“Just telling it like it is, Ivy. Seriously, try a little mascara to highlight those baby blues. Your hair could use some product.”
“Maybe I’ll let you come over and give me a makeover one day soon. For now, life is just all too complicated. Know what I mean?”
“I’m twice divorced from a family who once tried to set me up in an arranged marriage. I understand complicated.”
“But your parents are still married.”
She smirked. “By name only. They sleep in separate rooms and hardly say a word to each other. Again, I use the term ‘arranged marriage,’” she said, using air quotes.
“Neither one of us have great examples to go by.”
“Far from it. I suppose everyone feels like they were wronged somehow when they were growing up. Too strict of an environment, parents who didn’t care if you drank booze or smoked weed at age fourteen…”
I raised my hand. “I had a pair like that. Another set was really into the strict thing. And many others in between those two extremes.”
Shaking her head, she said, “Damn, girl, you had the Baskin Robbins experience. Thirty-one flavors of parents.”
Not many people had the guts to bring up my past to me, much less mock it. Zahera was the exception. “You know that thirty-one is a crazy number. I only had seventeen.”
She looked me in the eye, but paused a second before saying anything further. “Have you thought about seeing a counselor again?”
“Stop right there. Remember what happened with the last guy?”
A nurse knocked and stuck her head in the door. Zahera spoke quietly to her as I thought about my last counseling experience.
I had been in college, still surprisingly naïve, but determined to deal with my demons and not let my childhood impact my life. Initially, I thought one particular part-time professor—who had his own counseling practice—was the bomb. He listened, didn’t draw judgment. He got me to open up, to admit things I’d long buried. And then one day, it all changed. It was as if his evil twin brother had changed places with him. He began to suggest that to delve further into my issues, we needed to connect on a different level—an intimate level. I tried changing the topic, but that seemed to only fuel his pursuit. He started to grope me, and then he ripped my shirt as I tried to push him away. I escaped his office and received my only failing grade in college. The aftermath left me feeling hopeless. I had crawled up into a fetal position in my dorm room, wondering if the world was filled with nothing but people who were there solely to make my life a living hell. It had taken a few weeks, but when I finally broke out of the funk, I made a vow to myself: I’d never define myself by how others viewed me.
I realized it was a work in progress.
“Sorry,” Zahera said, taking her position on the chair. “Had to give some guidance on another patient. So, while I know that not all counselors are out to grab a piece of ass, I understand your apprehension. But that shouldn’t stop you from thinking there is that one person out there you are meant to be with.”
I nodded, picking at the edge of the table. “I’m probably not relationship material. I tend to run when they get too close.”
“Exactly,” she said, snapping her fingers. “You just need to get over yourself.”
“Easier said than done, Z. Anyway, I’m more focused on the kids who need me right now.”
“Including the foster child who shot that boy?”
“Hold on. Who said he actually did it?”
She held up two defensive hands. “I’m just repeating the news reports, and now that I think about it, didn’t you tell me the same thing in your voicemail?”
I huffed out a breath. “I guess I did,” I said with little energy.
I told her about the GSR test results. She walked over and put an arm around my shoulder. “I know this is tough on you. There’s no way I could deal with such drama every day, but some kids just do bad things. Unexplainable things. They are just that screwed up. How old is he?”
“Ten.” I thought more about his demeanor after he admitted shooting Tommy. “Ten going on twenty-five. It’s sad.”
“Incredibly sad.”
“Part of me still wants to understand why he did it, Z. I’m not saying there has to be a reason, but I want to know. I need to know.”
“That’s what makes you Ivy. And I love you because of it.”
We hugged, and then she said, “Just the fact that you’re involved in this mess makes me feel a little invested too. I’m more than curious. Keep me in the loop, will you?”
“Of course,” I said, reaching for my clothes.
“Right…says the woman who works eighty hours a week.”
My bare feet hit the cold floor.
“So no sperm donors?” she asked with the door partially open.
“Not yet. Not anytime soon. I suppose I’ll let nature take its course and see where life takes me in the next year or so.”
She reached out and wrapped her long fingers around my forearm, leaning in closer. “However, if you end up deciding to use a sperm donor, I want to go with you when you start reviewing the catalog of men. Could provide me some inspiration, if you know what I mean.”
“You’re too much. But yes, I’ll let you help me pick the father of my child.”
I could hear my phone chirping. I pulled it out of my purse, brought it to my ear as Zahera waved and shut the door behind her
“Stan, I’m surprised to hear from you. Did you accidentally butt-dial me?”
“Funny, Ivy. I’ve been up all night working the investigation.”
“You’re probably hungry for real food, can’t think straight, and maybe even smell.”
I heard him loudly sniffing himself. “Three out of three. Not bad,” he said.
“I just know you and your odors during tense situations.”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that. We’re getting off the point.”
“You didn’t call to find how out how my gyno appointment went?” I snickered.
“Too much information, Ms. Nash.”
“I’ll stop giving you shit. Do you have something you can share about the investigation?” I heard voices in the background. “Can you actually talk, Stan, or are you surrounded by the Nazi detective?”
