She smiled. “Sure is. I got it at CarMax, but I like pretending I’m a cop’s daughter, you know? Or a cop’s wife. Or a cop!”
“Huh,” said Salvatore.
“I never get pulled over, and I like to think you guys are looking out for me.” Mae Mae wore lavender eye shadow and maroon lipstick, her silver hair brushing her shoulders. Salvatore’s take was that she was a low-key lady who had made an effort this morning, but might not wear makeup again. All of the visuals added up, but something needled at Salvatore. He made a mental note to call her fourth reference when he had a moment. The first three had checked out and he’d been tired.
“Nice to meet you,” said Salvatore.
The kids approached, smiling shyly. Salvatore felt a wave of sweet relief. He could do his job now, knowing they were safe.
Weren’t they?
Mae Mae followed them all into the kitchen. Salvatore filled his travel coffee mug and listened to Mae Mae listening to his kids. God, they had so much to say. His stomach ached at the thought of how long they’d kept silent around him. “OK, guys, I’m off,” he said.
“Bye, Dad!” said Allie.
“See ya,” said Joe, not looking at Salvatore.
“You OK, buddy?” said Salvatore.
“They’re fine,” said Mae Mae. “Have a great day! If you’re not home by six, I’ll drop them with the woman next door.”
“Peach,” said Salvatore.
“Peach,” Mae Mae repeated.
“But I’ll be home by six,” said Salvatore.
“Whatever,” muttered Joe.
Salvatore paused, but he wasn’t paying Mae Mae half his salary so he could stand around and worry. He headed out the front door, climbed into his car, and left, feeling lighter the farther he got from his house and his children.
Salvatore sipped his coffee as he made his way to Barton Hills Drive. No alternative suspects had turned up yet, so he was going to troll his childhood neighborhood, drive by the teen lifeguards’ houses, wander the green and swampy trails.
The first kid, Charlie Bailey, lived with a single mom on Oak Glen Avenue.
As he turned in to the neighborhood, a boyhood emotion rushed over him—look! I’m a cop now! Driving a cop car! He felt lit up, proud.
The history of the area had always fascinated him. A pioneer named Barton had set up his homestead on the southern banks of the Colorado River in 1837; almost two centuries later, the springs still bore his name. Sections of the twisty hiking trails held secrets—Salvatore and his friends had discovered a cave they’d christened Smoker’s Hollow, storing pilfered cigarettes there. But now the neighborhood he’d roamed with his friends was in transition. Some of the old ranchers remained, including the one his mom had sold for peanuts in the eighties. But parts were unrecognizable, giant mansions sprawled over the large lots, fancy cars parked in gated driveways.
* * *
—
THE BAILEY HOUSE WAS one of the original ranchers. It was in OK repair, needed a new roof, the front lawn a bit overgrown but not unkempt, a gorgeous live oak well watered and healthy in the corner of the lot. There was no car in the driveway. This was the kind of house Salvatore dreamed of, actually. If only he’d bought one like this in 2000, or before the boom, anyway.
There wasn’t anything wrong with Slaughter Lane （besides the name—my God! Were his kids really going to grow up between Slaughter Lane and Convict Hill Road?）。 Honestly, his “way South” neighborhood was made up of guys like him, guys who’d grown up in Zilker or Hyde Park and couldn’t get near Central Austin with a normal salary. But he missed these streets, living in a place where you could bike to Barton Springs and jump in anytime you wanted. The Barton Creek Greenbelt was the heart of the city.
Salvatore slowed and parked across the street. Framed by what might be the living-room window, he saw a woman at a desk, pecking at the keyboard of a laptop. She was in her mid-to late thirties, closer to his age than he’d realized. Her short hair was tucked behind her ears as she focused intently on her computer, the screen’s glow lighting her face.
Salvatore’s eyes widened. He knew this woman. From his memory, he heard her speak her name, playing with the label on her Shiner beer, tucking that short hair behind her ear: I’m Liza. Hey.
Liza.
Elizabeth Bailey.
It was so long ago, before he’d even met Jacquie. He and Liza—Elizabeth Bailey—had danced together, both pretty buzzed, the fabric of her dress silky in his hands. Her lips had tasted salty, pressed to his. Her hips, underneath his fingers. He’d lived in a cramped apartment then, and in the morning she was gone. They hadn’t exchanged numbers. He had no way to find her. He’d actually thought about her—the woman he’d met at a Damnations concert—for a long time.
Liza Bailey.
An almost—but not quite—forgotten lover, now before him, the mother of a murder suspect.
Liza stopped typing, placed her chin in her hand and gazed out the window, lost in thought. She wore a gauzy white blouse that skimmed her cream-colored skin. He had kissed a freckle on that collarbone.
Salvatore watched her for a moment, overcome with yearning. For her? For who he’d been, a young man who could get drunk at a Damnations show? For a life where anything was still possible?
Salvatore swallowed. He had to do his job, which was interview Liza Bailey. He gathered himself.
He approached the front door and knocked. She did not answer. He knocked again, but there was no reply. Stepping back, Salvatore saw that Liza had shut the shades to the room where she was working. Knowing she was inside made him feel a weird, hot thrill. He peered into the side yard, spying a Big Green Egg smoker next to an outdoor dining set. The smoker was filmy with pollen and one of the patio chairs had fallen over on its side. It had been over 90 for a month, so it made sense that nobody had been grilling recently.
“Hello?”
Salvatore turned. An older man was walking toward him from the house next door. He was heavyset, his hair in a long braid. “Can I help you?” he asked, crossing his arms. Why he was wearing wool socks and Birkenstock sandals in the insane heat was a mystery that was not Salvatore’s to solve.
“I’m Detective Revello,” said Salvatore, pulling out his badge.
The man peered at it; his brow furrowed. He nodded, seemingly satisfied, but his arms remained crossed. “Yes?” he said.
“I’m trying to find Elizabeth Bailey,” said Salvatore. “But she’s not answering her door.”
“As far as I can tell, you’re trespassing,” said the man.
Salvatore rubbed his eyes, dismayed by the neighbor’s antagonism. “Can I ask you a few questions?” said Salvatore.
“No, you may not,” said the man.
Salvatore handed the man his card. “Well, give me a call if you change your mind,” he said. “I’d appreciate it very much.”
“Goodbye,” the neighbor said. He stood sentinel on Liza Bailey’s lawn, watching Salvatore like a hawk until he drove away.
I’m Liza. Hey.
Salvatore saw her in his mind’s eye, thought of her naked on the futon he’d discarded long ago, the pale green sheets, her eyes looking up at him, giving him a sly grin as she moved down his body…