CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The address for Ian Farley took Sawyer and Lexi to a one-story blue house with white trim on Thirty-Fourth Street. It was a prime location for a CSUS student. The university was five minutes away by car and fifteen by bicycle. There were plenty of restaurants, gyms, and coffee shops.
Sawyer and Lexi walked to the front door. Lexi rang the doorbell, and right away, footfalls sounded from inside. The kid who answered the door wore sweatpants and a T-shirt. His hair was short on the sides and longer on top.
“I am Sawyer Brooks and this is Lexi Holmes. We’re with the Sacramento Independent, and we have a few questions for Ian Farley. Is he home?”
Before the young man could answer, there was a commotion in the other room, and another boy with a crew cut and a nose ring walked up from behind the guy who had answered the door. “Ian isn’t here.”
Sawyer tilted her head. “Listen, we just have a few questions for him, and then we’ll leave.”
One of the boys started to shut the door, but Lexi lodged her foot between the door and the frame. “If he doesn’t talk to us,” she said in a firm voice, “we’re going to call the police and tell them we have reason to believe that Ian Farley helped Brad Vicente drug his victims.”
“That’s bullshit,” the boy with the nose ring said.
Lexi angled her head. “Not according to the people we talked to at the Blue Fox.”
So much for the promise she made to their server today, Sawyer thought.
But it worked.
A third young man approached. “I’ll take care of this.”
The other boys walked off. “I’m Ian.” He stepped outside and shut the door behind them.
“Do you have ID?” Lexi asked.
His hands visibly shook as he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and showed them his license. “What do you need to know?”
“When was the last time you saw Brad Vicente?”
He looked at his sneakers. “I don’t remember.”
“You really might want to figure it out,” Lexi told him, “because when the police pick you up and take you to the station, they’ll sit you in a little room without windows and leave you there alone for hours with nothing to eat or drink until you do remember.”
“Okay. Okay. It was two or three days before I heard on the news that he was arrested. He brought a date to the restaurant. She was about five foot nine with her three-inch heels. She was hot—I mean nice looking. Perfect body. Long blonde hair, but I think it was a wig.”
“Why do you think that?” Sawyer asked.
“Because my mom had cancer and she wore wigs. This woman’s hair didn’t match the cap you have to put over your real hair before you put on the wig.”
“Did you talk to the woman?” Lexi asked.
He shrugged. “She might have had a question about the wine.”
“Did you put something in her wine?”
“No,” he said.
Sawyer could tell he was lying. The kid was in trouble. Big trouble. “Were you friends with Brad Vicente?”
His gaze was fixated on his feet again. But this time his shoulders began to shake. Ian Farley was crying.
“Did you ever go to his house?” Sawyer asked.
He didn’t look up, but he nodded just the same.
Sawyer had a million questions ready to go. “Was the blonde woman you met at the Blue Fox at Brad’s house?”
Another nod.
“Was she wearing a wig?”
“No, but the other women were.”
“How many other women?”
“At least three. Maybe four.”
“Describe the wigs they were wearing.”
“Short black hair.”
“How short?”
He gestured just below his ear. “They also wore masks that covered their eyes and part of their noses.”
“Anything else?”
“The one who had been at the Blue Fox put the blade of a knife to my throat and threatened to kill me.”
“I wonder why?” Lexi asked, her sarcasm clear.
“Do you know why she wanted to kill you?” Sawyer asked.
“No,” he cried. “I only went to the house because Brad invited me to come over and play video games.”
“Tell me about the other women,” Sawyer said firmly.
“One of them wore a tank top. She had scars everywhere . . . on her neck, arms, and chest.”
Christina Farro’s image flashed through Sawyer’s head. When Sawyer had met Christina, she hadn’t been able to look away from all the scars. Christina had told her she didn’t bother trying to hide her “mutilations,” as she called them, because they were a part of her. She’d also claimed she didn’t care what had happened to Otto Radley after his release. Something about the way she’d said it hadn’t rung true to Sawyer, which begged the question: Was she a part of the Black Wigs?
“How did you get away?”
He shook his head. “It’s all a blur. I don’t remember. I’ve told you everything I know.”
Ian Farley turned around and disappeared through the door without another word spoken, slamming it shut behind him.
Lexi looked at Sawyer. “There’s no way he doesn’t remember how he got away.”
“Obviously.”
“What are you thinking?” Lexi asked.
“One of the women he described, the one with scars all over her arms, could be Christina Farro.”
“The woman held captive by Otto Radley,” Lexi said under her breath.
Sawyer nodded. “What if she is part of the Black Wigs?”
Lexi took hold of Sawyer’s arm and nudged her down the path and to the car. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? If anyone would want revenge on a person, it would be her. The things that man did to her are unspeakable. And now he’s missing.”
Sawyer agreed. After she climbed in and put on her seatbelt, she looked back at the house being rented by Ian and his friends.
Lexi started the engine. “What are we going to do about Ian Farley?”
“I’m going to talk to Palmer.”
After they had been on the road for a couple of minutes and the trees swept by in a blur, Sawyer looked over at Lexi. “You were brilliant back there. I didn’t think there was any way we were going to get to talk to Ian.” Sawyer shook her head. “And you called me the brave one?”
Lexi grunted. “They’re just little boys. Nothing brave about that.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
After Lexi dropped her off at her car, Sawyer drove straight to Palmer’s house. Greeted at the door by his wife, Debbie, she asked Sawyer to wait in the parlor. Although the term was outdated, the large room where she now stood was exactly how she would have envisioned a parlor to look. The walls were painted canary yellow, and the thick curtains were lined in green velvet. A gold-gilded-frame picture hanging over the hearth was of a man from the eighteenth century. He wore a red velvet jacket and looked off to the side as if to make sure the artist captured his best profile.
Thanks to her parents’ obsession with antiques, she recognized the Empire sofa, Chippendale upholstered armchairs, and Queen Anne table. Before she could examine the room further, Palmer entered using a cane.