The rap at his door didn’t sound like a student – or even a teacher. It was too insistent: demanding, even.
‘Come in.’
The first thing that struck Greg about the man who entered was that he was shockingly good looking. A well-toned mid-forties, tall, with an immaculately tailored dark-blue suit underneath an unbuttoned cashmere coat, precisely combed sandy-blond hair, and trendy, steel-rimmed glasses that served only to accentuate a pair of limpid, blue-gray eyes.
The second, was that he looked vaguely familiar. Greg could not, however, place him.
‘Bryan Delcade,’ the man said, putting the puzzle to rest. ‘Chandler’s father.’ He was wearing a slightly forced smile.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Greg said, sympathetically.
Delcade nodded, keen to push past pro forma expressions of condolence.
‘I’m here about my son,’ he said.
‘I see.’
The silence stretched out between them, filling the room with tension.
‘I understand Chandler’s done something stupid,’ Delcade said at last.
‘That would be one way to describe it.’
‘He tells me he scratched a couple of toy boats.’ Delcade glanced around the classroom, looking in vain for the objects in question, which were still tucked underneath Greg’s desk. ‘I’m happy to pay for the replacement.’
‘That’s very generous.’
‘Thing is, Chandler tells me you’re giving him detention.’
‘Yes.’
‘Which I’d rather you didn’t do.’
‘And why is that?’
‘He shouldn’t have to be putting up with some BS punishment while he’s mourning the death of his mother.’
Greg raised an eyebrow.
‘Not a problem. He can do it after he’s finished mourning.’
‘What? No.’ Delcade looked momentarily confused. ‘I said I’d pay for the damage.’
‘Which is, as I’ve already said, very generous. But your son’s actions have consequences. What he did can’t go unpunished.’
‘Oh, come on … Greg, is it?’ Greg nodded. ‘Come on, Greg. It was just boys being boys. No need to make a big deal of it.’
‘I don’t think writing “nigger” in a school classroom is just boys being boys, Mr Delcade.’
‘Of course it is. Boys do dumb things sometimes. It’s just banter, nothing more. He’ll grow out of it. I’ve already had a word. It won’t happen again. I promise. And … we will, of course, make a generous donation to the school. Very generous. Perhaps in Lindsay’s name?’
Delcade stuck out a beautifully manicured hand.
‘Do we have a deal?’
‘No, we do not. Your son did something wrong. He will be punished. Everyone will move on. If you want a delay for a certain period of time, I’m happy to accommodate you. But there will be consequences for what your son did here.’
‘I’m trying to be the good guy here, Greg. I’ll pay for the damage and I’ll make a five-figure donation to the school. All I’m asking in return is that you drop this whole silly business.’
‘I’m not prepared to do that.’
Delcade took a step forward, fists clenched. So did Greg. There must have been something about Greg’s bearing that stopped the other man in his tracks. He kept a discreet distance. His expression, however, remained menacing.
‘You haven’t been here long, Greg. And I can tell by your accent that you probably don’t understand how things work around here. Let me assure you, it will not go well for your career if you insist on blowing a minor infraction out of all proportion.’
Greg smiled sardonically.
‘Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo.’
‘What?’
‘It’s Latin for what you just said. Which I fully appreciate. Nonetheless, my mind is made up. Sorry.’
What little was left of Bryan Delcade’s polite veneer slid away entirely.
‘Oh, don’t you worry,’ he snarled. ‘You will be. Sorry, that is. You think what happened to your Dr Freedman was bad? Just you wait.’ He jammed a hand into the pocket of his cashmere coat and yanked out his gloves, angrily pulling them on. Pieces of paper came out of the pocket too, raining chaotically onto the floor. Delcade didn’t bother to pick them up. ‘Uppity n … limey bastard.’ He turned on his heel and stormed out. The door slammed shut behind him.
Greg stared at the door for several seconds, heart thumping as if he’d been in an actual fight. Then, with a world-weary sigh, he bent down and picked up the litter that Delcade had left behind for him.
Among which was something that looked like a receipt. It was an innocuous looking strip of paper, bounded by a faint magenta band at top and bottom. Regardless of Delcade’s views, Greg had been in Pittsburgh long enough to recognize it for what it was.
A parking ticket.
Greg grinned. If there was any justice in the world, Delcade would forget to pay on time and then get stuck with the increased fine. Better yet, he’d get booted. Mildly curious as to how old the ticket actually was, he took a look at the date.
The grin faded from his face.
The ticket was from Monday night, at eight eleven p.m.
At the time of his wife’s death, Bryan Delcade had been illegally parked in front of a fire hydrant on Joseph Avenue, Pittsburgh.
Less than a block from the school.