by Lisa Gardner
Gotcha, he said. You and me will be together till the bitter end.
And we both knew he was right.
Chapter 27
Name: Roxanna Baez
Grade: 11
Teacher: Mrs. Chula
Category: Personal Narrative
What Is the Perfect Family? Part V
Where is this perfect family? How can you find them? Can you please help me turn mine into one? Especially after the state has torn us apart?
My sister cries. All night long. I hold her, I try to comfort her, but then I cry, too. Nine months after arriving at Mother Del’s, I don’t know how much longer we can make it. So many days of stress, so many nights of terror. I’m the big sister. I’m supposed to be strong and capable. Take care of your little sister. How many years of my life have I heard that? Then, take care of your baby brother.
I’ve tried, I’ve tried, I’ve tried.
Now Manny is gone and Lola is clearly dying. Not on the outside but on the inside. She has become a shadow person, going through the motions, till the end of the day when she drags herself upstairs to the babies. She cradles them in her bony arms. And cries even more.
The community theater had been her refuge. But after the night with the whiskey bottle, Roberto and Anya started showing up. Turns out, Anya always wanted to be a star. And Roberto is her number one fan. You will give her this role, he instructs us. You will teach her these lines. You will do exactly what I say. Or else.
I spent the entire night in the ER holding my eight-year-old sister’s hand as they pumped her stomach and treated her for alcohol poisoning. While counting the bruises on her arms and staring at the gaunt outline of her ribs.
I’d told myself we were doing all right. I’d told myself we’re fighting the good fight.
I’d been living a lie.
Now, no matter where we go, what we do, Roberto is there. Bigger, stronger, with that smirking grin on his face. You will do exactly what I say.
So I do. For Lola’s sake.
Will it always hurt like this? Will there never be a time when we feel loved and safe and secure? When we can laugh like other kids? Giggle over stupid things, goof around in the halls?
I go to school as an outsider. Spying on every kid I meet. Is that what a real eleven-year-old looks like? Maybe if I could dress that way, or have those friends, or stand up straight when I walk down the halls . . . But I don’t have any of those things. I can’t do any of those things. I’m only me, with one backpack, two changes of clothes, and a gaping hole in my chest.
No matter how strong I try to be for Lola’s sake, I’m just an overwhelmed kid, too.
I hate my mom. I know I shouldn’t. She has a disease. The social worker says so, the CASA volunteer agrees. Our poor mom, working so hard to get her life back together.
Well, don’t you think she should’ve thought of that before she had kids?
We still meet with her once a week. She chatters about her job, support group, how great she’s doing. Just a matter of time before we’ll all be a family again. Manny snuggles on her lap, head against her shoulder, as if no time has passed, nothing has changed. He can live in the moment. But Lola and I . . . We stare at Manny. We drink in the sight of our baby brother, whom we miss so much. While trying not to move too much or say too much that might give away our latest aches and pains.
“You are both so beautiful,” our mother coos at us. Which makes Lola and me wonder if she sees us at all.
Later, taking us home, the CASA lady, Mrs. Howe, will study us more closely. “How are you doing?” she’ll ask with her schoolteacher stare. “What do you need?” But Lola and I never say a word.
Ask any foster kid. The adults are the ones who got you into this mess.
I hate my dad. I don’t even know who he is. Just some white guy who gifted me with dull brown hair and hazel-green eyes. I don’t want his hair, his eyes, his lighter skin. My father gave me ugly genes. Then he went away so that my mom could drink herself into a hole and there’d be no one to save us.
Will it always hurt like this?
The babies cry, night after night. We pat their backs. We make soothing noises. We lie to them. We tell them they’re safe and the world is good and there’s nothing to cry about. Then we hope we get out of here before the babies grow old enough to know how much we’ve wronged them. Before they realize we’re nothing but bigger babies ourselves, and just as alone as they are.
