Blood Ties Read Online Free PDF Page B

father dismissed her; my mom was concerned that I’d ‘get her in trouble.’ ” David picked at the corner of his thumbnail. “Her parents didn’t care.”

    “What do you mean, ‘didn’t care’?”

    “Look, its no big secret Shelley had a drinking problem.
    It embarrassed Sam. She never wanted me to come inside when I picked her up at her house, since Shelley was usually wasted. Dick wasn’t a hell of a lot better. Most nights he’s at Fat Bob’s, that biker bar on the outskirts of town.”

    I let the last sentence sink in. Just another perfectly 37
    adjusted Midwestern family. “Did she consider running away?”

    “Never.” David’s troubled hazel eyes locked with mine.
    “Th
    at’s why I hired Mr. Wells. She’d never just disappear.”

    Wisps of silence hung in the room much like the clouds of mist outside the window. What David revealed about Samantha Friel didn’t fi ll in the gaps. It made for interesting conversation, but we were talking about death, not love. Why hold anything back when he was paying for answers? I waited, using the time to practice my hard cop stare.

    “David. Julie can’t help if she doesn’t know everything.” Th
    is from Kevin, my silent partner.

    “Can I have one of those?” David pointed to my soda.

    Kevin handed him a can. I watched David open it, the carbonation slowly released in little pops and hisses.
    He fi ddled with the metal tab, twisting until it snapped off . A quick fl ick of the wrist — ping , it dropped inside the garbage can. One teeny sip followed another.

    God. A fi fty dollar bottle of Merlot deserved that much enjoyment, not a Pepsi product. I tamped down my impatience.

    At last, he looked directly at me. “Sam found out recently Dick Friel wasn’t her biological father.”
    My gaze fl ickered to Kevin, but he’d hunkered over his notebook. Remarkable; he played blind man as convinc-ingly as deaf man today. I stubbed out the cigarette. “How 38
    did she fi nd out?”

    “Two months ago, her mother checked into that private alcohol rehab center out on Highway 44. It’s a long program, something like three months. Sam was thrilled Shelley had fi nally acknowledged her problem and prayed this time the treatment would work.”

    I held up my hand. “Wait a minute. Shelley’s been in rehab before?”

    David stared deeply into his magic soda can. Finding no answers, he glanced back at me. “Twice. Once for drugs when Sam was fi ve, then for alcohol three years ago.”
    Twice.
    Th
    e initial fl ashback I’d had last night to that long ago keg didn’t create the same warm, fuzzy feeling.
    “Was Shelley doing okay in rehab this time?”

    “Sam thought so. Th
    ere’s counseling sessions: one-
    on-one, family, marriage . . . Th
    is one counselor had a
    ‘break-through’ with Sam’s mom and insisted all of Shelley’s drinking problems stemmed from one suppressed incident. Naturally, this counselor convinced Shelley in order to ‘heal’ she needed to come to terms and ‘share’ it with her family.”

    Th
    e sarcasm in David’s voice surprised me. He didn’t think much of counselors. We were on the same page there.
    In my experience, most mental health workers fi lled heads with double-speak mumbo-jumbo bullshit that meant nothing. Any combination of words sounded reasonable when emotions ran high. Th
    eir professional solutions were

    39
    nothing besides the patient’s words rearranged and tossed back in the form of a question. I equated it to asking a panhandler for advice on managing your stock portfolio.
    “I take it Shelley ‘shared’?”

    Th
    e empty pop can crashed into the garbage as David stood. “God. I shouldn’t be telling you this.” He paced and I resisted my urge to trip him. Pacing is pointless, an irritating waste of energy that just plain pisses me off .
    Guess I still needed to work on the patience angle.

    “David.” We glanced at Kevin. His steely stare matched the infl ection in his voice.