On one side of him is Aerosmith, the tank top on the other side. Also at the table is a girl Jacob’s age, then a pregnant woman, then a prepubescent boy, then a wrinkled older woman and an overweight bald man. A soccer game plays from the living room TV, and occasionally the men break into cheers or shouts, depending on what happens on the screen.
Jacob sits back in his chair, his hands in his lap, his gaze jerking nervously between the men on either side of him. He hasn’t touched the food on his plate, though the pregnant woman keeps prodding him to eat.
Who are you? I ask the question but no one can hear me. Who are you and what are you doing with my son?
A timer goes off on the stove, and the older woman rises and moves to the skillet, using a spatula to stir the browning meat, and a mouthwatering scent of onions and ground beef fills the room. As the conversation continues at the table, she tosses comments over her shoulder, then laughs at something that has been said. Dialogue ricochets, and I wish Mike were here. With his fluency in Spanish, at least he would understand what they are saying.
I look for a weapon for Jacob to grab, something he can use to protect himself. There are knives and heavy skillets everywhere, and no one seems concerned about the potential threats. Instead of giving me comfort, I feel even more alarmed. They aren’t afraid of Jacob running. Why? Why is everyone just going about their meal as if my child wasn’t taken at gunpoint from his bedroom?
I circle the table and crouch beside Jacob, watching as he tentatively cuts at the crust of the empanada. It falls open and steam breaks into the air, and I’m surprised to find that hunger exists even when I am dead. He stares at the food and I mentally urge him to eat, because who knows when or if he will be fed again.
My son has been kidnapped. This makes no sense. Are these the people who killed me? What do they need Jacob for?
“You should eat.” The girl two seats down is watching him. “It’s good. A little spicy, but they are my favorite.” She smiles shyly and the corner of his mouth crooks up. Poor Jacob. Three more sentences and he’ll be in love.
“Rosa!” The pregnant woman waves her fork in the air, at the girl. “¡Cállate la boca y ponte a comer! Él no está aquí para hablar contigo.” She glares at Jacob and points, and I don’t know what she is saying, but the girl rolls her eyes and scoops up a chunk of ground beef.
“She says I can’t talk to you.”
“¡Suficiente! Una palabra más y le diré a tu padre que te castigue a golpes.” I flinch at the anger in the woman’s tone, and whatever she says, the girl’s attitude lessens and she slumps in her seat and doesn’t look at Jacob again.
I need to get him out of here. While it may be mouthwatering smells and family time now, at some point this will turn ugly. These men had a gun, one that they pointed at Jacob’s head.
I stand behind my son and wait to see what happens next.
CHAPTER 63
LENNY
The pieces of the puzzle are coming in slowly, but they are there and Gersh is not all useless for a child born in the eighties.
Lillian’s stomach contents include what appear to be a pumpkin spice latte, half of a banana, some crackers, and a cocktail of medicines, including enough Xanax to kill a three-hundred-pound man. Blood tests show a blood alcohol level of .29 and GHB—the former would have had her stumbling around, and the latter she could have gotten her hands on. Together they make me suspect foul play.
If her cell phone’s location pings are reliable, which they aren’t, all they share is that her killer was smart enough to ditch it before he took her anywhere important. If anything, we should probably look at the places the cell phone didn’t go, rather than those it did.
Gersh has a tail on the husband, and the traffic department is backtracking his car movements for the last forty-eight hours, including the time of her death.
At least there was no rape. No evidence of prior abuse, despite the faked call to the domestic center. Also missing . . . any distinguishable foreign hairs, blood, or DNA on her body. If she fought someone off, she did it without her fingernails, and without damaging herself at all. Unfortunately, with GHB in her system, she probably was cooperative. Probably opened up her mouth for the pills, then asked for more.
Now I sit in a place I used to know well—the questioning pod—only this time I am behind the glass, beside the transcriber and some asshole from Legal, who apparently watches all questioning to make sure the suspect is given cupcakes and back massages. On the other side of the glass, Gersh sits across from Lillian’s boyfriend, who looks cool as a fucking cucumber and is refusing to answer any questions, except to some badge named Pat Horkins.
“Who the fuck is Pat Horkins?” The Legal guy asks the question before I have to.
“He’s in narcotics.” The transcriptionist speaks from his spot at the table, and I swear, everyone in this joint is barely old enough to grow facial hair. “Works with a lot of the agencies.”
Okay, so maybe rosy-cheeked youths are helpful. “Agencies?” I grunt. I examine the boyfriend as best I can through the glass. Maybe he’s connected. An informant.
“Why you waiting on Horkins?” Gersh asks David Laurent, and I like that he doesn’t use a pad of paper. Makes him seem like he already knows what you’re about to say, and I never knew what to write down anyway. Plus, with this pencil head typing and the cameras humming, you’re getting all the notes you need without having to move a finger. “You an informant? Running drugs out of your boat?”
The man smiles and says nothing, and in the good old days, now is when you would smack him in the jaw. A woman is dead and he’s toying with us, withholding information that could lead to her killer. Maybe it’s him. He certainly doesn’t seem brokenhearted, and I’m annoyed at the commonalities I’m seeing between him and her husband. At least Mike made an effort to seem upset. This asshole is two seconds away from whistling a cheery tune.
The door to our cramped room opens, and a uniform comes in and presses the intercom button to Gersh’s room. “Horkins is twenty minutes out. Says he’s DEA.”
In our room, everyone reacts. The attorney sighs, the kid at the table whistles, and I automatically reach for my flask, then realize it’s in the car. If any news qualifies for a drink, that does. DEA. Talk about a wrinkle.
“DEA . . . ,” Gersh muses, and if there were a way for David Laurent—who is probably not named David Laurent—to preen, he would be doing it. Fucking feds. Always, always thinking that they are better than us. “Now that’s interesting.”
Gersh hunches forward. “Now I realize why you aren’t talking. You’re scared, right? That you’ll say the wrong thing, will violate one of those ten thousand rules you suits have to follow. So how about I just toss some ideas out there—just dumb local-cop ideas, you understand—and you just nod if I’m anywhere close to being right. Nothing for the transcript; in fact, I’ll turn off the cameras.”
Smart. Gersh is smart. I’m nodding, and almost give him a thumbs-up when he faces the window and reaches up and unplugs the camera in the upper corner of the room. I keep my thumbs to myself since he can’t see me, but the sentiment is still there.