Chapter 13

 

            Rick Simon sat in a chair across from Abigail Marsh's desk late on a Friday afternoon.  They shared coffee and silence, both immersed in their own thoughts regarding the case that was only growing more mysterious.

 

            Rick ran a finger over the rim of his Styrofoam cup.  "So, you don't have any leads regarding the murder of Manuel Homera?"

            "None.  We know the usual - the approximate time of death, what type of gun the bullets came from, and the fact that someone saw a cop knocking on Mr. Homera's front door at ten-thirty in the morning, but what that proves or disproves is beyond me."

 

            "Kinda curious, don't ya' think?  That Brendan sees a cop drive off with the guy A.J. was chasin', and now a cop shows up at Homera's house on the same day Homera is found murdered."

 

            "Yes, Rick, I do think that's rather curious.  As a matter of fact, I've found it so curious I've been through two bottles of Tums in the past week.  The bright side to that is, they're supposed to boost my calcium intake.  The downside is, I seem to have a perpetual case of heartburn."

 

            "Tell me about it."  Rick thought a long moment.  "So the guard was on the take for something, but what?  And at two hundred bucks a crack whatever it was couldn't have been all that valuable."

 

            "That may not necessarily be true.  If you saw how Homera and his wife lived, you'd know two hundred dollars was a lot of money to them."

            "Maybe," Rick nodded.  "Abby, you told me a few weeks ago that Homera claimed he wasn't in the building that afternoon because he'd gotten a call to go home and be with his sick wife.  But, yet, when you questioned the wife's boss he claimed the woman was at work during that time period."

 

            "Yes."

 

            "What's your take on that?"

            "Same thing it was then.  That the Homeras were lying to me.  Manuel Homera might have gone home, but he certainly wasn't needed there to tend to a sick wife."

 

            "So maybe that two hundred bucks he collected was for leaving a couple doors

unlocked, then disappearing for a few hours."

 

            "I've thought of that. I even suggested it to the man, but he steadfastly denied it.  Obviously, he's not going to change his story now."

 

            "No, I don't suppose he is, considering dead men tell no tales.  Any chance of repentance on Mr. Homera’s part was wiped out in his garden last week.  But what about the boys?  Brendan's friends?  By now I assume you've talked to them?"

 

            "I have, and their story varies little from Brendan's.  After they left him, they walked around the building, but claim they never saw anything or anyone until a man in black carrying a gun chased them out."

 

            "A man in black, huh?  I'm startin' to get the feeling Johnny Cash is the guy we're lookin' for here."

 

            "What's that supposed to mean?"

            "Johnny Cash always wears black when he performs.  Some years ago he wrote a song about his clothing choice that was a big hit for him called, The Man In Black."

 

            "Unfortunately, I highly doubt Johnny Cash is who we're looking for."  Abby took a careful sip of her hot coffee.  "Jeremy and Tim also verified another portion of your statement."

 

            "What portion was that?"           

            "They said the man who yelled at them to leave the building was large, just like you said your impression of one of the people exiting the van was that of a large man."

 

            "So, what do we have?  A big guy in black, a woman in black, and a nondescript person in black.  Not much of a help, is it?"

            "No, not so far it hasn't been."  Abby turned in her chair until she was facing the picture window that looked out over the squad room.  "Rick, do you think A.J. has any memories of what happened?  Any memories whatsoever that would help me?"

 

            "No."  Rick shook his head.  "None." 

 

            "Have you talked to him about it?  Tried to prod his memory a little bit?"

            "Joel doesn't think I should.  He thinks it's best if A.J. concentrates on his recovery right now.  He doesn't want him feelin'...other pressures."

 

            "I can understand that, but it doesn't help my investigation any."

            "I know.  But to tell ya' the truth, Abby, I'm almost one hundred percent positive A.J. remembers nothing about that day.  I'm picking up Brendan when I leave here.  He hasn't seen A.J. since the accident and wants to visit him.  I told A.J. last night that the boy is coming this evening.  It was obvious by the look on his face that he has no clue why Brendan wants to see him."

 

            "In other words, A.J. doesn't remember Linda hired the two of you to trail Brendan."

