LITMIR.BIZ

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on the cable hookup,” she said with a smile. Her face, like her daughter’s, was covered in freckles brought out by the spring sun, except for the skin around the white tissue of her scar. She’d pushed her sunglasses up onto her red hair. She looked impossibly beautiful. Amelia was wearing a shirt that said, “Quiet, Vader Is Coming” and had already buried herself back in a book.

      I looked around. “Nice street.”

      “Not bad.”

      “Not the suburbs.”

      “Indeed.”

      “Not that there’s anything wrong with the suburbs,” I said.

      “Suburbs are people too,” she agreed.

      A white Ford F-150 pickup truck pulled up along the curb. A man got out, walked around the front of the truck, and approached the steps.

      “Anne?” he said.

      “That’s right,” she said, standing up. She shook his hand. “Anne Cooper. This is my daughter, Amelia.” A beat later, she added, “And my boyfriend, Andy. But it’s just Amelia and me. For the apartment.”

      “Richard Deckard,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” He was wearing leather work boots, jeans, and a tucked-in Ohio State golf shirt tight against a big but not huge belly.

      He unlocked the door and showed us in. You could see right away it was special. Refinished hardwood floors, repainted walls, new stove and refrigerator in the kitchen. A strip of yard in the back, but surrounded by a new fence. Beyond that, a gravel pad for parking, a nice bonus given the narrow Clintonville streets. A half bath downstairs and a full one up, both clean and smelling of paint and spackle. Two bedrooms, each with decent-sized closets.

      I could tell Anne liked it from the way she squeezed my arm as we came back downstairs. Amelia liked it too, especially the size of her proposed bedroom, which was far bigger than the one she lived in at the moment in the self-same suburbs with Anne’s parents. Their refuge after Anne’s deranged husband tried unsuccessfully to kill Anne but not before disfiguring her, after which he turned his knife on himself. The place was nice enough that Anne’s disappointment showed all the more when Deckard told her, almost apologetically, that although the rent was eleven hundred, plus two months down, it would probably go up after a year or so.

      “That’s probably out of my range,” she said. “But could I get back to you?”

      “Sure. Just I got a few other folks looking at it today is all.”

      “I understand.”

      They shook hands on the porch, and Anne and Amelia went down the steps and headed to the car. I was a couple feet behind them when I heard Deckard say, “Excuse me?”

      I turned to look at him.

      “Aren’t you Woody Hayes?”

      I nodded. “I go by Andy now.”

      “OK. Sorry.”

      “No problem.”

      “I saw you on the news. You’re a detective.”

      “Investigator, technically.”

      “What I meant. You do jobs for people?”

      “That’s right.” I glanced up the street at Anne and Amelia, lingering on the sidewalk next to Anne’s red Toyota. The only one in Columbus, at least the only one I’d ever seen, with both “Starfleet Academy” and “13.1” bumper stickers.

      “Got a situation I wouldn’t mind talking to you about.”

      “OK.”

      “Has to do with my daughter.”

      “Go on.”

      “Her fiancé, more like it.”

      “He in trouble?”

      “He’s not, but his brother is.”

      “What kind of trouble?”

      “The big kind. He raped a four-year-old boy.”

      I SAID, “WHO WAS the boy?”

      “His girlfriend’s son.”

      “Where’s the brother now?”

      “In jail. Awaiting trial.”

      “What’s his name?”

      “Wardley. Derrick Wardley.”

      I looked up the street at Anne. She tapped her watch. I nodded.

      “So how can I help you?”

      “Something’s not right with Troy. That’s my daughter’s fiancé. He’s gone into shut-down mode, ever since Derrick got arrested. Won’t talk to his parents, his friends, anybody. Barely speaks to Bonnie.”

      “That’s your daughter?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Won’t talk, meaning what, exactly?”

      “I don’t mean can’t talk, just doesn’t. Doesn’t do anything, in fact. Lost his job a couple months ago because he stopped going.”

      “What did he do?”

      “Worked in a warehouse. He was a picker, for auto parts. Not the most exciting work, but he was good at it. Good money, too.”

      “Does Bonnie have a job?”

      “Works at FedEx Office. Part-time. She’s handy with computers. Used to do some IT work for a company. These days, people hire her freelance to build websites, help them with online genealogy records, things like that.”

      “They live together?”

      “That’s right.”

      “Troy’s brother. What’d he do to the boy?”

      “Raped him, at night, putting him to bed.”

      “How’d he get caught?”

      “The boy’s grandmother noticed something wasn’t right. It was a huge shock, gotta tell you. Not like Derrick was any great shakes, but nothing like that. Least that’s what Bonnie says.”

      “Where’s the boy now?”

      “Grandparents. The girlfriend’s, not Derrick and Troy’s folks.”

      “So what is it you want me to do, exactly?”

      “I’m not sure. Could you talk to Troy?”

      “Talk?”

      “See what’s bugging him. Find out what’s going on.”

      “What’s bugging him? You mean, like beyond what’s up with his brother?”

      “Thing is, they weren’t ever that close, at least according to Bonnie. Maybe it’s something else.”

      “Why would he listen to me if he won’t talk to his parents or to Bonnie?”

      “I don’t know. He’s an Ohio State nut, like everyone else. Might get a kick out of meeting you. I know it sounds strange, but I’m not sure what else to do. I saw you here, realized who you were, thought I’d ask.”

      “What about a doctor? A psychiatrist?”

      “We tried that. He won’t go.”

      “You must like this guy a lot to want to hire me.”

      “I’m just trying to do the right thing by Bonnie.”

      I rolled what Deckard was telling me around in my head. Thought about the irony of someone asking me to play the role of famous Buckeye football player. Like seeing if Lance Armstrong was available for color commentary on the Tour de France. Then I thought about being Hershey’s part-time sidekick for a couple of weeks

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