Why do people have kids? Why bring us into the world if you don’t have at least a little bit of yourself to share? We don’t need much. Just love, shelter, a kind word every now and then. You’d be amazed how little would make us happy.
I look around at this awful place, and it’s misery everywhere. Forget the Island of Misfit Toys. Mother Del’s is the Dumping Ground of Unloved Kids. We’re all so lost. Even Roberto and Anya. I hear them both crying in the middle of the night. And sometimes, I spy Roberto in Anya’s room, both of them curled up together, clutching each other desperately. No more evil smiles or shifty glances. Just two sad kids. Anya never even knew her own parents. She’s always been alone.
From what I can tell, it’s one of the reasons she hates us.
Mike loves me. I can tell by the way he watches me. The small gifts he provides. Our shared moment in the catwalk before Roberto took the theater away. But I don’t love him back. I can’t. All of me belongs to Lola, to trying to figure out a way to get her through one more day, one more night.
It can’t always hurt like this. Can it?
Someday, I’m going to get out of here. I’ll study hard, go to college, get a good job, then find my own place that no one can ever take from me. I’ll never touch alcohol. Never latch on to some loser barfly. I’ll make a real family. With a husband who stays, and kids who can depend on me. And I’ll tuck my children into bed every night, telling them they are loved and safe and wanted.
My kids will never know about family court and foster homes. When they read books, they’ll actually believe in the happily-ever-after endings. While walking the school halls with new clothes, the right friends, and their backs straight.
This is my dream. The small piece of myself I keep to myself. When Anya laughs her terrible laugh, I hold it tighter. When Roberto walks into the babies’ room at two A.M. and demands what he’s going to demand, I bury it deeper. And afterward, when Lola cries, I whisper my promise into her ear.
Someday, we will get out of here.
Someday, we’ll make our very own perfect family.
Because it can’t always hurt like this. Can it?
Chapter 28
ROO. ROO, ROO. ROO, ROO, roooooooo . . .
Alex hadn’t been kidding. The new family member didn’t bark. She howled. Each time, every time, they put her in the crate. At two A.M., Alex gave up and carried the spotted wonder back to the sofa and let her sprawl on his stomach. At six A.M., when D.D. could hear the sound of Alex’s snores mixing with the unmistakable sound of chewing, she came out of the bedroom, took the roll of toilet paper away from the pup, and redirected Kiko to the backyard to do her business.
When D.D. returned, Alex had mysteriously risen from the sofa and made it to the bedroom, where the door was now firmly shut.
D.D. gazed down at Kiko, who was still eyeing the mangled toilet paper with clear longing.
“All right. You and me. Might as well get to know one another. What do you think? Tennis ball? Let’s go.”
She grabbed her cell phone and Alex’s down jacket and headed back outside, Kiko at her heels. The promise of play seemed to excite the Dalmatian mix, who pranced around D.D.’s ankles.
At this hour of the morning, the sky was just beginning to lighten. Enough traces of twilight to make out the fence line, but still too dark to, say, chase a ball. One of the joys of living in the burbs, however, was that you were never truly alone.
Already people were rising for the day’s adventures, nearby kitchen and family rooms lighting up, patio lights snapping on. Flipping on D.D.’s back porch light simply caught her up with the rest of them.
She threw the ball to the opposite end of the fenced yard. Kiko took off in a flash. D.D. stared at her phone, wondered who she could call this early.
Ben Whitely. Given four bodies connected to a high-profile Amber Alert, the hardworking ME probably hadn’t even gone home last night. He was known to take catnaps on the morgue tables. Not something D.D. liked to think about.
Kiko returned. Dropped the ball. D.D. picked up and threw the ball, then hit speed dial on her phone. So far, this dog thing wasn’t that bad.
Ben picked up on the third ring. “What?” Ben could be a hard-ass. It was one of the many reasons D.D. liked him.
“I have a dog,” she said.
“Seriously?”
“Her name is Kiko and I’m told she’s the best spotted dog in all the land.”
“I’m guessing Jack won that war.”