“It’s nothing. We’re all just busy. Listen, you asked me about figuring out a way for you to see Miguel. I think I can make that happen.”
A jolt of energy shot through my extremities. “When and where?”
I put on my clothes and prepared myself to talk to a child who might very well be a killer.
10
The Bexar County Juvenile Detention Center was cold and sparse, just like the landscape on the outside of the dated, brown-brick building. I sat in the waiting room with my arms crossed, staring at a plastic framed picture the size of a piece of notebook paper on a large white wall. I read the mission statement posted in the frame: To create and maintain a safe and secure atmosphere in order to provide a program that is healthy for the body, mind, and spirit of each child in our care.
In my experiences with the facility, they failed that mission at least half the time. Then again, they could probably say the same about CPS. I watched a man enter the facility, swipe his badge, walk through a security station, and then continue his trek toward the interior of the building. He was an employee of the facility. The entire time, he barely lifted his chin from his chest, and his stride made it seem like he was walking to his own execution.
And this was one of the people expected to provide an environment for kids that was healthy for the body, mind, and soul?
I’d seen it before. The uphill battle we all faced seemed more daunting, and thus, depressing. Each new rule passed by the state legislature. Or the economy that took no prisoners, making life as grueling as possible on those with the least—the least amount of money, education, and hope. We called these impediments to getting our jobs done “handcuffs.” Some days it seemed like the cuffs were lined with ba
rbed wire and all we could do was bleed all over our work. While many of us in jobs that dealt with crimes against children had shed a few tears—our own way of coping with the stress and frustration of not being able to truly make a difference in a child’s life—I’d also seen the opposite response. Indifference. Too many people just didn’t care, probably like the man who’d just walked past me. And like Joanna, although not as caustic or self-serving.
And then there were a few who cared too much, who put their lives on hold because there was always something more pressing to tackle just around the corner. They sacrificed their health and well-being routinely. Zahera had once told me that I belonged in that group. I told her she was nuts and that I had better balance in my life. She laughed so hard she cried, but still her makeup didn’t smear. Late that evening, I dragged her with me to a case I was called out on—to investigate a child who had been severely abused. The parents had already received two warnings, along with a directive to attend classes and submit to in-home visits from a litany of government employees, including me. I had wanted to remove the helpless three-year-old girl after the first incident. Her injuries were disturbing—cigarette burns and bruising in her abdominal region. But I’d been handcuffed by the system, our state mandate to provide every possible opportunity for a family to remain together. I thought the policy was naïve at best, bordering on criminal for ignoring crimes against kids.
The security station door swung open, and Stan waved me over.
“You nervous?” he asked, ushering me past the armed guard at the security station with a head nod.
“A little, why?”
“Your leg was kicking like you’d just downed a couple of Red Bulls.”
I hadn’t noticed. “I’m just not sure what to expect or how this is going to work.”
“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure myself.”
I stopped and looked up at Stan, who had a good four inches on me. His eyes were splintered with red veins, and his clothes were a wrinkled mess. I noticed a candy bar sticking out of his front shirt pocket.
“Don’t say a word, Ivy.” He held up his hand, not one hint of a smirk on his face, which seemed to have grown hair at an abnormally fast rate. He turned and started walking, and I quickly caught up to him.
“Who me?” I feigned ignorance, touching his arm as we pulled up to a corridor and stopped. “Listen, Stan, I think you guys might be jumping the gun here with Miguel. Mrs. Gideon went ballistic at the house because Matt Garza killed her boy. While Miguel might have admitted it, we know that kids say and do things that make no sense. We can’t—”
“She wasn’t in the room. In our interview with her, she admitted that she was in the bathroom at the time. She just assumed it was Matt who killed Tommy because he’d been threatening to kill everyone in the house.”
My lungs suddenly felt restricted.
“You okay?” he asked.
I forced out a breath, worried more than ever about how the little boy that I knew could kill anyone. “I’ll be fine.”
“Ms. Nash, may I have a quick word with you?” I turned, surprised to see the lead detective, Huerta, standing at the threshold of a small meeting room, removing his readers.
I shifted my eyes back to Stan, who shrugged, then whispered in my ear, “None of this was my idea.”
“What the hell am I getting involved in?” I asked Huerta.
“Nothing to worry about, Ms. Nash. I just want a quick word with you before you speak with Miguel.”
He ran his fingers across his buzz-cut head as if he were filing his nails, forcing out a tight-lipped smile.
I timidly walked in his direction. Once inside, Huerta shut the door before Stan made it inside. I suddenly felt trapped.
“What about Detective Radowski?”
“Stan’s working hard, doing a good job for us,” he said, standing over a stack of folders and a small laptop.
I nodded, but I wondered if he thought I hadn’t noticed him avoiding my question. I turned to see Stan through the glass window, pacing and munching on his candy bar—his substitute for smoking, although I wasn’t sure it was any healthier.
“What can I do for you, Detective?”
“May I call you Ivy? Ms. Nash is so formal,” he said, this time with a smile that showed teeth. He had obviously missed some dental appointments when he was younger.
