O’Neil was saying, “We really need to—”
His words braked to a halt as a tall, lanky teenager, shoulders and stance wide, appeared from the side yard. His black jeans were faded, patches of gray showing, and an olive-drab combat jacket covered a black sweatshirt. It didn’t have a hood, Dance noted. He stopped suddenly, blinking in surprise at the visitors. A glance at the unmarked CBI car, which any viewer of a cop show on TV in the last ten years would instantly recognize for what it was.
Dance noted in the boy’s posture and expression the typical reaction of someone spotting law enforcers, whether they were guilty or innocent: caution… and thinking quickly.
“Travis, honey, come over here.”
He remained where he was, and Dance sensed O’Neil tensing.
But a second foot pursuit wasn’t needed. Expressionless, the boy slouched forward to join them.
“These’re police officers,” his mother said. “They want to talk to you.”
“I guess. What about?” His voice was casual, agreeable. He stood with his long arms dangling at his side. His hands were dirty and there was grit under his nails. His hair seemed washed, though; she supposed he did this regularly to combat the sprinkling of acne on his face.
She and O’Neil said hello to the boy and offered their IDs. He studied them for a long moment.
Buying time? Dance wondered.
“Somebody else was here,” Sonia said to her son. She nodded at the graffiti. “Broke a couple more windows.”
Travis took this news from his mother without emotion. He asked, “Sammy?”
“He didn’t see.”
O’Neil asked, “You mind if we go inside?”
He shrugged and they walked into the house, which smelled of mold and cigarette smoke. The place was ordered but grimy. The mismatched furniture seemed secondhand, slipcovers worn and pine legs sloughing off varnish. Dim pictures covered the walls, mostly decorative. Dance could see part of a National Geographic magazine logo just below the frame of a picture of Venice. A few were of the family. The two boys, and one or two of Sonia when she was younger.
Sammy appeared, as before, big, moving quickly, grinning again.
“Travis!” He charged toward his sibling. “Did you bring me M’s?”
“Here you go.” Travis dug into his pocket and handed the boy a packet of M& M’s.
“Yea!” Sammy opened the package carefully, looked inside. Then gazed at his brother. “The pond was nice today.”
“Was it?”
“Yeah.” Sammy returned to his room, clutching the candy in his hand.
Travis said, “He doesn’t look good. Did he take his pills?”
His mother looked away. “They…”
“Dad wouldn’t get the prescription refilled because the price went up. Right?”
“He doesn’t think they do that much good.”
“They do a lot of good, Mom. You know how he gets when he doesn’t take them.”
Dance glanced into Sammy’s room and saw that the boy’s desk was covered with complicated electronic components, parts of computers and tools — along with toys for children much younger. He was reading a Japanese graphic novel as he slouched in a chair. The boy glanced up and stared at Dance intently, studying her. He gave a faint smile and nodded toward the book. Dance smiled back at the cryptic gesture. He returned to reading. His lips moved.
She noticed on a hall table a laundry basket filled with clothes. She tapped O’Neil’s arm and glanced at a gray sweatshirt sitting on the top. It was a hoodie.
O’Neil nodded.
“How are you feeling?” Dance asked Travis. “After the accident?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“It must’ve been terrible.”
“Yeah.”
“But you weren’t hurt bad?”
“Not really. The airbag, you know. And I wasn’t going that fast… . Trish and Van.” A grimace. “If they’d had their seat belts on they would’ve been fine.”
Sonia repeated, “His father should be home anytime now.”
O’Neil continued evenly, “Just have a few questions.” Then he stepped back to the corner of the living room, leaving the questioning to Dance.
She asked, “What grade are you in?”
“Just finished junior year.”
“Robert Louis Stevenson, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What’re you studying?”
“I don’t know, stuff. I like computer science and math. Spanish. Just, you know, what everybody’s taking.”
“How’s Stevenson?”
“It’s okay. Better than Monterey Public or Junipero.” He was answering agreeably, looking directly into her eyes.
At Junipero Serra School, uniforms were required. Dance supposed that more than stern Jesuits and long homework assignments, the dress code was the most hated aspect of the place.
“How’re the gangs?”
“He’s not in a gang,” his mother said. Almost as if she wished he were.
They all ignored her.
“Not bad,” Travis responded. “They leave us alone. Not like Salinas.”
The point of these questions wasn’t social. Dance was asking them to determine the boy’s baseline behavior. After a few minutes of these harmless inquiries, Dance had a good feel for the boy’s nondeceptive mode. Now she was ready to ask about the assault.
“Travis, you know Tammy Foster, don’t you?”
“The girl in the trunk. It was on the news. She goes to Stevenson. She and me don’t talk or anything. Maybe we had a class together freshman year.” He then looked Dance straight in the eye. His hand occasionally strayed across his face but she wasn’t sure whether it was a blocking gesture, signifying deception, or because he was ashamed of the acne. “She posted some stuff about me in The Chilton Report. It wasn’t true.”
“What did she say?” Dance asked, though she recalled the post, about his trying to take pictures of the girls’ locker room after cheerleading practice.