anything else?"
He almost roared the answer. "I didn't think anything else. It was two kids with cameras, plugging along together, taking pictures and developing them. Innocent. Of course it was." He shook his head as if the anger he was feeling could be spun loose, like water in your ear. "Christ, I only said that because you insinuated something about the age difference."
"I didn't mean anything sinister," I said. I took the photo back and handed him the one of himself getting out of the car. "Is this your apartment?"
He answered without looking at the shot. "We don't live in an apartment. We have a house, in North York." I didn't answer, and he glanced down at the photograph, and I saw the flicker in his eyes.
I asked him, "Where was this taken? Do you remember?"
He thrust it back at me angrily. "No, I don't remember anything about this shot. It's me, somewhere, in my car. Why Kennie would have taken a picture of me I don't know. Maybe he was doing some kind of kiddie investigative journalism, prying around getting candid shots. He picked me because I was a handy subject to follow."
"But you were driving, and he's too young to drive, so he couldn't have followed you and then taken your shot from across the street. He had to be waiting. That's why I asked if it was your apartment." I kept my voice almost apologetic, wondering why he was reacting this way.
"Look, he's—he was a teenager. You should know you can't keep tabs on teenagers. They're all over the place."
"He was only just a teenager. Just thirteen. Tell me, what was he like? Was he difficult? Was he into drugs or trouble of some kind?"
"Drugs." He looked me straight in the eye and spat the word out. "You're sick. That's the trouble with you cops. You live with garbage, and you expect nothing else anywhere."
He was closer to the truth than I like, but I persisted, anyway. "Mr. Spenser, I don't know anything about your stepson except what I've learned today. If he had some secret or other, some friends or habits that were out of the ordinary, I need to know. If he didn't, then I hope you'll excuse my asking. It has to be done."
He jammed his hands in his pockets angrily and pivoted away from me to look back at the cottage. It was the move of an angry, impotent man, pinned by something he couldn't handle. Finally he said, "You're right. I'm sorry. This is all very unsettling."
"I know. I only have two more questions for you." He turned again, trying to calm himself. "Go ahead."
"I found a letter he'd been writing. It was kind of a love letter, not addressed to anyone but obviously very sincere. Did he have a special girlfriend?"
"Girlfriend." He snorted. "No, he didn't have a girlfriend." He dragged the word out, making it a slur. "Except for this buddy of his, he was a loner, never asked anyone home, never went anywhere without a camera in his hand." He sniffed and softened his tone. "It's not easy being a stepfather, you know. I did my best with him. When I saw what kind of kid he was turning into, a little hermit, I bought him a camera, something he could maybe make some contact with, something to get him out of his room and away from the science fiction he was forever reading."
"Okay. Thank you for your help. Now, my last question. Did Kennie have anything to do with the Corbetts, across the lake, just north of the narrows?"
His headshake was genuine. "I don't think he knew anybody up here."
"Well, thanks again. Now I'd like to talk to your wife and ask if I can look through Kennie's things. That okay?"
He didn't answer. He looked down at the ground and scuffed one foot in the sand that showed through the grass like an old man's scalp through his hair. I paused and then moved away to the cottage. He followed me, walking slowly, like a truant being brought back to face the schoolteacher.
Kennie's mother was standing just inside the door. I knocked, then took off my cap and went in to speak to her. I saw her looking at the bruise on my face, but
He almost roared the answer. "I didn't think anything else. It was two kids with cameras, plugging along together, taking pictures and developing them. Innocent. Of course it was." He shook his head as if the anger he was feeling could be spun loose, like water in your ear. "Christ, I only said that because you insinuated something about the age difference."
"I didn't mean anything sinister," I said. I took the photo back and handed him the one of himself getting out of the car. "Is this your apartment?"
He answered without looking at the shot. "We don't live in an apartment. We have a house, in North York." I didn't answer, and he glanced down at the photograph, and I saw the flicker in his eyes.
I asked him, "Where was this taken? Do you remember?"
He thrust it back at me angrily. "No, I don't remember anything about this shot. It's me, somewhere, in my car. Why Kennie would have taken a picture of me I don't know. Maybe he was doing some kind of kiddie investigative journalism, prying around getting candid shots. He picked me because I was a handy subject to follow."
"But you were driving, and he's too young to drive, so he couldn't have followed you and then taken your shot from across the street. He had to be waiting. That's why I asked if it was your apartment." I kept my voice almost apologetic, wondering why he was reacting this way.
"Look, he's—he was a teenager. You should know you can't keep tabs on teenagers. They're all over the place."
"He was only just a teenager. Just thirteen. Tell me, what was he like? Was he difficult? Was he into drugs or trouble of some kind?"
"Drugs." He looked me straight in the eye and spat the word out. "You're sick. That's the trouble with you cops. You live with garbage, and you expect nothing else anywhere."
He was closer to the truth than I like, but I persisted, anyway. "Mr. Spenser, I don't know anything about your stepson except what I've learned today. If he had some secret or other, some friends or habits that were out of the ordinary, I need to know. If he didn't, then I hope you'll excuse my asking. It has to be done."
He jammed his hands in his pockets angrily and pivoted away from me to look back at the cottage. It was the move of an angry, impotent man, pinned by something he couldn't handle. Finally he said, "You're right. I'm sorry. This is all very unsettling."
"I know. I only have two more questions for you." He turned again, trying to calm himself. "Go ahead."
"I found a letter he'd been writing. It was kind of a love letter, not addressed to anyone but obviously very sincere. Did he have a special girlfriend?"
"Girlfriend." He snorted. "No, he didn't have a girlfriend." He dragged the word out, making it a slur. "Except for this buddy of his, he was a loner, never asked anyone home, never went anywhere without a camera in his hand." He sniffed and softened his tone. "It's not easy being a stepfather, you know. I did my best with him. When I saw what kind of kid he was turning into, a little hermit, I bought him a camera, something he could maybe make some contact with, something to get him out of his room and away from the science fiction he was forever reading."
"Okay. Thank you for your help. Now, my last question. Did Kennie have anything to do with the Corbetts, across the lake, just north of the narrows?"
His headshake was genuine. "I don't think he knew anybody up here."
"Well, thanks again. Now I'd like to talk to your wife and ask if I can look through Kennie's things. That okay?"
He didn't answer. He looked down at the ground and scuffed one foot in the sand that showed through the grass like an old man's scalp through his hair. I paused and then moved away to the cottage. He followed me, walking slowly, like a truant being brought back to face the schoolteacher.
Kennie's mother was standing just inside the door. I knocked, then took off my cap and went in to speak to her. I saw her looking at the bruise on my face, but
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