“You’re welcome. Try to enjoy the sunshine until Dr. Gwynn returns.”
“What time are you seeing the Daneys tomorrow?”
“Not your problem,” he said. “Sleep in.”
“Should I drive?”
“Alex, these people were advocates for the boys. That could make you not their favorite person.”
“My report wasn’t a factor in the decision to certify them as juveniles. Which, I should point out, is exactly what their lawyers were asking for. There’s no logical reason for me to be targeted.”
“Strangling and beating a two-year-old wasn’t logical.”
“What time?” I said.
“The appointment’s for eleven.”
“I’ll drive.”
I picked him up at the station at ten-thirty and took the Sepulveda Pass out to the Valley. He said nothing as we crossed Sunset and passed the spot where Rand Duchay’s body had been found.
I said, “Wonder how he got from the Valley into the city.”
“Sean’s checking the buses. Probably a waste of time. Like so much of what we do.”
The Galton Street address where Drew and Cherish Daney advised spiritually was in a blue-collar Van Nuys neighborhood, a few blocks from the 405. The sky was the color of newspaper pulp. Freeway noise was a constant rebuke.
The property was fenced with redwood tongue-and-groove but the gate was open and we entered. A boxy, pale-blue bungalow sat at the front of the eighth-acre lot. At the rear were two smaller outbuildings, one a converted garage painted a matching blue, the other, set slightly back, an unpainted cement block cube. The free space was mostly pavement, broken by a few beds of draft-friendly plants edged with lava rock.
Cherish Daney sat in a lawn chair to the left of the main house, reading in full sun. When she saw us she shut the book and stood. I got close enough to read the title: Life’s Lessons: Coping with Grief. A piece of tissue paper extended from between the pages.
Her hair was still white-blond and long, but the teased-up bulk and side-wings of eight years ago had been traded for bangs and simplicity. She had on a white, sleeveless top over blue slacks and gray shoes, the same silver chain and crucifix she’d worn that day at the jail. Most people put on weight as they get older but she had reduced to a hard, dry leanness. Still a young woman- mid-thirties was my guess- but fat’s a good wrinkle filler and her face had collected some tributaries.
The same sun-bronzed complexion, the same pretty features. Noticeable curve to her back, as if her spine had bowed under some terrible weight.
She smiled without opening her mouth. Red-rimmed eyes. If she recognized me, she didn’t say so. When Milo gave her his card, she glanced at it and nodded.
“Thanks for seeing us, Reverend.”
“Sure,” she said. A screen door slammed and the three of us turned toward the sound.
A girl, fifteen or sixteen, had come out of the main house and stood on the front steps holding what looked to be a school workbook.
Cherish Daney said, “What do you need, Valerie?”
The girl’s return stare seemed resentful.
“Val?”
“Help with my math.”
“Of course, bring it over.”
The girl hesitated before walking over. Her wavy black hair trailed past her waist. Plump build. Her face was dusky, round, her gait stiff and self-conscious.
When she got to Cherish Daney, she alternated between looking at us and pretending not to.
“These men are police officers, Val. They’re here about Rand.”
’’Oh.”
“We’re all very sad about Rand, aren’t we, Val?”
“Uh-huh.”
Cherish said, “Okay, show me what the problem is.”
Valerie opened the book. Sixth-grade arithmetic. “These ones. I’m doing them right but I’m not getting the right answers.”
Cherish touched the girl’s arm. “Let’s take a look.”
“I know I’m doing them right.” Valerie’s fingers flexed. She rocked on her feet. Glanced at Milo and me.
“Val?” said Cherish. “Let’s focus.” Touching Valerie’s cheek, she guided the girl’s eyes toward the book.
Val shook off the contact but stared at the page. We stood there as Cherish attempted to unravel the mysteries of fractions, speaking slowly, enunciating clearly, skirting the line between patience and patronizing.
Not losing her patience during Valerie’s lapses of concentration. Which were frequent.
The girl tapped her feet, drummed her hands on various body parts, wriggled, craned her neck, sighed a lot. Her eye contact was hummingbird-flighty and she kept glancing over at us, shooting her gaze to the sky, then down on the ground. The book. The house. A squirrel that scampered up the redwood fence.
I’d gone to school for too long to resist diagnosis.
Cherish Daney stayed on track, finally got the girl to focus on a single problem until she achieved success.
“There you go! Great, Val! Let’s do another one.”
“No, I’m okay, I get it now.”
“I think one more’s a good idea.”
Emphatic head shake.
“You’re sure, Val?”
Without answering, Valerie ran back toward the house. Dropped the workbook and cried out in frustration, bent and retrieved it, flung the screen door open and disappeared.
“Sorry for the interruption,” said Cherish. “She’s a terrific kid but she needs a lot of structure.”
“A.D.D.?” I said.
“It’s that obvious, huh?” Now she stared at me with wide blue eyes. “I know who you are. The psychologist who saw Rand.”
“Alex Delaware.” I held out my hand.
She took it readily. “We met at the jail.”
“Yes, we did, Reverend.”
“I guess,” she said, “our paths cross at sad junctures.”
“Occupational hazard,” I said. “Both our occupations.”
“I suppose… actually, I’m not a minister, just a teacher.”
I smiled. “Just a teacher?”
“It comes in handy,” she said. “For homeschooling. We homeschool the kids.”
Milo said, “Foster kids?”
“That’s right.”
“How long do they stay with you?” I said.
“No set time. Val was supposed to be with us for sixty days while her mother was evaluated for detox. Then her mother O.D.’d and died and all of Val’s relatives live in Arizona. She barely knows them- her mom ran away from home. Top of that, they weren’t interested in taking her. So she’s been with us nearly a year.”
“How many fosters do you care for?”
“It varies. My husband’s shopping over at Value Club. We buy in bulk.”
“What was the arrangement with Rand Duchay?” said Milo.
“The arrangement?”
“With the state.”
Cherish Daney shook her head. “That wasn’t a formal situation, Lieutenant. We knew Rand was being released and had nowhere to go so we took him in.”
“The county had no problem with his being here?” said Milo. “With kids?”
“It never came up.” She stiffened. “You’re not going to cause problems for us, are you? It wouldn’t be fair to the kids.”
“No, ma’am. It was just a question that came to mind.”
“There was never any danger,” she said. “Rand was a good person.”
Same claim he’d made. Neither Milo nor I answered.
Cherish Daney said, “I don’t expect you to believe this, but eight years transformed him.”
“To?”
“A good person, Lieutenant. He wasn’t going to be with us long term, anyway. Just until he found a job and a place to stay. My husband had made inquiries with some nonprofits, figuring maybe Rand could work at a thrift shop, or do some landscaping work. Then Rand took the initiative and came up with the idea of construction. That’s where he went Saturday.”
“Any idea how he ended up in Bel Air?”
She shook her head. “He’d have no reason to be there. The only thing I can think of is he got lost and someone picked him up. Rand could be very trusting.”