by Elaine Viets
I found the Chocolate Shoppe by scent. The rich perfume of chocolate overpowered the food court’s grease fog. I was greeted by a rosy-cheeked woman in a blue dirndl, who kept offering samples. I ate them all – chocolate turtles, chili-infused chocolate caramels, salted chocolate caramels, and four kinds of truffles. I liked – and bought – everything, and felt slightly queasy by the time the saleswoman packed my purchases into a slick brown shopping bag.
As I hurried toward the escalator, I heard a commotion in the food court. I saw a dark-haired teen boy rummaging in a trash can, holding a red plastic plate of what looked like fried rice.
“Hey, you! Stop!” shouted a thirty-something man in a blue parka. “You killed that girl.”
The boy froze over the trash can like a raccoon caught scrounging in the garbage. “No!”
He was lying. I recognized him immediately. Dex was even better looking than his photos. He had a surly bad-boy charm and a face that was almost pretty. Thick, blue-black hair framed high cheekbones and blue eyes fringed with long lashes. He had big shoulders and smooth muscles.
Blue Parka moved closer to Dex, prepared for battle. Diners and shoppers whipped out their cell phones to record the drama as Dex dropped the fried rice and sprinted for the escalator. Blue Parka tackled the boy, and Dex hit the sharp escalator steps face first. Someone screamed. As Dex crawled away from the escalator, a second diner kicked him in the gut. The boy raised his arms to protect himself and a woman slammed him with an orange plastic chair.
“Stop!” I screamed. “Stop. You’re killing him.”
The crowd ignored me and kept kicking and beating the boy. I looked around wildly for help, then speed-dialed Detective Budewitz. He answered on the first ring.
“Help! We’ve got an emergency at the West Forest Mall. Dex was spotted in the food court and vigilantes are pounding the kid to pieces. He needs an ambulance. Bring reinforcements. It’s a riot!”
“Call security. I’m on my way.”
“Hurry, before you’ve got a homicide on your hands.”
Where was security? Shoppers were whacking Dex with food trays, shopping bags, and suitcase-sized purses. A boy about five threw his orange soda in Dex’s bloody face. A twenty-something woman kicked his shins.
I saw a tubby, sixtyish mall cop in a wrinkled beige uniform cruise over in a Segway. He parked and watched a woman lift a clay pot bursting with poinsettias from a holiday display and charge toward the battered teen.
“Stop her, officer!” I shouted. I spotted his name tag – MARTY. “Marty! Don’t let her hit him.”
“It’s not my job to save killers,” he said with a snarl.
I held up my cell phone and tried to sound as official as possible while I videoed the attack. “Officer Marty, my name is Angela Richman. I’m videoing you standing by while a young man is being beaten on mall property. This man appears to be Dexter Gordon. I’ve called a Forest police detective and he’s on his way. Mr. Gordon has not been convicted of any crime. He is wanted by the police for questioning. He has already sustained significant damage. I can see that his face is bleeding” – I zoomed in on the boy’s head – “and he has cuts and bruises on his arms and legs.” I panned his body, then stopped at his left arm, now hanging limply at his side. “His arm appears to be either sprained or broken. His coat and scarf are torn. So far, you have done nothing to stop this attack. If Dexter sues this mall for damages, I’ll testify that you did not stop the attack.”
Now Marty the mall cop waded into the crowd, shouting in a deep voice: “Time to leave, people. The police are on the way. You, sir! Put that chair down immediately.”
The older man wielding the chair said, “Goddamn killer! You’re gonna let him go free.”
“No, sir. I’m going to detain him so the police can arrest him. If you don’t set down that chair, you’ll be arrested, too.” The man put the chair back at a table and disappeared.
“Put down that flower pot, ma’am,” Marty said to the woman about to crown Dex with poinsettias. “If you break it, you’ll pay for it.”
The Christmas flowers were returned to the display. The shoppers were melting away, picking up shopping bags and gathering children. Some stayed in small, gossiping groups, but no one attacked Dex. Marty helped the battered boy to an empty chair at a table piled with food trays, and brought a wad of napkins. Dex held them to his bloody face. I was horrified to see how quickly they were soaked with blood. His left arm lay in his lap.
“Dex,” I said. “Help is on the way. Where are you hurt? Can you talk?”
“I didn’t kill her,” he said. “I love her.”
“Then help us find Juliet.”
He tried to raise his left arm and cried out in pain.
“The paramedics will be here shortly,” I said, brushing his bloody hair out of his eyes. I was relieved to see Jace running through the exit doors, flanked by at least six uniforms. I waved to him. The last of the crowd vanished when they saw the police.
