Part 20 (1/2)
”Lombardi. The more kids get locked up in North River, the greater the demand for a private facility. That's what you said, right? Roberts is a patsy. We need to tie these bribes back to Lombardi.” I told her about my morning poking around the Internet, how the juvie would house all of New England's least desirable. ”A prison like that would rake in a fortune.” I left out the crazier parts about my afternoon-the Toma.s.si construction site, Fisher's wrath, my a.s.sault of a cop. ”And private is nothing but profit.”
”So, you want some company while you go knocking door to door?”
”Something like that.”
Nicki met me at my place. We spent the next several hours driving around northern New Hamps.h.i.+re in my truck, visiting houses on both sides of the mountain. Most, like the Shaws, were in the middle of major renovations. Hardly anyone was home to answer questions. The few times they were, n.o.body itched to talk. One couple told us to f.u.c.k off; another that it was none of our business, they didn't appreciate being told how to parent, and then they told us to f.u.c.k off.
Clouds hung heavy as night started to fall, evening as bruised as an eggplant in the bargain bin.
”What next?” Nicki asked, as we pulled out of yet another rural driveway. ”This isn't getting us anywhere. Want to check out North River? Maybe someone would be willing to talk to us. Let us tour the facility. We could say we're interested in sending our child there.”
”I doubt it. You don't look quite old enough to have a teenager.”
”Good point,” Nicki said. ”You could say you're my dad.” She smirked.
”Very funny. But we wouldn't get far. I was up there the other night. They aren't looking to roll out any red carpets.”
”Okay,” Nicki said, brus.h.i.+ng the black hair out of her eyes, making sure to catch mine. ”I'm up for anything.”
I pointed at the glove compartment. ”Pull the map out of there.”
Nicki held up her phone. ”Ever hear of GPS?”
”Not where we're going.”
”Which is?”
”Look for Saint Thomas Place, Libby Brook.”
Took me a while to find the two silos and broken-down plow in the brooding countryside night. I parked next to the sparkling SUV with restored steering column and new coat of paint s.h.i.+mmering in the porch light. Nicki followed me up the steps to the front door. The house was a different color. Canary yellow. A happy, inviting hue.
Donna Olisky didn't greet me as warmly this time. Like her son had the other day, she tried to shut the door in my face, but I pushed back. I think Nicki was shocked that I barged inside like I did. But, f.u.c.k it, I knew there was no one else home.
”Get out of my house!” Donna screamed.
”Or what?” I said.
Donna made for her landline. I cut her off, yanking the cradle and ripping the cord out of the wall. I didn't mean to pull it so hard.
Donna Olisky gasped. So did Nicki. I knew I was coming on too strong, but I was tired of getting d.i.c.ked around.
”Sorry.” I pulled my wallet. I'd withdrawn cash at the gas station, planning on buying Nicki dinner first. I didn't want to explain the credit card charges to my wife. I placed forty bucks on the table. ”That should fix that. Now, I want some answers, Mrs. Olisky.”
”About what?”
Out the corner of my eye, I saw the shrine to her dead son. I turned my shoulder to block the view. I needed to stay focused on the task at hand.
”I see your SUV got fixed.”
”What concern is that of yours? Your company declined my policy-a policy that I paid thousands into over the years, so that when I needed it, I could make a claim. But you rejected that claim, Mr. Porter.”
”Yeah. Insurance sucks. They like to take your money. Don't like to pay it out. But I don't make the laws.”
”No. You just break them, busting into homes uninvited.”
”How did you get the money to fix the SUV?” I pointed outside. ”The house has a new paint job, too.” I glanced around the interior. Holes s.p.a.ckled over, new wallpaper. The grandfather clock's pendulum swung with renewed vigor.
”Not that it is any of your business, but I applied for government a.s.sistance with home repairs. The state has programs to help people like me.”
”Like you?”
”Single parent homeowners, yes. You can look it up. There are a variety of state-a.s.sistance options and programs available. I was approved.”
”When?”
”Why do you care?”
”Because your son was sent to North River. And then you get money. I find the timing strange.”
Donna took leave and went to a drawer, where she extracted a piece of paper, returning to shove it in my face. The official seal of New Hamps.h.i.+re, stamped and signed. Formal approval of the HUD request and a receipt for a ten-thousand-dollar check.
”Satisfied?” she asked.
I studied the amount. ”When did you apply for this program?”
”When my husband left last year. What's it to you?”
”And the money shows up after Brian goes to North River?
After you agree to Judge Roberts' recommendation that he be sent there?”
”Brian was caught with drugs-”
”Pot.”
”Drugs!” Donna started sobbing, pointing at the shrine. ”I watched one boy die because of drugs. I wasn't standing by and losing another!”
”So someone called and said if you signed off on North River you'd get the money?”
”Get out of my house!”
Nicki tugged at my sleeve. ”Jay, I think we should go.”
Donna Olisky kept sobbing, shoulders heaving, pouring on the histrionics.
”Answer me! Did someone tell you this request would get approved if you agreed to North River? Yes. Or no.”
”My son needs help!”
”Answer me! Was that the deal?”