“May we come in?” said Petra. “At this point, it’s either that or the station.”
Drummond pressed his fists together and grimaced. Isometric exercise; no gain without emotional pain. “What do you mean ‘this point’?”
“We found evidence in Kevin’s car of criminal intent.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Let’s talk inside,” said Petra.
Drummond didn’t respond.
His wife said, “Enough, Frank. Let them in.”
Drummond’s nostrils flared. “Make it short,” he said.
But all the fight had been taken out of him.
The living room spoke of financial success acquired through achievement rather than legacy. The coffered ceiling was several feet too high for the modestly proportioned space. A faux-marble finish glossed the walls. Prefab moldings were slathered like whipped cream. The furniture was heavy, machine-carved, blond, bleached by too many crystal light fixtures. Machined copies of Persian rugs were arranged haphazardly over a bed of thick, beige wall-to-wall.
Three paintings: a harlequin, a ballerina, a too-bright rendition of an imaginary arroyo under a salmon pink sky. In the landscape, flecks of silver paint passed as reflection. Dreadful. Kevin Drummond hadn’t grown up with fine art.
And he’d escaped. The dingy Hollywood flat was less than an hour away, but for all intents, we were talking different planets.
His father dropped heavily into an overstuffed sofa. Terry settled herself a foot away, crossed long, dancer’s legs encased in skintight capris, tossed her flame-colored hair, and displayed no self-consciousness as her unfettered breasts bobbled.
High heels, no bra. The smell of canned spaghetti wafted from the kitchen.
I wondered more about Kevin’s childhood.
Frank Drummond exhaled, sat up straight. Terry Drummond’s face was heavily made-up but cosmetics failed to mask her grief. Yet, her body posture remained languid—Cleopatra-on-a-Nile-barge.
A handsbreadth between them. No touching.
Petra said, “I know this is hard for you—”
“And you’re making it a lot harder,” said Frank Drummond.
His wife tilted her face toward him but kept silent.
“What would you have us do, sir?” said Petra.
No answer.
Milo said, “Looks like Kevin flew somewhere. Any guesses where?”
“You’re the detectives,” said Frank Drummond.
Milo smiled. “If I was in your situation, I’d like to know where my son was.”
More silence. I scanned their faces for the slightest hint of deception. The errant eye blink, the facial twitch, the merest shift in body language.
All I saw was anguish. A pain I’d seen far too often.
Parents of seriously ill children. Parents of runaways. Parents living with adolescents whose behavior had long since stopped being predictable.
The agony of not knowing.
Terry Drummond’s eyes caught mine. I smiled, and she smiled back. Her husband didn’t notice, sitting stiffly, eyes dulled—off in some lonely place.
Milo said, “There is one good thing. For us, and maybe for you. Kevin never got a passport, so chances are he’s still in the country.”
Terry Drummond said, “This can’t be happening.”
“Honey,” said Frank.
“This just can’t be happening—please. What do you want from us?”
“Information about Kevin’s whereabouts,” said Milo.
“I don’t know his whereabouts! That’s why I’m going out of my mind!”
“Terry,” said Frank.
She ignored him, shifted her buttocks, and showed him her back. “Don’t you people think if I knew where he was I’d tell you?”
“Would you?” said Petra.
Terry regarded Petra with contempt. “You’re obviously not a mother.”
Petra went white, then she smiled. “Because . . .”
“Mothers are protective, young lady. Do you actually believe I’d want Kevin to be hounded by you people? Maybe God forbid get shot because he looked at you the wrong way? I know how you people operate. Trigger-happy. If I knew where he was, I’d want him safe and beyond suspicion!”
Frank Drummond regarded his wife with what seemed like new respect.
No one spoke.
Terry said, “This is absolutely ridiculous—considering Kevin a suspect in anything. A mother knows. Are any of you parents?”
Silence.
“Ha. Thought so. Now you people listen to me: Kevin’s a good boy, he’s done nothing wrong. That’s why I would tell you if I knew where he was. Because I am his mother.” A glance at Frank said she considered that several ranks above father.
He said, “Okay?” in a soft voice. “Will you please go now?”