            "No, he doesn't.  He does remember us meetin' Lindy for lunch at Charley O's, but I know he hasn't put the pieces together as to why.  I truly doubt he ever will."

 

            "Other than that, how's he doing?  I've been wanting to stop by ever since he was transferred to the rehab hospital, but haven't had a chance yet."

 

            "He's doing…okay, I guess.  Or so his therapists keep assuring me.  It's just such a damn slow process.  He does seem to be sayin' at least one new word each day."

 

            "That's good."

 

            "Yeah, it is, though he's still difficult to understand.  He's not really putting his thoughts into sentences yet either, but they tell me that's normal.  Everything he tries to convey generally comes out in two or three words like it did when he was at County.  He is beginning to recognize more letters and numbers, and he's getting around better.  His right arm and leg aren't what they should be, he's using a cane now, but with the help of a life vest they started him swimming twice a day this week for thirty minute intervals.  The therapists say that's good for him.  That it'll keep those weak muscles from atrophying further."

 

            "Because you're close to the situation everyday, I know you probably don't hear how positive what you've just told me sounds."

 

            "It does sound positive, I guess.  It's just that..." Rick let his thoughts trail off unvoiced.

 

            "What?"

 

            It's my fault, don't you see?  Don't any of you see if it hadn't been for me my brother wouldn't have to learn to walk, and talk, and read, and write again?  Don't any of you people understand how that's ripping my heart right outta my chest?

 

            "Nothing.  Never mind.  I'd better leave you to your work.  I need to get goin'.  I've gotta pick up Brendan in half an hour."

 

            Abby rose with Rick.    "Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention to you.  I've had an undercover cop keeping an eye on A.J.  While this entire case is sketchy, I'd hate for someone to try to eliminate him as a possible witness."

            That explains the big nosy janitor I keep bumpin' into at the oddest times.

 

            "Thanks, Abby.  Though with A.J.'s name and most of the details surrounding the accident being left out of the papers and off the TV, I don't think we have much to worry about, do you?"

 

            "No, I honestly don't.  But, I'm going to keep Edmunds in place for a while just to be on the safe side."

 

            "Thanks.  I appreciate that."

 

            Abby's phone rang so Rick said a final goodbye, then exited her office.  He paid no attention to the man he passed who approached the counter in the busy, noisy squad room.

 

            Hanrahan looked up from his computer keyboard.         "Can I help you?"

            "Yes.  I'm looking for a Lieutenant Marshall."

            "Marshall?  I think you mean Marsh.  Lieutenant Marsh."

            "Yes, thank you," the man's cheeks colored pale pink as though he was embarrassed by his blunder, "that's what I mean.  Lieutenant Marsh."

 

            With a nod of his head Hanrahan indicated to Abby's office where the woman stood talking on the phone.  "She's tied up on a call right now, but if you'd like to wait you can see her when she's finished."

 

            The man's eyes traveled to the picture window.  He took note of the attractive, auburn headed woman who was looking at an open file on her desk, obviously relaying some sort of information it contained to the person on the other end of the phone.

 

            "Thanks, but it's not that important.  I'll stop by later."

 

            Wyatt walked out of the door twenty seconds behind Rick Simon.  If he hadn't chosen to take the stairs to the ground floor, the two men would have shared the same elevator.

             

________________________________

           

            Rick pulled his new Dodge Ram into an empty parking spot at San Diego Rehab.   He had never again driven the black Ford, just like he'd told his mother he wouldn't over a month ago now.  He'd made do with a beat up old Chevy S-10 borrowed from Carlos until a few days ago.  Carlos knew someone who wanted to buy Rick's Ford. The detective sold it without even dickering on the price he was offered.  He took less for the vehicle than it was worth, but he didn't care.  That truck had almost claimed his brother's life, and in so doing had radically altered A.J.'s world.  Rick couldn't stand to look at it and all it symbolized.  He took the cash he had in hand, got a loan from the bank for the additional money he needed, and bought himself a big silver Ram a year newer than his Ford had been.

 

            The detective depressed the clutch while shifting to first gear.  He turned the ignition off, pulling out the keys.  "Well, kiddo, looks like we're here, huh?"

