Letters to Maxine

CHAPTER 38

Hillary Dirkin

 1

April 26 16:03 Hours

26 Windsor Drive Durkin Residence

"Central from Six-three David. Call us ten-nine at twenty-six Windsor Drive. MC followup."

"Ten-four Six-three, David. I'll mark you ten-seven out of service."

Keegs was the first out of the RMP with the clipboard in tow. I kicked open the door and yawned before spitting the tobacco from my mouth. I took a water bottle from the console and took a sip, swirled, and spat.

"Are you clean?" I asked. Keegs put his thumb up above his head as I hurried to him.

Johnny Keegan seemed pretty much immune to everything that happened on the street. He never blinked an eye at shootings, DBs, or critical MVAs. But with kids, he became uneasy. Of course, Keegs dealt with all the trauma by being a sex fiend. That was his vice. But kids were his Achilles' heal, and it showed.

"Hey," I said. "Slow down."

Keegs sighed and huffed. He shook his hands and took a water bottle from his back pocket. Sipping, swirling, and spitting, he put the cap back on and put it in front of the garage door.

"Why are we here again?" he asked. He kept swiping his front teeth with his tongue while drumming his fingers on his thighs.

"My uncle wants to build a stronger case against Ethan Martin. The more the merrier, and we can rattle this kid into giving up his part in this asshole killer."

I took the clipboard from his hand and waited. He stretched, feeling the satisfying crack in his back, and took a deep breath, inhaling through his nose. After six seconds, he exhaled and turned his head from one shoulder to another. After I heard the crack, I smiled and tapped his arm.

"Let's get this over with, brother," I said.

The walkway stretched the entire right side of the two-story Victorian. A wrap-around porch stretched from right to left with two sets of stairs, one to the front door from the driveway and the other to a path ending at the sidewalk.

At the base of the three front steps, massive ornamental stones made up the walkway toward the sidewalk and to the backyard. The landscaper used bluestem grass, blue beards, forsythias, and hydrangeas to surround the trellis, hiding the foundation.

We walked the steps to the beige-colored Anderson door. I knocked five times as Keegs adjusted his duty belt and fidgeted with his magazine pouch.

A voice yelled out from behind the door, but I couldn't make it out. The sound of footsteps grew louder as we heard the bolt and lock disengage.

As the door swung in, a woman, who appeared to be in her forties, opened the heavy storm door. She had pulled her hair into a loose ponytail, which frizzed at the sides. Her face was bare, revealing tired, drooping blue eyes.

Her Seton Hall sweatshirt hung over her gray sweatpants, which drooped to cover her thick blue socks. Her exhaustion gave way to an exasperated sigh as she let us inside, keeping us in the foyer.

"What do you need?" she whispered. She smelled like cigarettes, and the wrinkles around her lips and cheeks suggested that her smoking addiction had gone into hyperdrive.

"Ma'am, we just want to ask her some questions about Ethan Martin and her relationship with him."

"Ethan Martin?" she snapped. "He's a piece of shit and should burn for what he's been doing. Freaking big-time baseball player, blue-chipper, or some shit. And he keeps getting away with it because everyone's pushing it under the rug. It's a freaking disgrace."