Skeleton Justice by Michael Baden, Linda Kenney Baden Page B

assaulted by the mingled scents of industrial-strength roach spray, cooked cabbage, and ammonia. The stairs ahead were steep and narrow. Manny looked down ruefully at her Chanel wedges and began the long climb to the fourth floor.
    On the second floor, the sounds of Spanish-language holy-roller radio blared. “¡Dios, Dios! ¡Yo te amo Dios! ” over and over, barely muffled by the scratched brown metal door to apartment 2A. This was not the kind of two-bedroom Manhattan apartment most Monet Academy students were familiar with. She wondered if Travis ever brought his friends home. She wondered what he felt when he visited them in their luxury co-ops and town houses.
    Manny shifted her purse to her other shoulder and kept climbing, pausing to catch her breath at the next landing, but she was motivated to press on by the intense cooking smells on the third floor. With a stitch in her side, she reached apartment 4A, positioning herself directly in front of the peephole before she knocked, so Mrs. Heaton could see her clearly.
    She had barely grazed the door with her knuckles when it flew open. “Thanks for coming. I’m sorry I’m still in my work clothes. I just got in a few minutes ago.” Maureen Heaton stepped back to let Manny in. The door opened directly into the kitchen, a room with cracked greenish linoleum and a window that looked out onto a brick wall. Manny hadn’t seen such an ancient gas stove since she’d last visited her great-aunt Cecilia.
    “Can I get you a drink?” Mrs. Heaton offered. “Lemonade? Tea?”
    “Just a glass of water will be fine, thanks.” Manny tried not to pant as she spoke.
    Mrs. Heaton gave her the water and led her down a long, narrow hall that ran past two closed doors and ended in a small, bright room overlooking Ninety-seventh Street. “Have a seat,” Mrs. Heaton directed. “Travis should be home any minute now.”
    Grateful for the rest, Manny dropped onto the lumpy sofa, which was not completely sheathed by a ready-made slipcover. The room was filled with books. Books, and photos of Travis. Travis as an infant, Travis at his first birthday party, Travis on the shoulders of a tall, thin man who was obviously Mr. Heaton. More recently, Travis playing violin, Travis receiving a science fair award, and Travis in a Monet Academy fencing competition.
    “So, Maureen, before Travis gets here, tell me a little about Paco Sandoval. How long have the boys been friends?”
    Maureen sighed, the sigh of every mother who’s ever disapproved of her kid’s friends but can’t figure out what to do about it. “Paco. Well, Paco is everything that Travis isn’t. Wealthy, worldly, popular, hot with the girls.”
    Manny arched her eyebrows. “Yet he befriended Travis?” In her experience, that wasn’t how high school worked.
    “They were placed together in a peer tutoring program,” Maureen explained. “Paco was failing math and chemistry. With Travis’s help, he got his grades up to B ’s.”
    “So, Travis is a chemistry whiz?”
    “Oh, yes! He won a special competi—” Maureen stopped mid-gush and turned on Manny. “Don’t tell me you think Travis built that bomb?”
    “No.” Maybe not at this very moment, but try me again tomorrow . “But, Maureen,” Manny continued, “it’s important that I know absolutely every detail of Travis’s life that the prosecution could possibly use against him.”
    Maureen rose and paced around the room. “I always knew Paco would manage to get Travis into trouble, but I figured it would be for something like cheating on homework or drinking at a party. Not this—federal terrorism! What could I do? I tried to reason with Travis, but he wouldn’t hear one bad word about his friend. Travis was always a little socially backward. He had his own interests, which kept him occupied. Paco ushered him into the circle of cool kids. Travis would do anything for that boy.”
    “Our goal is to get Paco to do something for Travis. Why is he being so