            The boy stared out the passenger window, looking up at the ancient six story building.  The bricks were faded and weathered, the concrete of the front steps crooked and white-washed with age.  Lights shone from upper story windows, giving Brendan an occasional glimpse of someone struggling to move about with the aid of a walker or cane.

 

            Rick sensed the twelve-year-old's trepidation. "You don't need to be afraid, Bren.  It's not as bad on the inside as it looks on the outside."

            Brendan turned to face the detective.  "I...I'm not sure I wanna go in, Rick."

 

            "A.J.'s expecting you.  He's probably waiting for us right now." 

 

            "I know.  It's just that..."

 

            When the boy didn't finish his thought, Rick spoke.  "Brendan, A.J. doesn't remember what happened.  He doesn't remember anything about the accident."

            "Oh."

            Rick could tell that, in a way, the boy was relieved to find out he didn't have to make any apologies to A.J. Yet, in another way, he was disappointed that he couldn't. 

 

            I know how you feel, kid.  I know exactly how you feel.

 

            Rick reached for his door handle, popping the latch.   He paused, noticing Brendan wasn't copying his movements.  The boy hazarded a glance in Rick's direction.  In that split second, Rick saw the twelve-year-old try to hide a bad case of nerves.

 

            He's scared.  He's scared because he doesn't know what to expect.  Because he's heard his mother, and grandmother, and other family members, talk about A.J.'s injuries.  Talk about how the accident changed him.  Hell, his own stepfather referred to A.J. as retarded.  No wonder the kid's got a bad case of the jitters.

 

            "Would it help if before we go in I tell you what to expect when you see A.J.?"

            The boy looked up at the building one last time before focusing his attention on Rick.

 

            I can't chicken out, I can't chicken out, I can't chicken out, Brendan chanted to himself.  I can't.  It's not fair to Rick after he picked me up and brought me here.  And, most of all...most of all, it's not fair to A.J.  I owe it to him.  I owe it to him to visit him no matter how...how different he is now.

 

            Brendan swallowed hard, trying to moisten his suddenly dry mouth.

 

            "Yeah...I...yeah, maybe you could tell me."

            "Okay.  First off, he's pretty skinny right now.  Skinnier than you've ever seen him.  Skinnier than he's been since he was a teenager."

 

            "Why?"

            "For two reasons.  Partly because of the pain he's been in for so long.  He gets really bad headaches every so often, and his left side still hurts him, so I just don't think he feels much like eating.  And, also because he has a hard time holding a fork.  He gets angry 'cause the food keeps falling off on him, but he won't let anyone help him since he came here, so half the time more of it ends up back on his plate than in his mouth.  He does better though, with each day that passes.  Eats a little more, has a little less pain, and has a little more control of his hands, so in time he'll get back to the weight that's normal for him again. 

 

            "He uses a cane when he walks.  The three pronged kind like your Grandpa Palmer used when he was so sick."

            "How come A.J.'s using a cane?  Is that because of his left side, too?  Because of it being hurt?"

            "No.  That's because the head injury has caused weakness in the muscles of his right arm and leg.   They aren't getting the signals to work from his brain like they should be."

            "Will that change as he gets better?"

            "We hope so, Bren.  He started swimming this week, that's the best thing for those muscles right now."

 

            "Maybe I could swim with him sometime, huh?"

            Rick smiled.  "Maybe.  When he gets a little stronger, I'll look into it.  I've seen other kids in the pool on Saturdays and Sundays, so I don't see why you can't join in on the fun.  I'm sure A.J. would like that."  Rick touched the middle portion of the back of the boy's head.  "Remember how I told you that night at Pizza Hut that A.J. had a bandage that ran from his left ear to right about here?"

            "Yeah."

            "That's gone now.  It has been for quite some time.  But the hair that was shaved for the surgery is still growing in, so it looks a little goofy.  Kinda like a sideways Mohawk."

 

            "Cool."

 

            "A.J. doesn't think it's so cool," Rick chuckled, "but I'm sure he'll appreciate your admiration.