“Yeah, with a little help from Alex. Yesterday, they visited the animal shelter. And now we have a Dalmatian-pointer mix who goes roo, roo, roo every time we put her in her crate. She is also partial to chewing toilet paper.”
“Shoes,” Ben warned sagely.
“I’m thinking of moving all mine to the office.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“Have you slept?”
“Not really.”
“Me neither. So, what should I know?”
“Umm . . .” Across the airwaves, D.D. could hear Ben scrub his face. No doubt collecting his thoughts after too many hours of too-sad work. “The adults are about what you’d expect. Cause of death multiple GSWs from a nine millimeter—”
“Nine millimeter? The handgun I recovered from the backyard was a twenty-two.”
“Then I can reasonably say that was not the murder weapon.”
“Crap.” D.D.’s turn to rub her face.
Roo?
D.D. glanced down to discover Kiko staring at her. The dog nudged the ball pointedly. D.D. picked it up and worked on her toss.
“Casings from Hector Alvalos’s shooting,” she muttered. “Also nine millimeter.” Meaning the gun from that incident could be the same one used to kill the Boyd-Baez family, and a female matching Roxy’s description was spotted fleeing from that scene. Double crap.
“I’ve sent the recovered slugs to ballistics for testing,” Ben was saying. “Lab should have some answers for you soon enough.”
D.D. nodded. Might as well wait and see. Already assuming she’d recovered the murder weapon had gotten her in enough trouble. Patience had never been her virtue.
“Juanita Baez had some scarring on her liver consistent with a history of alcohol abuse,” Ben continued now. “However, there were also signs of healing, which would indicate recent sobriety. I’ve ordered a tox screen, but it’ll be a few days before I have it.”
“Charlie Boyd?” D.D. asked.
“No sign of drugs, smoking, or alcohol abuse,” Ben rattled off. “Again, cause of death three GSWs to the chest, the second shot severing his aorta. Death would’ve been nearly instantaneous as he bled out inside his chest cavity.”
“Hence he never made it off the sofa.”
“Exactly.”
“The kids?” D.D. asked softly.
“Manny Baez, age nine. Shot three times, to the side and back. Fatal wound being the one beneath his armpit, straight into his heart.”
D.D. could picture it all too well. Manny twisting away from the killer in the doorway, pressing against his older sister for protection. “How close?” she asked.
“Judging by the powder burns on his clothing, I’d say a distance of five feet. The shooter walked into the bedroom, then pulled the trigger.”
D.D. nodded. Kiko was back, wagging her tail, looking pointedly at the ball. To give her a chance to collect herself, D.D. picked it up, threw it again.
“The girl, Lola Baez, is where things get interesting,” Ben was saying. “For starters, cause of death, single GSW.”
“Single?” D.D. questioned immediately.
“The killer placed the gun against her temple, pulled the trigger.”
D.D. had to absorb that. “She was the target,” she murmured.
“Generally, in mass slayings, the victim who suffers the most damage is the primary target. So if the family received three shots apiece, then the primary target might have, say, an entire clip unloaded in his or her chest. But in this case, the up-close-and-personal nature of the kill shot suggests that Lola Baez was the object of the killer’s rage. Nothing was left to chance. The killer entered the bedroom, fired three shots at Manny Baez. Then closed the space to place the barrel of the gun directly against Lola Baez’s head.”
“Okay,” D.D. heard herself say. The dog was back. D.D. obediently picked up the ball, tossed.
“There’s more.”
“Okay.”
“Lola Baez also showed signs of recent sexual activity.”
“Rape?”
“No obvious bruising or lacerations, so it might have been consensual, ignoring for a moment that a thirteen-year-old is below the age of consent. I also found traces of spermicide, meaning her partner most likely wore a condom. No traces of semen, though I recovered a hair for DNA testing.”
D.D. nodded.
Dog. Ball. Throw.
“Drugs?” she asked.
