“I couldn’t say, since I have nothing to compare it to.”
“Well, describe some of the traditions your family observed.”
“Okay. Every week we’d observe two days of rest—Saturdays, per Jewish custom, and Sundays, per Christian custom. So not a damn thing got done on weekends. The whole family would just loaf around the pool.”
“Uh-huh.” Lupe scribbled some notes.
“Can you tell me anything about the teens who died here?” I asked.
She looked up from her notes, locking her gaze with mine. “Not ethically.”
“You’ve already crossed that line,” I said.
She sighed. “You don’t let up, that’s for sure. That’s why I know you’ll figure out what happened here. But let me finish this assessment first.”
“Okay,” I said. I guess I had to give some to get some.
“What else can you tell me about your family’s customs?”
“Let’s see . . . on Fridays during Lent, when Catholics aren’t supposed to eat meat, Mom served gefilte fish. Then on Eastover, Mom and I would paint little bearded rabbis with yarmulkes onto Easter eggs. Then we’d eat matzo ball soup and chocolate bunnies.”
“Okay. Go on.”
“After Mom’s first divorce, she was barred from communion in the church. So she got a lay Eucharistic minister to come to the house every week and give her communion. The wine was Manischewitz, and the wafers were bagel chips. Which I actually think is totally appropriate since the body and blood of Christ were Jewish.”
“I see you have some interesting notions,” Lupe said.
“Yeah. When I was fourteen, I missed my period for a couple months, and I was convinced I was pregnant. Although I’d never had sex. I mean, if it can happen to the Virgin Mary, it can happen to anyone, right? I figured I must be carrying the true Messiah.”
Lupe’s eyes widened. She was starting to look alarmed.
“Relax,” I said. “I’m not delusional. Not anymore, anyway.”
“Well, it sounds like your upbringing was a little . . . confusing.”
“I suppose. I will say that when you pile original sin on top of your run-of-the-mill Jewish neuroses, it does make life kind of a bitch.”
“How would you say your . . . uh . . . unorthodox childhood environment has shaped who you are today?”
I thought for a bit.
“You know what? I think it has actually made me a better investigator. Whoops, I guess you can’t write that in your notes. But anyway, it’s given me the ability to see many sides of an issue. I’m not blinded by a narrow dogmatic perspective.” Damn. Guess I’d have to thank Mom for that.
Lupe scribbled some more, then looked up. “And what are your current views on spirituality? What do you think about a Higher Power?”
“What do you mean by ‘Higher Power’?”
“Something greater than yourself. A source of wisdom, strength, guidance. That which gives your life meaning. A moral compass.”
I thought about that a moment. Did I have a Higher Power? Something inside me poked at my ribs. Of course—my Inner Vigilante. That seeker of Truth and Justice. That was my Higher Power.
“Yeah,” I said. “I can get on board with the Higher Power thing.”
“Then that’s the start of recovery.”
And righteousness, I thought.
Lupe put her pen and paper away. “Well, that concludes the assessment.” She rose.
The blue heron took flight, as if it, too, had concluded its mission. What was this bird, some kind of heavenly emissary? Whatever. Time to get to the hellish business at hand.
“So, about the kids here . . . ,” I prompted.
“I really don’t know much,” she said. “Like I said, I just now found out about poor Demarcus. The other two died before I had a chance to meet with them. I don’t always have the opportunity to speak with clients right away, like I did with you.”
“But wouldn’t you have been called in to do grief counseling with their families?”
“Normally, yes. But these were foster children. So was Demarcus. The foster care system handles contact with their parents.”
“Oh,” I said. That might explain Gardenia LaFleur’s cry about her “children.” Maybe she was their foster mother. She certainly seemed to be in need of grief counseling now. But more importantly . . . here was a connection among the dead.
“Isn’t it strange that a whole group of foster kids would be in treatment for addiction?” I asked.
“Not at all. Sadly, foster kids are at high risk for addiction and all kinds of emotional and behavioral problems due to all the turmoil in their lives. And often feeling that they’ve been abandoned by their birth parents.”
“Yeah, that’s understandable,” I said. “But what are the odds of three foster kids dying and it being a coincidence?”
“Just about zero, I’d say.”
“Right. What are foster children doing at The Oasis, anyway? Wouldn’t they be sent to a public treatment program?”
“Usually, yes. They’re here due to the Contessa’s beneficence.”
Lupe knew the Contessa well, since the Contessa was also the benefactor of Lupe’s rescue mission.
“The Contessa is funding five beds in the adolescent unit to be set aside for foster children with addictions,” Lupe said. “Whenever there’s an opening, whoever is first on the waiting list for the county facility gets in here.”
“Oh.”
The Contessa never spoke of her past, but it was rumored that she’d been a hidden child in World War II—a Jewish child living with a Christian family and passing as one of them. If that was true, I could see how she might feel an affinity for foster children, who also lived in a faux family.
Regardless of the Contessa’s motivations, more foster kids at The Oasis meant more potential victims. “You need to let the Contessa know about these deaths.”
“Yes, of course. I already have. About the first two, that is. But those weren’t murders.”
