Outside the hospital room, Janet conferred with Detectives Rosales and Andrews.
“The doctor said we can talk with her now,” Rosales said.
“You won’t get much out of her. Between the emotional trauma of losing her baby, nearly being beaten to death, and her fear of living alone, she’s barely cooperative. Plus, her broken jaw makes speaking difficult.”
“We’ll try,” Rosales said.
“Did you talk to the husband?” Janet asked.
“Oh yeah,” Andrews said. “When he was brought into the interrogation room, the first thing he wanted us to do was pray with him for the soul of his dead child. He wants us to bring him here so he can apologize to his wife.”
Janet huffed and whispered, “Dear Jesus.”
Rosales nodded. “It’s the same old story. The wife has no skills. Maybe she could get a job slinging burgers in a fast food joint, but she can’t make enough to live independently. Her husband works union construction and has health and life insurance through his employer. Without her husband, she wouldn’t make it.”
“With her husband, she’s not going to make it either,” Janet said, barely suppressing her red-hot rage.
After opening a safe deposit box in a bank a couple of miles from St. Anne’s, Janet tried to pull an idea from the recesses of her brain that might permanently help the women she worked with. The drive to her office was as hectic as usual, so she needed to pay close attention to traffic, but she found that difficult to do while trying to spark her creative synapses.
In the lot at the shelter, she parked, but remained behind the wheel, letting the sun warm the left side of her face. The gerbil in her brain ran frenetically but nothing came to mind that would make a revolutionary difference. She smacked the steering wheel and cursed at the futility of her work. She felt there wasn’t a thing she could do to change the pattern of abuse: psychopathic abusers and their pathetic, dependent victims. The men wouldn’t change and neither would the women. At least not if the women lacked self-confidence and resources.
She was deep into her thoughts when a shadow fell across her face. She jumped and reached for the .38 revolver she now carried in her purse. As her fingers wrapped around the pistol grip, she looked left and saw Cecil. He stood three feet from her door, wearing a forlorn expression. She released her hold on the .38 and threw open her door, forcing Cecil to step back.
“Damn, Cecil, you scared me.”
He dropped his gaze. “I’m sorry, Janet. I…I…just wanted to apologize for…you know…yesterday.”
Janet slammed her door, stepped forward, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You have nothing to apologize for. I shouldn’t have gotten so personal. I—”
He waved her off. “I’ve had almost no one to trust for so long, I’ve forgotten how to trust. Maybe…maybe you could give me another chance.”
Janet lowered her hand and extended it. “Let’s shake on our trusting one another.”
He tentatively accepted her hand and lightly squeezed it.
Janet felt as though her heart was breaking when she saw tears in his eyes. She gripped his hand with both of hers. “How about we get together for dinner tonight right after work? I know a nice little Italian place.”
He beamed. “That would be nice.” Then he backed up again and spread his arms. “You notice anything?”
Janet couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed; he was no longer wearing his old, worn-out blue suit. He’d replaced it with a blue blazer, white shirt, gray tie, and dark-gray slacks. His new shoes gleamed.
“You look very spiffy, Cecil.”
“Got ‘em off the rack at Macy’s. Didn’t even need altering.” He smiled and added, “Got a haircut, too.”
“I don’t know, Cecil. My little Italian place might be too informal for the likes of you.”
The edges of his mouth dropped and his eyes again looked sad. “Oh, no, if it’s where you want to go, I’m certain it’ll be fine.”
Janet touched his arm. “I was pulling your leg.”
“Oh. I guess that’s another thing I’ve forgotten. Humor.”
The pain in her heart returned. She forced a smile. “I’ll see you right here at seven. I need to work late tonight. A lot of cases.”
CHAPTER 16
The threat of being fired by Sy Rosen hung over Johnny Casale like a black smoke cloud. Yesterday, he’d had to tell Rosen that the Beverly Hills investment broker, Charles Forsythe, had flown out of LAX several days earlier and had not yet returned.
“Forty-eight hours, Casale,” Rosen had screamed. “That’s all you got or you’re fired.”
Casale had staked out Forsythe’s offices every day since the guy had gone to the airport. His morale was in the toilet and he’d almost reconciled that he’d lost the big finder’s fee, when Forsythe showed up at 8:00 a.m. Casale watched the office through most of the day, until Forsythe pulled away at 3:30 p.m. in a black Audi R8. Casale let three vehicles fill the space between them, then pulled into traffic and followed.
Smart guy, Casale thought. Getting out of Brooklyn and coming out here. Nice car. Looks like he’s got it made.
He followed Forsythe two blocks up North Beverly Drive, then the guy turned right onto Burton Way. At La Cienega, he went left and drove past Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. After about a mile, he turned right onto Willoughby Avenue and pulled to the curb in front of a one-story bungalow halfway up the block on the right. It was a nice enough neighborhood, but way too downscale for a guy driving a one hundred seventy-five-thousand-dollar car. Casale pulled into a parking place half-a-block past the Audi and watched his rearview mirror. Forsythe remained in his car. Then, after a few minutes, a white Mustang convertible pulled into the bungalow’s driveway. Casale raised the binoculars from the front passenger seat, twisted to the right, and planted the glasses on a young woman—maybe thirty years old—who exited the Ford. She wore a white nurse’s uniform that, even from six houses away, showed off her voluptuous figure. Yeah, looks like he’s got it made, all right.
Janet took a sip of water and placed the glass on the table. “This place isn’t fancy, but the food and service are good. The menu’s a bit funky…both Italian and Greek, but I really like coming here. My mother and I—” She stopped, shook her head, and didn’t finish.
Rosandich nodded. “It reminds me of a place near where I grew up.”
Janet almost asked him where that was but didn’t want to instigate another episode like the one they had yesterday.
But he smiled and said, “Go ahead. You can ask me where I grew up. In fact, ask me whatever you want.” He smiled again. “On one condition. I get to ask about you.”
She drank more water and said, “Okay. Where are you from?”
“Brooklyn.” He hesitated for a long moment, as though he’d gone back in time, remembering his childhood. “I was an only child. My mother worked as a seamstress in the garment district. My father died in a construction accident when I was five years old.”
“Is your mother—?”