Chad Glazer had raped a seventh-grader, he had to be called to account. Now. Not ten years from now when he'd raped a dozen women or more.

  If this Norman Rockwell family behind the leaded glass was damaged, it wouldn't be Connor's doing. It would be the son's.

  The woman who answered the door was pretty, with smile lines that made her likable from the get-go. She called for her husband right away. Despite his slight stature, he carried himself with an unmistakable air of authority.

  "I'm Dr. Glazer. May I ask what you want with my son?" he asked, once Connor had repeated his request.

  "Just to talk to him." Connor pocketed his badge. "I'm investigating an allegation of sexual harassment against a teacher. I'm talking to a number of kids who know the girl who made the allegation."

  "I see." He didn't look altogether satisfied, but turned and called upstairs, "Chad! Please come down here."

  "Sure, Dad!" Seconds later, a boy came bopping down, taking two steps at a time, one hand skimming the banister and his sneakered feet thudding on the stairs.

  Heart sinking, Connor thought, damn it, he looked like a good kid. Cargo pants bagged, but his plain T-shirt more or less fit, no visible body parts were tattooed or pierced, his brown hair was short and a little spiky and his expression was pleasant.

  He leaped down the last three steps. "Hey, what's up?"

  "Chad, this is Detective…" The father hesitated and looked inquiring.

  "McLean." Connor held out a hand. "Chad, I need to talk to you about a girl named Tracy Mitchell."

  "Tracy?" he repeated, mouth hanging open. "She hasn't been in an accident or something, has she?"

  "Nothing like that."

  The woman, who had waited quietly to one side, said, "Why don't we all sit down."

  "Thank you," Connor said.

  "You won't mind if we stay," the boy's father said in a steely voice.

  "Of course not."

  The living room—or maybe parlor was the right word—was furnished with antiques, from leaded, glass-fronted bookcases to a cherry secretary that had to be nine, ten feet tall. Plushly upholstered settees clustered around a river-rock fireplace. Even the rug underfoot was valuable, if Connor was any judge; once vivid blues and golds were faded to umber and navy and cream, but it had a silky luster and a delicacy of pattern that you didn't see in the rug department of the local department store.

  "I'm Mrs. Glazer," the woman said. "May I get you a cup of coffee?"

  "Thank you, but no." As standard practice, Connor avoided accepting refreshments. It seemed wrong, somehow, to "break bread" with folks you might arrest.

  The parents flanked the boy when sitting down, a form of protection he accepted without typical teenage resentment. Even now, while his expression was anxious it was also open and basically unafraid.

  He wasn't a big kid. He was probably going to be built like his father and maybe not reach more than five-eight. He had the wiry strength of a wrestler or runner.

  Connor asked, and the boy said, "Yeah, I run track and cross country both. Man, I wish I could be a hurdler, but I'm just not tall enough."

  His dad smiled at him with pride. "Chad finished a half marathon this past summer."

  "Good for you." Connor took his notebook from an inner pocket as much to signal that he was ready to get down to business as because he really needed notes. "Chad, how did you meet Tracy?"

  "I don't know." Now that was standard teenage response. But he corrected himself immediately. "I guess she was hanging out with some people I know. I thought she was pretty, and we got to talking. I really don't know her that well."

  "And how did you see her after that?"

  The kid flushed. "Well, the first time I didn't know she was in middle school. She looks older. When I didn't see her at the high school, I asked."

  "And then?"

  "She's a walker," he said simply. "Like I am. I just run into her crowd downtown. You know. At Tastebuds, or places like that."

  "Did you ask her out?"

  The flush in his cheeks deepened. "She's only an eighth-grader."

  "Actually," Connor said, "Tracy Mitchell is in seventh grade."

  He jerked. "Seventh? You mean, she lied?"

  "It would seem so."

  Dr. Glazer said, "Is this going somewhere, Detective?"

  "Yes." Connor looked straight at the boy. "I want to hear about the middle school dance you sneaked into."

  The mother let out a small gasp; Dad only raised his eyebrows. "Is that a crime?"

  "Not one that would interest me if it is," Connor said easily.

  The boy kept his chin high. "A couple of the guys and I did. Just, you know, to see if we could."

  "Tell me about it."


  "We just, like, took turns hiding in the middle of a crowd all holding up their ASB cards. It was easy."

  The principal would be thrilled to hear that, Connor was sure.

  "How long did you stay?"

  "I don't know." He shrugged. "Maybe an hour? It was boring."