“What did they die of?” I asked.
“According to Dr. Stillwater, the first one, Angel Romero, had a seizure. That’s not uncommon during withdrawal. But tragically, he was in the bathroom at the time and hit his head on the edge of the sink when he fell. Of course, when the staff found him, they immediately called an ambulance, and he was taken to the ER. But there was too much traumatic brain injury. He couldn’t be revived.”
“Wow. Sad,” I said. “What about the other child?”
“Kenyatta Underwood. Fifteen years old. When she got here, she refused to eat. At first, the staff thought that would pass after the withdrawal phase. But after a few days, she still wasn’t eating, and then her lab results came in, and it became clear she’d been anorexic for some time. Her electrolytes were totally out of whack. The staff was about to have her transferred to the hospital when she went into cardiac arrest.”
So what Gitta had told me about one victim being poisoned and another suffocated were apparently unfounded rumors among the patients. Or maybe, in her coke-fueled paranoia, Gitta had twisted the facts. Certainly, I trusted Lupe’s version of events over Gitta’s. On the other hand, maybe Dr. Stillwater had lied to Lupe.
“There was no evidence of foul play in either of the cases?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t think the possibility crossed anyone’s mind.”
“Right. But now with Demarcus’s murder, and knowing that all of them were foster children, it kind of puts things in a new light.”
Lupe nodded slowly.
“You said you didn’t have a chance to meet with Angel and Kenyatta, but what about Demarcus?”
“Yes, I was able to speak with him. He was a lovely young man. Extremely polite. Spiritually, he’d been raised in the African
Methodist Episcopal church and was an avid member. He had a strong faith in God. In my opinion, he would have done very well in recovery. He just needed the support of a structured environment.”
“Did he exhibit any unusual behaviors?” A standard question in murder investigations.
Lupe was silent for a while. “Well, he was extremely quiet. He said his favorite activity was reading. You know, that’s pretty uncommon among kids his age. Normally it’s video games, Facebook, all that.”
“Hmm. Did he say what he liked to read?”
“He said everything. Science fiction, biographies—even romance.”
“Whatever he could get his hands on?”
“I guess so.”
“Did he mention any enemies? Any arguments he’d had with anyone?” More standard questions.
“No. Like I said, he had a very respectful demeanor. He wasn’t the type I’d imagine getting into fights.”
“He doesn’t sound like a typical drug addict,” I said.
“No, you’re right.”
“But he might have been the type that’s a target of bullies,” I said.
“That’s true.”
I sat for a while, thinking over what Lupe had shared. It was clear that she didn’t know a lot of details about the victims. But she would know some generalities about The Oasis.
“How do things work here?” I asked. “Do the adult and adolescent patients mix?”
“Not much. Adults aren’t allowed in the adolescent unit and vice versa. All the treatment sessions are conducted separately. But they do mix in the common areas, like the dining room and the outdoors.”
Like the Meditation Maze, I thought.
“And what does the treatment involve?”
“The treatment plans are individualized for each patient. But in general, there are educational groups, therapy groups, individual counseling, family sessions, and mind-body work.”
“And what do you think of the staff?”
“They’re top-notch. You get what you pay for, just like with anything else. It shouldn’t be that way when it comes to human pain and suffering, but it is. The treatment the kids get here, compared to what they’d get in the public facility, is like night and day. The clients here—or the Contessa—pay top dollar, and The Oasis hires the top people in the field. They’re bright, skilled, and dedicated.”
Perhaps, although not all were quite as dedicated as Lupe seemed to think. Dr. Stillwater, for one, seemed more dedicated to her annual Italian getaway.
A hiss erupted from the ground beneath us. What the hell was that? A snake? I jumped off the bench, just as water spurted out of sprinklers, spraying our way. We sprinted off the lawn onto the walkway.
Lupe took my hands. “I know you’ll get to the bottom of whatever is going on here,” she said. “Just be safe, chica.”
“I will. By the way—are the phones in this place bugged?”
“No. That would be an invasion of privacy. If anyone found out, the fallout would be a PR nightmare. I’m sure the execs wouldn’t want that.” She gave a crooked smile.
I wasn’t entirely reassured.
Chapter 7
AS LUPE WALKED away, a midnight-blue BMW with tinted windows pulled into the parking lot. Enrique. He emerged and scanned his surroundings, like the security pro he was.
Seeing me, he strolled over.
He wore ivory silk pants and a baby-blue polo shirt with the collar turned up. A blue-and-white striped sweater tied around his neck completed the GQ look. His black hair was artfully gelled so that a few strands brushed the top of his Ray-Bans. He was the only guy I knew who could look completely cool on a sultry South Florida day.
We sat down on a bench that was out of reach of the sprinklers. “What’s with the rinky-dink rent-a-cop at the gate?” he asked.
I shrugged. Pros of any kind always had to pass judgment on each other. Bakers did it, bankers did it. Hell, I guess even the birds and the bees did it. I could just see one bee talking to another: “Miss Queen Bee over there thinks she’s all that. We do all the work, and she takes all the credit.”