 

            "Another thing you might notice if you visit A.J. much in the coming weeks, is his memory ain't so hot just yet.  That comes as a result of the head injury, too.  That's why just learnin' little things like numbers, and the alphabet, are tough for him right now.  And sometimes, within just a few minutes of a friend or relative leaving, he might forget the person ever came to see him in the first place.

 

            "The last, and probably most difficult thing about all this for A.J., as well as for his visitors, is the way he talks."

 

            "He doesn't say very many words, does he?  I heard my mom tell Aunt Julie that on the phone."

 

            "No, he doesn't say many words, but he's picking up new ones every day.  He's saying a lot more now than he did when he was first in the hospital.  The thing of it is though, his brain has a hard time forming sentences, so most of what he says comes out real slow and in just a few words.  You have to listen carefully and kinda piece together the rest.  If you're not sure about what he's saying, just repeat it back to him.  He'll let you know if you're right or wrong.  If you're not embarrassed, he won't be.  But, if it makes you uncomfortable and you show it, then it makes A.J. uncomfortable and he quits talking.  The best way I can describe it is to think of what Heather sounded like when she was a toddler and first learnin' to talk.  Do you remember that?"

 

            "Sure.  She'd point at things and just say one word like book, or doll, or ball.  And then she'd jabber on in gibberish, as Dad used to call it, and we'd all be tryin' to figure out what she was saying.  Sometimes if she got real mad at us 'cause we couldn't understand and she'd throw something at us."

            "A.J. does that once in a while, too, so be prepared to duck."

 

            "I will be."

 

            Rick laughed.  "I was teasing you, kid.  Not that he hasn't thrown a few things at me when he's been frustrated, but I have yet to see him do it to anyone else.  I can pretty well assure you he won't, provided you're patient with him and you just be yourself."

 

            Brendan nodded his head with renewed confidence.  "I can do that."  He picked up the school backpack he had laying at his feet and opened the passenger side door.  "Come on.  Let's go.  If we stay out here much longer visiting hours will be over."

 

            Rick reached out a hand, tousling the blond hair that was so like his brother's.  "With that attitude, you'll do just fine, pal."

            Brendan's eyes traveled every hallway, room, and lounge they passed.  He hiked his backpack more firmly onto his shoulders as he and Rick stepped off the elevator and onto the third floor.

 

            Rick could tell the boy was valiantly trying not to stare at people who shuffled by them using walkers or canes.  Brendan couldn't help but pause when the sixteen-year-old boy Rick and Cecilia had seen in therapy on A.J's first day here passed them in a wheelchair being pushed by his father.

 

            Brendan watched until the young man disappeared around a corner.  He looked up at Rick, his voice pitched so low the detective had to strain to hear him.   "I didn't know they'd be so young.  He's not much older than me."

            "Yeah, some of the patients are young.  It's sad, isn't it?"

            Brendan thought of A.J. and the discussion they'd had pertaining to his age that day in the morgue.   "Yeah...yeah, it is.  A.J.'s not very old, either."

 

            Rick put a hand on the boy's shoulder.  If Brendan could detect the lump in the man's throat he dutifully ignored it. 

 

            "No, Brendan...no, he's not."

 

            Leaving his hand where it was, Rick guided the twelve-year-old down the hall to A.J.'s room.  No longer was the blond's room down a secondary hall east of the nurse's station and facing the parking lot, as it had been when he bunked with George Middleton. Now it was north of the station, and the very last room on the left hand side of the main hallway with a stairwell directly across from it.  The view A.J. had this time was of the cinder track and expansive grounds behind the building.  Rick got the impression his brother enjoyed being able to see the green grass and trees, because he often found A.J. standing in front of the window.

 

            Or he's wishin' he was outta here and vicariously escaping this place with the aid of that view, Rick would think when he found A.J. absorbed in the outside world.        Hang on, little brother. Just hang on for me.  It'll happen one day.  I promise, one day soon you'll walk outta here and never have to walk back in.

 

            A.J.'s private room varied slightly in layout from the room he'd previously been in.  The closet was behind the door. In the room he'd shared with Mr. Middleton the bathroom had been located there.  The work counter ran along the north wall next to the closet, across from it was A.J.'s bed, nightstand, and dresser.  Around the corner from the bed was the bathroom that was two feet larger than those found in the shared quarters. 

