A leaning white picket fence surrounded an oak tree and small patch of lawn. A grass-and-gravel driveway ran along the left side of the property. At the back was a two-story garage with a window over the garage door. A staircase rising along the north side of the building indicated someone lived in the second story. Faz caught up to Del as he stepped through an opening where the gate to the picket fence had once swung, but the gate now leaned up against the trunk of the oak tree. To Del, the damage to the gate looked like more than wear and tear. It looked like someone had kicked the gate off its hinges.
Del climbed three wooden steps to the front door. The porch light, a bare bulb, was too bright for the overhead socket and emitted an annoying buzz. He heard the television from inside and smelled something cooking. He knocked.
A young girl pulled the door open. Small, with straight blonde hair down her back, she appeared to be nine or ten, about Mark and Stevie’s age. Del took a deep breath. As much as he wanted to wring Jack Welch by the collar, this was a family—probably one that had suffered as much as Maggie and the twins.
“Hi,” Faz said. “Is your mom or dad home?”
The little girl turned her head and yelled toward the interior of the house. “Mom! There’s someone at the door.”
A woman came quickly from the back of the house. She had a dish towel in hand but wore business attire—cream slacks, black pumps, a blouse. Given how quickly she’d come to the door, she probably had admonished the little girl about opening the door to strangers. Good kids from good families, Del thought.
When she saw Del and Faz, the woman came to an abrupt stop. She looked as if she’d started to melt. Her body sagged, her shoulders slumped. She dropped the towel. Her face took on a deeply pained expression.
“Go to your room and read,” she said to the little girl in a voice so soft Del almost couldn’t hear her.
The girl didn’t argue or ask questions. She’d been through this before. She disappeared down the hall. The woman waited to speak until she heard a door close. She approached them, tentative, her arms wrapped around her. “Is he dead?” she asked.
Del and Faz hadn’t even had the chance to show the woman their identification and badges. “Are you Jack Welch’s mother?” Faz asked.
She sighed. “Yes. I’m Jeanine Welch. Are you here to tell me my son is dead?”
“No,” Faz said. “We just want to talk with him.”
She let out a held breath. Her knees folded and she stepped back, collapsing onto a coffee table.
“Are you all right?” Faz asked.
Jeanine Welch exhaled another deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut, as if light-headed or fighting a headache.
“I take it your son’s not home?” Faz asked.
“No,” she said, her head still lowered and her voice soft. “He’s not.”
“Do you know where he is?” Faz asked.
With another breath she looked up at them. “What?”
“Do you know where he is?”
“He called me at work earlier today. He said he’d be home. I don’t know what that means. He didn’t come home last night.”
“May we come in?” Faz asked.
“What is this about?” the woman asked.
“Allie Marcello,” Del said.
Her brow wrinkled. “From school?”
“Yes,” Del said.
The woman’s eyes shifted between Del and Faz. “What about her?”
“She overdosed,” Del said. “She’s dead.”
“I know,” the woman said. “I went to her funeral. I saw you there,” she said to Del. She sounded defeated but managed to stand. “Why do you want to talk to Jack?”
“We’d like to ask your son what he knows about her death,” Faz said.
“Do you think he had something to do with Allie’s death?”
“We think he might have information related to her overdose,” Faz said.
The woman digested that for a moment. Then she said, “Come in.”
They entered and closed the door. The front room was quaint but tired. A worn couch and chair faced a television. The couch had a blanket on it and an open newspaper. Del wondered if the woman had slept there, waiting for her son to come home; a similar blanket and newspapers had lain across his sister’s couch many recent evenings. Magazines lay scattered across a coffee table, along with an unopened newspaper still in its plastic sleeve. The woman quickly cleared the couch and used the remote to shut off the television.
Del and Faz sat. She dumped the blanket and newspapers behind the couch and picked up the dish towel. “Sorry for the mess,” she said, moving to the chair.
“You should see my house.” Faz smiled politely. “When my son was home it looked like a tornado ran through it.”
She slumped into the chair.
“Why did you ask if your son was dead, Mrs. Welch?” Del said, gently prodding her.
She shrugged, then sighed. She looked to be fighting tears. “I’ve been expecting a call or knock on the door for some time.”
“What’s he addicted to?” Del asked.
“Heroin,” she said. “For about a year now.” She shrugged again and blotted the corners of her eyes with the dish towel. “I can’t control him. I’ve considered kicking him out, but . . . he’s my son. I worry about my daughter, about his influence on her.”
“You said he didn’t come home last night?” Faz asked.
“No,” she said.
“Do you know where he stayed?”
“I don’t know where he goes anymore.” She looked and sounded tired. “I’ve given up trying to keep track of him.”
“He still lives here, though?” Faz asked.
She shrugged as if to say, What am I going to do? Then she nodded. “Yes. He lives above the garage.”
With time to consider her, Del realized Jeanine Welch was still young, probably Maggie’s age, early forties. She was also attractive, tall and thin, her hair the same color as her daughter’s but cut shoulder length. She carried herself, though, as Maggie carried herself, as if burdened by a huge weight, one that had shaved years off her life.
“He’s in a band,” she said. “They practice there . . .”
“How did you find out about the heroin?” Faz asked.
“I’ve found things in his room. Syringes, spoons.” She shook her head. “He started smoking pot in the eighth grade. It got worse from there. I think others in the band may have got him started on the heroin.”
“Did you know Allie well?” Del asked.
The woman nodded. “Pretty well. She’d come over here every so often to listen to the band and they’d all go up in Jack’s room above the garage. She was a nice girl, Allie. It was so sad, what happened to her.”
“What about Jack’s father?” Faz asked. “Is he around?”
She smiled, but it had a sad quality to it. “Depends on what you mean by ‘around.’ He gets the kids Wednesday nights and every other weekend. Jack stopped going about a year ago and now his father can’t force him so it’s just my daughter.”
“How long have you been divorced?” Del said.
“Seven years,” she said.
“Do you know Jack’s group of friends?” Faz asked.
“Some.”
“Do you know who’s supplying him with the heroin?” Faz asked.
She shook her head. “No. Like I said, maybe the band, but it seems it’s everywhere now.” Her voice cracked but she caught it. “I don’t know what more I can do. If I kick him out . . . then what?” She took a moment to regroup. “But I had to get him out of the house, at least . . . for my daughter.” She blotted her eyes again. Then she asked, “Why do you want to talk to him about Allie?”
“We believe Allie took a very potent form of heroin. We’re trying to find out where it came from,” Del said.