“I know, right?” the other bee says.
Enrique turned to me and lowered his sunglasses so they hung beneath his chiseled chin. What the hell had started this trend of dangling the glasses off the ears instead of propping them atop the head? His brown eyes looked into mine. “Are you safe?” he asked. “Do you need backup?”
My first instinct was to say, “I can take care of myself.” But that would be an insult to the relationship Enrique and I had developed over the years. I had to face the facts. Yes, I could take care of myself. But I didn’t have to push friends away. I didn’t have to prove my independence anymore.
“I’m being careful,” I said. “If I need help, I’ll call. I already have, right?”
“Yeah. Okay, I won’t ask what’s going on. I know you’ll tell me if I need to know.” He clapped his hands on his knees. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay. I’ve got to head back to the hotel. There’s a convention of high school principals going on. Man, the way those people party, you’d think they were kids themselves.”
“Maybe they are,” I said. “Eternal kids. I mean, who would voluntarily choose to be in a high school?” The memory of my own high school, with its cliques and castes, made me cringe. Principals were probably the Queen Bees still climbing over each other to become Prom Queen.
Enrique stood up.
“But wait, what about the magnetic k—” I started to say as I rose, but Enrique reached out, encircled my waist, and pulled me to him, hard. Then he kissed me full on the lips, and his hands glided down to my ass.
What the hell? Enrique was gay. He was married to Chuck, my BFF. Even if Enrique had decided to expand his sexual repertoire, there was no way I was going to be a party to a betrayal. I uttered a muffled protest and pushed on his chest. I was about to shove a knee into his groin when he let go and backed away.
“See ya,” he said with a wink and a smile.
I collapsed back on the bench in befuddlement. As I did, something poked me in the ass. I reached around and felt my back pocket. Something thin and hard was in it. I pulled it out. It was the magnetic key card.
I walked back into the building. The receptionist, Tiffani, escorted me to the detox unit and unlocked the door for me. Mercy looked up from the nurses’ station. “Oh, I’m glad you’re back, Hailey. It’s dinnertime. I need to take your vital signs, then I’ll show you to the cafeteria.”
This was a positive development. I’d been thinking I’d be stuck in my room, unable to act until nighttime. But now I might have the opportunity to interrogate some of the patients.
After Mercy recorded my temperature, blood pressure, pulse, and respiration rate, I followed her down several hallways into a large, glass-enclosed solarium. Potted palms and ferns reached for the sky. Round, wrought-iron café tables and chairs were scattered among the foliage.
I recognized the group of water nymphs seated at one large table together with their instructor, Miss Sea World. The male T’ai Chi masters and their staff leader, Sandy, were at another. There were no empty chairs at either table. Three smaller, four-top tables were similarly occupied.
At the opposite end of the room, two girls and two boys sat at another four-top. They all looked to be fifteen or sixteen years old. One of the girls sported dyed-red dreadlocks and tattoos that ran the lengths of her skinny white arms. The other had spiky black hair and multiple ear, nose, and lip piercings. Both wore print sundresses, the cheap kind that have irregular white streaks where the fabric was folded as it went through printing production in some overseas sweatshop.
In contrast, one of the two brown-haired boys wore a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and skinny jeans, while the other boasted an Abercrombie T-shirt and plaid longboard shorts. Howe
ver, all four kids wore flip-flops—that great Florida leveler. In Boca, you’d never know someone’s social class by looking at their feet. However, from the rest of their attire, I guessed the girls were members of the foster care population while the boys were pampered Boca preppies.
The girls talked with each other, gesturing with their hands as they sipped from Coke bottles. The boys slouched in their seats, drinking Gatorade and looking bored. I wondered what the girls were talking about and why the boys didn’t seem to care. I needed to be at that table . . . but I would obviously not belong.
“Harr . . . Hailey!” I heard Gitta’s voice and turned to see her waving wildly at me from a small corner table. She was with a teenage boy who was dressed similarly to those at the other table.
“Oh good,” Mercy said. “I see you have someone to sit with. Enjoy your meal.” She departed.
I’d wanted to sit with some of the other patients in hopes of gleaning new information, but all the other seats were occupied. So I walked over to Gitta’s table.
The boy rose and held an empty chair out for me. On closer inspection, I recognized him as Lars, Gitta’s son of about seventeen, whom I’d previously encountered a few times. He had the tall, blond, blue-eyed Scandinavian features of his mother. And I remembered his impeccable manners. Despite her problems, Gitta, or perhaps her kids’ father, had managed to raise well-behaved children.
“Nice to see you again, Ms. Holloway,” Lars said, holding out his hand.
Gitta darted her eyes left and right. “Lars is visiting,” she whispered. “I’ve told him everything.”
That seemed like a lot to lay on a kid. But then, Lars had probably been the adult in their relationship for quite some time. After all, the “Babe” in “Boca Babe” didn’t refer only to a woman’s looks.
“Where are your other two kids?” I asked as Lars and I sat down.
“They’re home with the nanny,” Gitta said. “I think they’re too young to be in this environment.”
Wow, she was starting to show some mature judgment.
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