 

            As far as Rick was concerned, the move to this private room had been the best thing for A.J.  There was no doubt he was happier now that he didn't have to put up with the idiosyncrasies of a roommate, especially the idiosyncrasies possessed by George Middleton.  At least he no longer begged Rick to take him home. 

 

            The blond man was seated at the work counter putting together a one hundred piece jigsaw puzzle of a Rolls Royce Roadster, when Rick and Brendan stepped into the room.  Troya Yeager had told Rick and Cecilia she personally designed the therapy programs of each patient with the intent of rebuilding skills they used on their jobs, and in their every day lives.  The doctor admitted the program she'd designed for A.J. was a challenge for her, simply because she'd never worked with a private investigator before.  His unique profession meant he not only relied on logical thinking patterns to reach conclusions that would eventually solve a case, but as well, he relied on wild hunches.  With Rick's help, the doctor created an agenda for A.J. they were pursuing on a trail and error basis.  Putting together puzzles, while rather elementary, was one way to get his brain to make correct choices when trying to fit together the small colored pieces that would eventually reveal a picture.  

 

            Brendan stopped in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room.  They traveled over A.J. and the cane resting beside his chair, before dropping to the floor.  A.J. was far from the stylish man Brendan was used to seeing.  Like Rick had said, he was skinny.  So skinny his eyes looked too big for his now narrow face, and his cheekbones didn't seem to have enough skin to cover them.   And he was dressed funny, too.  His clothes were baggy and loose fitting, with no buttons or zippers, like the kind of clothes Brendan had seen old men wear in the nursing home his grandfather had lived in the last two months of his life.  Trying not to be obvious about it, the twelve-year-old craned his neck.  Indeed, A.J. possessed a strip of hair about two and a half inches wide, and two inches long, that looked like it had been sheared with a barber's razor, while the rest of his head had been forgotten. 

 

            Rick urged the boy farther into the room by placing a hand on his backpack.  A.J.'s concentration level on the puzzle was so great he wasn't aware he had visitors.

 

            "Hey, A.J.   Look who I brought to see you."

 

            The blond man rose with a smile, grabbing onto the handle of his cane for support.   "Hi------Kee." 

 

            "Hi, little brother.  How was your day?"

 

            "Fine."

 

            "What'd you do?"

            These were the same questions Rick asked every evening when he came to see his brother.  In part, because it allowed him to get a feel for what A.J. was learning, and in part, because it was another way for A.J. to be forced to use his limited verbal abilities.

 

            "Wen--------danin'."

 

            Rick laughed, realizing that for the first time since the accident, he'd been made the victim of some good old-fashioned A.J. Simon sarcasm.

 

            "Went dancing, huh?  With who?   That sexy Doctor Yeager, I bet.  Or maybe your favorite -  ole Nurse Finster, huh?"

            A.J. smiled at the teasing.  "No-------not-------er."

 

            Rick walked over to the counter, allowing Brendan to remain where he was.  He thought the boy would grow more comfortable if he was given a few minutes to adjust to the situation. "You're workin' on a puzzle, I see."

 

            "Yes."

 

            "Hard one?"

            "Yes."

 

            "Need help?"

 

            "May----------layer."

 

            "Okay, good idea.  Maybe later.  You try it for a while longer yet by yourself."

 

            A.J. looked around Rick's body at his young visitor.  He was well aware of the boy's source of discomfort, and tried his best to ease it.

 

            "Hi---------Bendan."

 

            A.J. had practiced the name several times that day with Troya Yeager just so he could say it this evening.  R's were still impossible for him, though Doctor Yeager told him he did wonderful to pronounce it as well as he did.

 

            "That's a hard one, isn't it, A.J.?"  She'd asked after they'd worked at it for a straight fifteen minute stretch.

 

            "Yes.  Bill--------ea-------er."

 

            Troya chuckled in admiration of this man's sense of humor and perseverance.  "Yes, it would be easier if his name was Bill, wouldn't it."

 

            Brendan forced himself to meet the blond man's eyes.  "Hi, A.J."

 

            "How---------you?"