“Ivy is fine,” I said, my purse tucked under my arm.
“Great, Ivy. Just a couple of quick things I want to cover with you.” He glanced down, as if he were studying his notes.
I took the opportunity to look out the window again. Not a fan of closed spaces, the view of the facility from this perspective rekindled a few memories. I’d spent more than a few nights in places that essentially served as orphanages. Echoes of screaming kids, some of whom sounded as if they were on the verge of dying, still occasionally gnawed at the corner of my mind—the corner that I rarely accessed.
A buzz from his phone, and Huerta raised it to eye level, slipping on his glasses to read the message. “Sorry about that. Investigations never seem to end, or is it better to say that the bad guys never sleep?”
I assumed that was a rhetorical question. I simply shrugged my shoulders and looked at my ancient wristwatch that I’d won at one of our cheap holiday parties. I knew it wasn’t telling the correct time.
“I just want you to know that we value the partnership between the San Antonio Police Department and your agency,” he said, glancing at his phone again. “While there is no shortage of difficult cases, the importance of how well you and Stan work together, for example, can’t be overlooked, regardless of how cynical one might be.”
I nodded. “Okay.” It was a lame response, but I simply didn’t have it in me to add on a layer of political posturing. That was Hubbard’s job.
“Secondly, regarding your discussion with Miguel, I’d like—”
“Are you going to give me a bunch of rules I need to follow, things I can say and can’t say?” I’d dropped one of my hands to my hip.
I waited for a sharp retort, but his facial expression never changed. He just stood there and used his tie to clean off his glasses.
A few extra beats, and then he replied, “I can see why you might think that, but there’s really no coaching involved here. Honestly, I’ve come to learn of your reputation, how you put the kids first, and I think that’s incredibly admirable.”
I froze, unable to process this Huerta with the one in the interview room last night. “Thank you,” I said, feeling some of my tension drain away. I studied his square face, and he seemed more at ease than at any other time I’d seen him.
“I know this isn’t easy for anyone,” he said, pushing one of his unbuttoned sleeves up his forearm. “Whether Miguel is guilty or not, I don’t know. It’s a tragedy to see any kid thrust into this kind of drama and violence. I understand the kind of scars it can leave, even if they aren’t noticeable now. They could show up years from now, and the whole cycle of violence could start all over again with another family.”
I realized my mouth was hanging open, and I shut it. This guy actually got it. “I’m not sure what to say.”
He paused, taking another glimpse at his phone. “I wasn’t fishing for any comment. I just want you to know where I stand.”
“I appreciate it.” I reached across the desk, and we shook hands. I could feel a couple of callouses on his fingers.
“Detective…uh, Stan will take you to see Miguel. I hope you can help bring that little kid some relief.”
I nodded while opening the door. “Everyone needs someone to talk to.”
Stan looked like an oversized chipmunk, his cheeks filled with candy bar as he wiped his hands on his pants.
“Everything go okay?” he mumbled as we walked away from Huerta’s temporary office.
“Why wouldn’t it?
“Why wouldn’t it? Are you kidding me?” He turned and faced me while walking sideways.
I patted his s
houlder, then I pointed to my mouth. “You’ve got a little something.”
“Sorry.”
“I have to say, I was a bit surprised. Huerta’s not a bad guy.”
Stan’s eyes didn’t blink. “What the hell happened to you in there?”
“Breathe, Stan. It was really a non-event. I think he was just making sure he didn’t ruin the relationship between the police and the CPS. We both need each other to have any hope of being successful.”
He stopped in his tracks. Before he could speak, a couple of detention-center employees walked by, giving us the eye.
Once they passed, I said, “Come on, Stan. Show me where I’m meeting with Miguel.”
“He’s treating you better than he is me,” he said, still trying to down the last of his candy bar. He pointed at a room on the right.
“Think about it, Stan. He’s former IA, right? He was the ultimate watchdog, so no one inside the police department is going to trust him. But I guess it just shows he’s got a little perspective. And I think that’s a good thing.”
Stan and I walked into a room just as a man in a cap was walking out. He tipped his cap and hurriedly scooted by. The room was filled with tiny tables and chairs, toys scattered about. One area of the room had beanbag chairs and two bookcases filled with books. Even from my distance of about twenty feet, I could see the tattered spines. The room could have been in one of those cheap daycare facilities.
“Nothing but the best for the kids who need it the most,” I muttered, setting my purse on one of the miniature tables. “Has Miguel spoken to his Aunt Laura?”
“Huerta said she dropped by this morning. She was an emotional wreck. But Miguel said nothing to her, and after five minutes she left, running out the door, crying.”
Too much death and emotion had engulfed two families. Even with my years of experience, I never got used to seeing people suffer, regardless of whether they were related to the perpetrator or the victim.
I could hear the footfalls of at least two people, and I turned toward the doorway. Wearing what appeared to be the same oversized orange shirt from yesterday, Miguel entered the room, a detention-center guard sporting long, thin sideburns looming over him.
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 6