Thread Of Deceit. Catherine Palmer
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folded her arms. “I’ll wait right here.”
Caleb shrugged. “You might not want to mess with Sam. Maybe you could get something out of Terell.”
“I’ll mess with Sam first.”
He gave a low whistle and rolled back to his computer. The bathroom door opened and Sam emerged, ducking his head to avoid the top of the frame.
“Still here?” he mumbled, shouldering past her again. He walked to a row of gray lockers that must have come from an old high school gym, jerked one open, stripped off his T-shirt and grabbed a towel. After blotting his face and chest and applying stick deodorant, he tugged a dry T-shirt over his head. Finally, he tossed his dirty laundry onto the massive pile in the corner and turned those blue eyes on Ana.
“Ma’am, Haven is all about respect, and I’d be glad to talk to you if I had anything to say.” He glanced at his watch, then looked around her to check the clock in the gym. “I told you all there is. We’re working on the paint.”
“Mr. Hawke, I have only two weeks to complete this story, and my editor assured me you’d cooperate. In fact, Haven is at the top of my list of sources. I believe our publisher serves on your board of directors.”
He paused a moment. “Davidson’s a good man. We appreciate his dedication.”
“So, are you planning to remove the lead paint or seal it?” she asked.
“Whatever it takes.”
“Exactly where is the paint?”
“It’s around.”
She flipped open her notebook. “How many rooms at Haven have lead paint?”
“A few.” He reached out and pinched the notebook between his thumb and forefinger, slid it from her hand and folded it shut. “We’re dealing with it. That’s all. No story.”
Returning the notebook to her, he smiled. The parentheses were absent. “Thanks for dropping by Haven, ma’am. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re in the middle of activity change, and I need to check on my crocheters.”
“Did you say crochet?”
She followed him out of the office, scrambling to reopen her notebook and get the cap off her blue ink pen. He lifted a hand as a new group of youngsters took to the makeshift basketball court. Several waved back, some shouting, “Hey, Uncle Sam!”
He strode toward a row of doors that Ana suspected had once led to offices. Stopping at the first in line, he peered inside the small room. “Hey, Terell, how’s finger painting?”
“Good. We got six today.” A large man looked up from a table spread with newspapers. Like Sam, he had a military haircut and arms sculpted with muscle. His long legs, bare and ebony hued, ended in white socks and a pair of the largest sneakers Ana had ever seen. A half-dozen children clustered around him, their fingers and faces smeared with blue, red and yellow tempera paint.
“You showing around a new volunteer?” Terell asked.
Sam glanced over his shoulder at Ana. “Didn’t know you were still here.”
“I’m taking the tour.”
He turned away, the big shoulder in her face, and addressed the children. “She’s a newspaper reporter. Her name is Miss Burg.”
“Burns.”
“Terell Roberts is my partner,” Sam told her. “T-Rex, who’ve you got there?”
Ana shifted her focus to the little girl on Terell’s lap. Fairy-tale princess golden curls crowned her head, but there the image ended. Thin and dirty, the child wore a small white T-shirt and a pair of badly stained purple shorts. Her feet were jammed into sandals at least two sizes too small, crowding her tiny pink toes. Nestled close to Terell, she leaned her head against his broad chest. His arm circled her as she turned sad blue eyes on Ana. Noting that one cheek appeared swollen and tinged with hot pink, Ana’s instinctive alarm system went off. Someone had slapped the child—and not long ago.
“This is Brandy,” Terell said. He bounced her on his knee. “She’s not feeling too happy today. But we’re gonna fix that, huh, sugar-pie? Do some painting, maybe eat a bowl of popcorn.”
The child stretched up and planted a kiss on the man’s cheek. Ana felt queasy.
“Who hit her?” she demanded.
Terell’s head shot up, his eyes suddenly hooded. “Ma’am, I’m taking care of that,” he said in a low voice. “You all get on with your tour now.”
“See you at the next activity change,” Sam told his partner as he shut the door. Before Ana could speak again, he marched on to another room.
“Hey, Lulu,” he said, leaning through the open door. “What are we up to this afternoon?”
Ana peered around his shoulder. A woman with light brown skin perched on a green plastic chair that sagged precariously under her weight. Eight children sat cross-legged at her feet on the concrete floor. “We’re reading Peter and the Wolf, ” she announced, holding up a large book. “Then we’ll listen to the music.”
“You kids be good for Lulu,” Sam said, stepping away from the room.
“Hey, did you see that child’s face—back in the other room?” Ana demanded, hurrying to keep pace with him. “The little girl named Brandy? Someone had slapped her.”
“Listen, Miss Burns.” He swung on her. “I appreciate your interest in Haven and our children. If you want to write an article about lead paint, I can’t stop you. But I have nothing more to say.”
Ana pursed her lips as she followed him to another room. She knew she had not imagined that bruise on Brandy’s face. And the way Terell Roberts had been holding the child unsettled her. Vulnerable children hidden away with grown men inside small rooms did not paint a pretty picture in her mind.
Her heart hammering, Ana paused at the third in the line of classrooms. A young man sat with a group of older children at a round table littered with hammers, nails, blocks of wood screwdrivers and various lengths of wire. Spotting Sam, he shrugged and threw up his hands.
“Same bunch,” he said. “Granny didn’t send hers over at activity change, so I kept these I already had. It’s no big deal, sir.”
“That’s a great attitude, Abdul, but everybody gets a turn at crocheting, just like everybody gets a turn at tools.” Sam gave a thumbs-up. “Let me check on Granny for you.”
“Thanks, sir.”
Sam walked to the last room and poked his head through the open doorway. “Well, hello there, Granny. Looks like your crew is busy.”
An elderly woman with snowy curls and a black velvet pillbox hat peered at him through oversize glasses. “What’s that you say, Mr. Hawke?” she asked loudly.
“I said you look busy here.” He raised his voice. “Nice work!”
Ana studied the center’s director as he stepped into the room and crouched down with the children. On first analysis, Sam Hawke seemed like a decent enough man. She appreciated the stringent rules and the emphasis on respect at the center. The volunteers clearly enjoyed their work, and most of the kids who dropped in appeared happy.
But her introduction to Terell Roberts still bothered her. What had been going on in that small room? Sam Hawke’s presence in such a place also raised questions. What had motivated an educated male in the prime of his life to take on the job of managing a run-down inner-city operation constantly threatened with closing? If the man enjoyed sports, he ought to be coaching a team, or working at a country club somewhere. It didn’t make sense.
What kind of future could Sam Hawke or Terell Roberts have here at Haven? If the recreation center had a large budget and generous donors, the lead paint might not