            Rick waited patiently to see if he needed to translate A.J's meaning for the twelve- year-old.  He gave Brendan a smile when the boy replied with an immediate,  "I'm okay."

            "Good."

 

            Rick turned to look at is sibling.  "Hey, say that again."

            "Good."

            The lanky man leaned forward, giving his brother a quick hug.    "That's great, A.J.  It's not 'goot' anymore."

            "No.  Good."

 

            Rick motioned for Brendan to sit in the chair next to A.J.'s.  The boy took his backpack off, leaning it against the wall, while Rick perched on the edge of the bed.  With the aid of his cane, A.J. reclaimed his chair.

 

            Rick brought the conversation back to his original line of questioning, asking A.J. about his day.  Answering in two or three words, A.J. relayed all he had done. 

 

            "Has Mom called yet?"

 

            Rick and Cecilia rarely came to see A.J. together.  They'd discovered early on it overwhelmed him to have too many people helping with the projects his therapists had assigned, or the 'homework' he’d been assigned, as they referred to it.  Doctor Yeager told them it wasn't unusual for a patient to perform much better in a one-on-one situation with a family member.  She also stressed the importance of Rick and Cecilia giving themselves a night off now and again.  Therefore, mother and oldest son coordinated with each other as to when one of them was going to see A.J.  The one who missed a night always phoned him before he went to bed.  On weekends, they alternated afternoons and evenings.

 

            "No.  Layer.  Mo-----fies."

 

            Rick understood his brother was telling him their mother would call later, but he was lost when it came to deciphering the last word of explanation.  "What'd you say, A.J.?  I'm not sure what you meant."

 

            "Call-------layer.   Mofies---------Eee-----ie."

 

            "Oh, she went to the movies with Aunt Edie."

            "Yes."

 

            "Good for her.  She deserves a night out, don't you think?"

            "Yes.   You------too."

 

            "Me too?  Nah.  I don't need a night out."

 

            "Yes.  You------take."

 

            "I'll tell you what, the first night out I have will be with you.  As soon as Doctor Cho and Doctor Yeager give the word that we can spring you from this place for a few hours, we'll paint the town.  How's that sound?"

 

            A.J. smiled at this seemingly small gesture that meant so much. "Good."

 

            Although Brendan hadn't said a word throughout the exchange, he hadn't been forgotten.  Rick thought the boy might make an attempt at conversation if left alone with A.J. for a few minutes.  "Listen, guys, I'll go down to the soda machine and get us something to drink.  You wanna Coke, A.J.?"

            "Yes."

 

            "How about you, Bren?"

            Brendan jumped up from his chair, the guilt he was feeling over being the cause of A.J.'s injuries made him eager to flee the room.   "I'll go get the pop, Rick!  I've got money."

            "No, no.  You stay here with A.J.  He gets sick of havin' to talk to me all the time.  I'm sure he'd like to hear from someone else once in a while, wouldn't you, little brother?"

 

            "Yes."

 

            Rick reached out and tousled his brother's hair.  "Hey, you, you weren't supposed to answer that."  The lanky man headed out the door.  "I'll be back in a little while, guys."

 

            Brendan dropped back to his chair, his eyes falling to his feet.  It was one thing to be here with Rick in the room, but quite another to be alone with A.J.  Every time Brendan looked at his mother's cousin, he thought of their last conversation together in the observatory and how, because of him, because of his own foolishness, this man might never be the same again.  It made the boy want to cry, and he was forced to wipe his eyes with the sleeve of his hooded sweatshirt jacket to keep A.J. from seeing his tears.

 

            A.J. sensed the boy's discomfort, but assumed it was because of his disabilities.  He pointed to the puzzle.  "Wan------help?"

 

            Brendan swiveled in his chair, scooting it closer to A.J.'s.  "Okay.  I mean, if you want me to I can."

 

            "Yes.  Wan----you-----to."

            The pair worked together in silence for a few minutes, the only sound in the room being the tiny 'snap' of a wooden piece as it was popped into place.  A.J. looked down at the blond head bent in concentration.

 

            "How--------chool?"