  "I understand that you told Tracy you were coming so you could dance with her."

  The kid twitched a little. "Um, I might have said something like that. Just … you know … to, um, flirt or something."

  "And did you dance with her?"

  He didn't disguise the flash of hurt quickly enough; Connor's sharp eyes noted the look the parents exchanged.

  This shrug was too elaborate. "She kind of blew me off. It was okay."

  "In what way did she 'blow you off'? She didn't want to dance?"

  "She said no, she was hanging with some friends." He shrugged again. "Like I said, that was okay."

  "Did you dance?"

  "Nah. Just … you know. Talked to some guys I knew. And then I left."

  "Did you leave the gym at any time?"

  Chad looked puzzled. "Well, when I left I did. You mean, before that? They don't let you out. Once you go out, you can't come back in."

  "Unless you sneak in," Connor said dryly.

  He grinned. "Well, yeah. But I didn't. 'Cause I didn't really want to get caught, you know? Anyway, why would I want to go out and back in?"

  "To have a cigarette?"

  "I don't smoke. Smoking's dumb."

  "To make out with a girl. Or talk to one."

  He was smart enough to catch on. "Like Tracy. That's what you're asking, isn't it?"

  "Yeah. Like Tracy."

  His eyes fired up. "Did she say I did something? I never even talked to her again after she blew me off! Why would I?"

  Connor leaned a little harder. "Did you see her? Maybe watch her?"

  The father stirred but said nothing.

  Chad Glazer stiffened. "I don't like her that much. I saw her a couple of times, just dancing and hanging out. She didn't even look at me. And that's it."

  "Did you leave with the friends you came with?"

  "Yeah, we all decided we were bored. Nobody paid any attention to kids going out, just ones coming in."

  "So you walked home together."

  "Yeah," he said combatively, his chin thrust out. "We did. If you don't believe me, you can ask them."

  "I might need to do that. If you could write down their names and phone numbers, I'd appreciate it." Connor kept his tone scrupulously polite.

  Dr. Glazer asked, "Are you done with my son?"

  "Yes. Thank you for your patience."

  "Will you do us the courtesy of explaining why you're asking these questions?"

  Connor hesitated, considered and decided that at this point there was probably no reason not to answer. Hell, he might learn something. "Tracy Mitchell has accused a teacher at the middle school of sexual harassment. And more. He denies it. We're just checking out the possibility that in fact she's covering up a different type of incident."

  The boy's stare was incredulous. "Like I … raped her?"

  The kid was sharp.

  "Something like that," Connor said apologetically. He would have to check out Chad's, story, but this time his gut told him he'd heard the truth. Chad Glazer didn't have the temper or ego problems to force a girl because she'd rejected him.

  Mrs. Glazer's back had gone stiff and her voice icy. "It's ridiculous that you'd think for a minute my son would do something like that! He's a good student, a successful athlete and a nice boy! Any teacher would tell you so."

  "Unfortunately even nice boys have raped, Mrs. Glazer." Connor put away his notebook. "Our culture still encourages boys to think that if a girl leads them on, they're entitled to take what they think they've been promised."

  "I didn't think…" Chad stuttered. "I wouldn't…"

  Connor stood. "I may confirm your story, but don't worry. This was … just a theory I was following up."

  The boy's forehead furrowed. "This teacher … raped her?"

  "That remains to be seen."

  "Wow."

  "I've told you more than is general knowledge. I'd appreciate it if you would keep what I've said to yourself for now."

  Chad nodded. "Yeah. I mean, sure. Oh. I can write down those numbers for you."

  Connor withdrew his notebook again and gave it and a pen to the boy, who scribbled quickly and handed it back.

  "Thank you for your time."

  Dr. Glazer saw him out, only saying quietly at the door, "His mother's right. He is a good kid."

  Connor nodded. "Yeah. I got that impression. I'm sorry to have bothered your family."

  A hell of a lot sorrier than his polite but professional tone suggested.

  In the car, he used his cell phone to call the first of the boys, who confirmed that he and Chad Glazer had stayed together at the dance. "Yeah, we walked home afterward. I stopped at his place for a while to hear this new CD he has." His voice changed, became anxious. "Are we, like, in trouble for sneaking in?"

  "No. I'd suggest you not try it again, but … no. This was about something else."

  So much for that theory, Connor thought, putting away his cell phone, more relieved than he liked to acknowledge. Time to do some more serious investigation into Gerald Tanner's background.

