Free A Simple Suburban Murder by Mark Richard Zubro Page B

living room. "What do we do now?"
    "About Daphne?" I shrugged. "I don't know. She seemed okay last night."
    "Do you trust Neil?"
    "Yes, and I've known him for years, but we don't have much else for a lead. We'll have to be careful, that's all."
    He agreed glumly.
    We talked over what I should say when I called the escort service. We couldn't decide on specific action. I dialed the number Neil gave me and asked for Jim Evans. The person on the other end said I must have the wrong number. There was no one there by that name. I hung up, looked at Scott. "Nothing," I told him.
    I checked my watch. "If we're meeting Heather Delacroix in an hour out in Orland we better get moving."
    We dressed and drove to Heather's. She'd worked in the district the year before. I'd heard she quit to work for a private agency at a much higher salary. When I talked to her the day before, she had reluctantly agreed to my request for a meeting.
    She lived in the last condominium in one of the new subdivisions just south of Orland Park, a block east of 94th Avenue. She took our coats and offered us coffee and tea. We sat in the living room on a brown vinyl couch. Stuffed elephants of varying sizes, shapes, and colors decorated a few small tables and shelves. Heather was in her mid-twenties, with red hair and a frown that denoted seriousness of purpose.
    She began preemptorially, "I looked through my files on the Evans family, although I hardly needed to refresh my memory. I've made some decisions. If you can do something to help that poor family, then I want to be a part of it."
    "Great," I said.
    First she talked about Mr. Evans, most of which I already knew from Meg, although Heather had more details. Then she talked about the Evans kids.
    "The girls seem normal. Since we're in a kindergarten-through twelfth-grade district, I was able to observe them in class. From what I saw, and what the teachers said, there was no need to refer them for testing.
    "The eighth grader, Keith, is another story. He's very interested in sports. The coach said he is an average player. Academically he has numerous learning problems. He's been in learning disability classes since second grade. The father opposed that placement. From what I could find out this was one of the few times Mom stood up to Dad. If this was what was best for the child—she wanted it."
    "But he's still in the program after all these years?" I asked.
    "Yes."
    "Wait," Scott interrupted. "What's learning disabled? The kid seemed strange to me the other night."
    "How so?" Heather asked.
    Scott explained his unease over the boy's reaction to his dad's death.
    When he finished she said, "I don't find anything extraordinary in his reaction. Each of us reacts differently to the death of a loved one. Some never cry at all. With the dynamics in that family one could expect almost anything. Being learning disabled would have no connection to his reaction to his father's death."
    Scott nodded that he understood. Heather continued. "I talked with Keith a few times. He hasn't developed the belligerence of many L.D. kids. He seems quite benign about it. He works very hard in school. The L.D. teacher reported him as being very cooperative. They seriously considered dropping him from the program this year and, if not, then surely in high school."
    I said, "I tried to find out about this year. The social worker threw me out of her office."
    "Did she?" Heather gave a wry smile. "She's new. She's young. She's not used to the pressure, but I'll get to that."
    "Was Keith a victim of abuse?" I asked.
    She sighed. "There was no physical evidence, no bruises. Yet I found it hard to believe that Evans attacked only the older boy."
    "What did you find out about Phil?"
    She pulled her sweater closer around her. "I couldn't get him to open up. I went to his father. I felt extremely uncomfortable going to him, but something had to be done. It was a disaster. He told me he didn't believe in this psychological bullshit. I phoned