            "Pretty good."  Brendan reached for another puzzle piece.  "I'm doing better.  A lot better.  I haven't missed any days since your accid...for a long time.  I still have a lot of work to catch up on, but I'm getting there.  I might even get some A's on my report card.  I------I wanted to do good for you, A.J."

 

            A.J. smiled at the boy, though he wasn't sure what Brendan meant.

 

            "And I'm not smoking anymore, either.  Rick said you wouldn't want me to, so I quit."

 

            A.J.'s, "Good," was spoken with preoccupation, as a small crack opened within the window of his mind.

 

            "I found a pack of Camels, of all things, in his dresser drawer last week.  I told him smoking cigarettes or drinking will only cause him more trouble.  About how the choices he makes at age twelve, will undoubtedly become choices he regrets someday on down the road."       

 

            "And I'm back in the Boy Scouts, in my school's science club, and on a soccer team again, too, just like you wanted."

 

             "He quit the Boy Scouts, he quit the soccer team he played on, he dropped out of the school science club...and his grades.  His grades are sinful.  He's always been an A student, but now his report cards are full of D's and F's."

 

            "My old friends, they weren't very nice to me at first, but I couldn't blame them for that.  I treated them pretty bad when I was hangin' with Jeremy and Tim, but my Mom let me have a sleep-over last weekend and they all came, so I think it's going okay.  I've made some new friends, too, but not ones who get me in trouble like Jeremy and Tim did."

 

            "He's hanging out with a couple of fourteen year olds, ninth graders, who he has no business spending time with.  I've tried to encourage him to renew his friendships with the boys he used to be close to.  His best buddies from grade school that he did everything with."

 

            The reason he and Rick had met Lindy at Charley O's that day six weeks earlier was forming more clearly in A.J.'s mind.  For some reason the detective thought that meeting led to tragic results, but of what kind?  Brendan was sitting next to him right now healthy, whole, and to all intents and purposes a boy who had changed for the better.  But what had caused that change?  By the twelve-year-old's words, A.J. knew he must have had some influence over the turnaround, but how?  If he'd talked to Brendan at some point in the past, he didn't recall their conversation.

 

            The boy's voice brought the detective back to the present.  "I have something I made for you, A.J."  Brendan bent down and retrieved his backpack.  "It's not much, and if you don't like it that's okay.  You don't have to keep it.  But I thought maybe you'd want to hang it in your room."

 

            A.J. watched with open curiosity as the boy unzipped his backpack.  He pulled out his yellow spiral notebook, easily finding the picture he'd drawn over a year ago, as though he'd turned to this page a thousand times in recent weeks.

 

            Brendan laid the notebook on the counter top, rotating it so A.J. could see what he'd drawn.  The detective studied the caricature of himself and Rick standing larger than life on top of the world in billowing capes.  The drawing needed no explanation, the message Brendan was trying to convey was easy to discern.  A.J. grinned his appreciation.  He pointed to the words the boy had printed.  Though he could read a few, most were nothing but jumbled letters to him.  "What--------say?"

 

            Brendan's cheeks flushed red.  This was the first time he'd shared the pictures in his notebook with anyone.  To see what he'd drawn, to read the words aloud, all made it seem rather immature to him now. 

 

            But it wasn't immature to A.J.   He insisted again,  "What------say?"

 

            "It says, 'My crime fighting cousins, Rick and A.J.   Simon and Simon to the rescue.' "

 

            The boy looked up from the paper.  "I know it's kinda stupid, so if you don't want it you don't have--"

 

            "No---------stu----id.  I------like.  Good------job."

 

            "You really think so?"

            "Yes.  Lots--------tal------" A.J. stopped there, unsure how to say what he was thinking.

 

            "Talent?"  Brendan supplied the word as easily as Rick often supplied his brother with words.

 

            "Yes.  Tal----ent.  You------have-------tal-----ent.   Ver------good------Bendan."

 

            Brendan carefully tore the paper out of the notebook.  "I'll hang it up for you if you show me where.  Do you have tape?"

            "Yes." Using his cane for support, A.J. stood and slid open a door of the cabinet above him.  He took out a roll of Scotch tape and handed it to the boy.

 

            "Where do you want it?"

 

            A.J. pointed to his bed.  "Air.  I-------see-------all------time."