the last time
you spoke to Tamara, Mr. Grant?”
He wouldn’t look either of us in the
eye. He sat down on one of the sofas. “I’m afraid Tamara had some issues. She
ran away a few years ago. I haven’t seen, or heard from her since.”
“Mr. Grant, where were you earlier
this evening, around midnight?” Carter inquired. Everyone was a suspect when
you were a detective. Family members, or employers, as was the case here; were
the first on the list.
Mr. Grant was immediately on guard.
“I was home, in bed doing a little reading. Why do you ask?”
The two men locked eyes. There was an
immediate tension in the air. It was so thick you could slice it with a knife.
But it wasn’t because of the conversation. It was because of the new visitor
that just made his presence known.
Mr. Grant’s twenty-five-year-old son,
Aaron Grant, strolled into the room dressed as if he had just returned from a
night on the town. “Father, I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have an urgent
phone call.”
Mr. Grant glanced at his son with a
look of uncertainty. In my mind, it looked as if he was hesitant about leaving
him alone in the room with us.
“Go on father. I can deal with the
detective and his…um, protégé.” He glanced at me, with a look of arrogance that
would make you think he was the wealthy and powerful head of the household, and
not the prodigal son.
“I’m sorry,” Carter said. “And who
are you?”
I told Carter Mr. Grant had a son,
but I’m guessing he wanted to let Aaron know he wasn’t intimidated by his
attitude.
“Aaron Grant,” he said. He offered a
firm handshake.
“Detective Carter. This is Sydney
McSwain,” he said motioning toward me.
Aaron leveled his father with a look.
“Father, please don’t keep the caller waiting.”
Mr. Grant reluctantly, but
obediently, left the room.
I couldn’t help but think the situation
was contrived. Who would be calling in the middle of the night? Was Aaron
trying to get him out of the room? He sat down in one of the wingback chairs,
like he was lord of the manor. Without looking at us, he lit up a cigar and
took a long drag as if we weren’t even there.
Carter and I glanced at each other
with raised eyebrows.
“Detective, my father can’t be much
help to you. You see, he and Tamara had a parting of the ways a few years ago.”
“And why is that, Mr. Grant?”
He smirked. “As you already know she
was one of our housekeepers, but she wasn’t very good at her job. Naturally, my
father singled her out for reprimands.”
“So she ran away?” I said, wondering
what he meant by reprimands, verbal, or physical?
“Not at first. She acted out, caused tyranny
within the household; then she rebelled. It wasn’t her fault, really. She was
the product of illegal immigrants. Tamara’s mother couldn’t handle the
responsibility of raising Tamara, so my father hired her and let her live here
to go to school.”
“Did the two of you attend the same
school?” Carter inquired.
He scoffed, as if the thought was
preposterous. “Of course not. I attended Chadmont, a private school for the
privileged; then went onto USC. Tamara went to Sutter Beach High.”
I was stunned. Tamara was my age, and
we went to the same school, but I had never seen her before. Sutter Beach was a
large school, but still.
“How did you do at Chadmont?” Carter
said, trying to keep the conversation going.
I assumed he was trying to stall time
while waiting for Mr. Grant, and at the same time, try to get a feel for
Aaron’s personality.
Aaron smiled. “I was like my father -
driven to succeed, excelled in academics and sports. Things came rather easily for
me. So, of course, I became president of my class at USC.”
“I imagine being the son of Howard
Grant helped you along the way?” Carter said, purposely trying to gage Aaron’s
relationship with his father.
Aaron clenched his jaw, and took a
hit on the cigar before he answered. “That honor, being his only son,
you spoke to Tamara, Mr. Grant?”
He wouldn’t look either of us in the
eye. He sat down on one of the sofas. “I’m afraid Tamara had some issues. She
ran away a few years ago. I haven’t seen, or heard from her since.”
“Mr. Grant, where were you earlier
this evening, around midnight?” Carter inquired. Everyone was a suspect when
you were a detective. Family members, or employers, as was the case here; were
the first on the list.
Mr. Grant was immediately on guard.
“I was home, in bed doing a little reading. Why do you ask?”
The two men locked eyes. There was an
immediate tension in the air. It was so thick you could slice it with a knife.
But it wasn’t because of the conversation. It was because of the new visitor
that just made his presence known.
Mr. Grant’s twenty-five-year-old son,
Aaron Grant, strolled into the room dressed as if he had just returned from a
night on the town. “Father, I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have an urgent
phone call.”
Mr. Grant glanced at his son with a
look of uncertainty. In my mind, it looked as if he was hesitant about leaving
him alone in the room with us.
“Go on father. I can deal with the
detective and his…um, protégé.” He glanced at me, with a look of arrogance that
would make you think he was the wealthy and powerful head of the household, and
not the prodigal son.
“I’m sorry,” Carter said. “And who
are you?”
I told Carter Mr. Grant had a son,
but I’m guessing he wanted to let Aaron know he wasn’t intimidated by his
attitude.
“Aaron Grant,” he said. He offered a
firm handshake.
“Detective Carter. This is Sydney
McSwain,” he said motioning toward me.
Aaron leveled his father with a look.
“Father, please don’t keep the caller waiting.”
Mr. Grant reluctantly, but
obediently, left the room.
I couldn’t help but think the situation
was contrived. Who would be calling in the middle of the night? Was Aaron
trying to get him out of the room? He sat down in one of the wingback chairs,
like he was lord of the manor. Without looking at us, he lit up a cigar and
took a long drag as if we weren’t even there.
Carter and I glanced at each other
with raised eyebrows.
“Detective, my father can’t be much
help to you. You see, he and Tamara had a parting of the ways a few years ago.”
“And why is that, Mr. Grant?”
He smirked. “As you already know she
was one of our housekeepers, but she wasn’t very good at her job. Naturally, my
father singled her out for reprimands.”
“So she ran away?” I said, wondering
what he meant by reprimands, verbal, or physical?
“Not at first. She acted out, caused tyranny
within the household; then she rebelled. It wasn’t her fault, really. She was
the product of illegal immigrants. Tamara’s mother couldn’t handle the
responsibility of raising Tamara, so my father hired her and let her live here
to go to school.”
“Did the two of you attend the same
school?” Carter inquired.
He scoffed, as if the thought was
preposterous. “Of course not. I attended Chadmont, a private school for the
privileged; then went onto USC. Tamara went to Sutter Beach High.”
I was stunned. Tamara was my age, and
we went to the same school, but I had never seen her before. Sutter Beach was a
large school, but still.
“How did you do at Chadmont?” Carter
said, trying to keep the conversation going.
I assumed he was trying to stall time
while waiting for Mr. Grant, and at the same time, try to get a feel for
Aaron’s personality.
Aaron smiled. “I was like my father -
driven to succeed, excelled in academics and sports. Things came rather easily for
me. So, of course, I became president of my class at USC.”
“I imagine being the son of Howard
Grant helped you along the way?” Carter said, purposely trying to gage Aaron’s
relationship with his father.
Aaron clenched his jaw, and took a
hit on the cigar before he answered. “That honor, being his only son,
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