  Tracy didn't want to go back to school, but her mom made her.

  "Your grades…" Mom said, but Tracy knew Mom didn't really care. She got mad when teachers called her in to talk, but she had dropped out of school at sixteen herself, so it wasn't like she could talk. She just wanted Tracy to learn to type so she could be a secretary or something else respectable instead of a barmaid.

  What Mom wanted was Tracy out of the apartment. She probably already had some guy waiting to "visit" when Tracy wasn't around.

  Mom usually got what she wanted.

  Resentful, Tracy dressed in her favorite tight boot-cut jeans, a hot pink T that said Meow on the front, and clunky sandals. People would notice her anyway.

  "You'll be late," her mother called.

  She shoved her binder and books into her pack. "I'm going!"

  "Tracy! Wear a coat, for heaven's sake!" Mom said, when she saw Tracy heading for the door.

  "I'm not cold." Tracy took satisfaction in slamming the door behind her.

  She walked the ten blocks to the middle school really fast, goose bumps on her arms. Coats were a hassle; there wasn't really room in the locker, and she always ended up losing them.

  "Tracy!" Jen waved, her expression awed. Clumps of kids turned to stare.

  She sauntered. "Hey."

  "Are you all right?" Her supposed friends clustered. "We've been so worried! Everybody said…"

  "Why haven't you called?" Summer asked. Like she'd bothered to call.

  "Did you know that Mr. Tanner has been fired?" somebody else asked. "Or suspended, or something."

  "I knew you'd be so glad," Jen finished.

  "I heard," Tracy said with a shrug. "Listen, I've got to go to my locker."

  She escaped, but not for long.

  "Tracy!" Rachel hugged her, and everybody else on the staircase closed in on her, just the same as outside. "You're back. Everybody has missed you so much."

  Tracy felt weird, like she was having an out-of-body experience. She answered, sounding cool, like nothing had happened, but it was as if the real her was floating above looking down.

  None of her friends really cared, she thought. She saw the avid curiosity in their eyes, felt the whispers that started behind her when she moved on.

  Her first period teacher acted all concerned, but her eyes had that same look. It was creepy.

  Ms. Stavig was different. She smiled when she saw Tracy, strolled down the aisle between desks and briefly laid a hand on Tracy's shoulder before circling the room again, still talking about the scene they were going to read today. She gave Tracy a good part, one where she was mad, which helped. Sh
e had a reason to yell. Afterward, she felt drained and a little more peaceful.

  But the weirdness rejoined her outside the door of Ms. Stavig's classroom. She had Computers next, and it was all she could do to go in the room. A stranger, a woman, looked puzzled at the sight of her.

  "I've been absent," Tracy said.

  "Oh. Of course." She started explaining what they were doing, and Tracy was able to sink behind a computer monitor and pretend she was practicing her keyboarding.

  Had Mr. Tanner really been fired because of her? Would they do that without any, well, proof? Tracy tapped at the keyboard, thinking furiously. That policeman hadn't been back to talk to her for days. He had sounded as if he wasn't happy with her story.

  Her stomach knotted and she felt sick. Panic prickled on her skin immediately. Maybe she was pregnant, even if they had given her something they said would keep it from happening. Did it always work? What if she was the one person it didn't work for?

  She stared blindly at the computer monitor. If Mr. Tanner was only suspended, he would be back. She couldn't come to class if he was here! They wouldn't try to make her, would they? She absolutely could not face him.

  Tracy heard herself gasping for air and wondered distantly why nobody had noticed.

  What if they really had fired him, and he didn't come back? Would he be able to get a job somewhere else, like Mom did when she was fired? Or was it different for a teacher? What if he could never get a job again, and it was all because of what she'd told them?

  Her shaking hands dropped from the keyboard and she balled them in her lap.

  "Tracy?" the substitute said kindly, stopping beside her. "Are you having problems? I know you must be rusty…"

  "I feel sick. I have to go to the bathroom." Tracy leaped to her feet and bolted.

  In the bathroom she tried to throw up, but couldn't. It was quiet in here. She crouched in front of the toilet and rested her forehead on her crossed arms.

  She should never have told Ms. Stavig. She shouldn't have told anybody anything. She should have waited until the end of the month to find out if she was pregnant, and then if she wasn't she could have pretended it had never happened. She should never, never, never have started this.

  Dropping to her knees, her tears wetting her arms, Tracy felt ten years older than she had a week ago.