“No needle marks, but again, awaiting results from the tox screen.”
“The beauty mark on her cheek?” D.D. asked.
“Yes. Phil contacted me about that late last night. I took a look via a magnifying glass and your information is correct. What originally appears as a black blemish is in fact a tattoo. Fascinating, actually. Along the same principle as engraving a name on a grain of sand. In a nearly perfect circle, the tattoo artist has stamped Las Niñas Diablas. I can’t imagine there are too many tattoo parlors out there doing this level of work. It’s the first of its kind I’ve seen.”
“Could it be homemade? You know, prison style with ballpoint ink and a needle?”
“No, you’d need a very fine instrument, not to mention a lighted magnifying glass. Also, given that the skin would swell as it’s being inked, either the mark would have to be formed over time to allow for such cramped writing, or it’s possible it was done all at once, via a tattooing stamp. I’ve heard of such things but never seen them myself. It’s artistry, I can tell you that.”
“So I’m looking for an artistic gangbanger. Great.”
“The gang task force keeps a database of markings. I’ve added this to the file.”
“Thanks.” Kiko was back, staring at her. D.D. reached once more for the ball. “It was Lola,” she murmured to no one in particular. “The shooter was after Lola, the rest of the family was collateral damage.”
“You don’t think the oldest sibling, Roxanna Baez, was involved?” Ben asked.
“I don’t know anymore. There’s no obvious motive for her to shoot her own siblings. On the other hand, she was clearly under stress and had ongoing tensions with her younger sister. We also have evidence she was hiding out near the scene of Hector Alvalos’s shooting, which was also done with a nine millimeter.”
“Maybe the same handgun?”
“Quite possible. We have drug angles, gang angles, deep-dark-family-secret angles. Plenty of angles. Just no traction. Anything you learn, I’d love to hear it. Sooner the better.”
“Like you’ve ever had it any other way.”
Her phone buzzed. An incoming call. She glanced at the screen, expecting it to be Phil given it still wasn’t even seven. To her surprise, the name of a law firm flashed across her screen. Juanita’s lawyer, whom they’d left several messages for just yesterday.
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br /> “Gotta go,” she told Ben. “Keep me posted.”
“Will do.”
Then Ben was gone. D.D. picked up the next call and resumed playing with her dog.
“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren.” D.D. answered her phone crisply.
“Daniel Meekham. Of Meekham, Croft, and Bane. I’m returning your call from yesterday. I was in Florida for the week. Just got in late last night.” Pause. “Heard the news.”
“So you know Juanita was shot and killed yesterday. Along with her partner, Charlie Boyd, and two of her kids.”
“Yes.”
“Her oldest daughter, Roxanna Baez, is still missing. Do you know her?”
“The kids? No. My only conversations have been with Juanita. And our relationship was still new. I mean, I met her purely by chance in the emergency room a few weeks ago. Bagel. Knife. Oops.”
“You specialize in litigation.”
“Yes.”
“Our understanding is that Juanita was talking to you about a situation involving her two daughters. She believed something might have happened to them five years ago, after the state removed them from her custody and placed them in foster care.”
The lawyer didn’t comment.
“Mr. Meekham, you understand that your client is dead? She has no need for attorney-client privilege. Not to mention we have compelling reasons to believe Roxanna Baez might be in immediate danger. Surely protecting the life of your client’s daughter is more important than protecting your client’s privacy.”
“I understand. Like I said, this is a relatively new case. I’m still thinking it through.”
“Let me help you: Juanita believed her daughter Lola was sexually abused while in the state’s care. Specifically, while she was staying at Mother Del’s foster home. Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“To that end, Juanita has been digging around on her own. Questioning Mother Del, for example.”
“Yes.”
“I imagine you also ran background on the woman.”
“Yes.” That slight hesitation again. “Mother Del, real name Delphinia Agnes, has been a licensed foster care provider for twenty-four years. During that time, she has consistently had a full house, anywhere from six to eight kids.”