Marty the mall cop stepped forward, puffing out his chest. “I have the situation under control, Detective. Unfortunately, the suspect has sustained some damage.”
“Some damage?” Jace roared. “He’s had the crap beaten out of him. He’ll be photographed before we leave, and I’ll file a report with the mall that he didn’t get these injuries in our custody. Now, Marty, you’re going to help my officers find the vigilantes who beat this boy and then you’re going to turn over the security tapes to my officers so we can track down the others. Got that?”
The mall cop nodded.
Jace turned to Dex. “How are you, Dexter?”
The boy looked white and shocky. “I think my arm’s broken. My head hurts and my face won’t stop bleeding. It hurts to breathe. I got kicked in the ribs.”
“Help is on the way. I’ll call your parents.”
Dexter turned flour white under the red blood and the words rushed out. “No! My dad will beat me worse. He wouldn’t let me talk to Mr. LaRouche. He said because I was from Toonerville they’d blame me and I’d go to jail. He told me to go to Gran and Grandpa’s house until this died down, but I thought I could hide out at the mall.”
Dex hung his bloody, bruised head. “Just go ahead and read me my rights and arrest me. I’m starving.”
“I’m not going to arrest you yet. You are not in custody. You’re going to the hospital as soon as the paramedics get here. We are actively searching for the people who beat you.”
Dex looked surprised. “You’re not going to arrest me?”
Jace dodged the question. “I need you to tell me everything that happened the last time you saw Juliet.”
“I love Juliet. We had a stupid fight and she jumped out of my car at the stop sign by her house. We’d been at the party and I was drunk. I tried to get her to stop drinking. I was mixing all sorts of shit – beer and vodka. She was, too. I had to get her out of there. I was taking her home for her own good. When we got close to her house she wanted to get out right then and go home through the woods. She opened the car door when I slowed down at the stop sign and nearly fell on her a– nearly fell down. She ran into the woods and screamed at me not to follow her. She was so mad at me.”
“Why was she angry?” Jace asked.
“Because I’d been talking to another girl at the party.”
I knew the boy was lying.
“I keep trying to text and call her to apologize, but she won’t answer.”
The police found Juliet’s cell phone in his car, I thought. What’s going on here?
“I had no idea Juliet was missing until her dad came to my house screaming like a crazy man. That’s when my parents made me hide and then said I’d have to go to my grandparents in St. Louis.”
Jace tried to stop the rush of words. “Whoa, whoa, okay, I get it. Now, before the paramedics take you to the hospital, do you feel well enough to show us the spot where Juliet exited your car?”
“Yeah, sure, that’s what I wanted to do all along. My head hurts, but I
’ll do it.”
“Okay, here come the paramedics. They’ll load you up and drive by her house. You can show us where you left her off.”
“That’s all I want. My head hurts bad. Can they give me something for it?”
Dex was ghost white now. The blood on his face looked almost black in the sickly artificial light. He toppled face forward on the dirty table.
Dex was unconscious.
CHAPTER 9
Wednesday, December 28, 9:12 a.m.
The helicopters’ whap! whap! whap! woke me up the next morning. I had a chocolate hangover, a grainy, headachy feeling after I’d pigged out last night at Katie’s.
I dragged myself out of bed. Outside my window, the search for Juliet continued. I saw an awkward army of searchers, bundled in heavy clothes, moving slowly across the Du Pres property. A knot of people were looking in the stables and checking the hay shed. Horseback riders were everywhere. Melancholy cries of “Juliet! Julieeeeet!” echoed across the fields.
Juliet had been missing for two days now, and the last person to see her alive had been beaten into a coma. Was Dex awake this morning? I made my way downstairs, turned on the coffee maker and the kitchen TV. Over the blurp and hiss of the brewing coffee, I heard the latest news. Nothing had changed. “The search continues… time is running out… but the missing girl’s parents still believe she is alive.”
I popped two pieces of bread in the toaster as I watched Midge LaRouche repeat her heartrending plea. “If you know anything about my daughter, please call…”
I tuned her out. There’s not a chance your girl’s alive, I thought. Your foolish pride may have killed your daughter.
“In related news,” the announcer continued, “police found the missing Dexter Gordon, the sixteen-year-old boy wanted in connection with Juliet LaRouche’s disappearance. Police say the Chouteau Forest High School student gave Miss LaRouche a ride home from the holiday party where she was last seen.”
Interesting. The news reports made it sound like she hitched a ride home with a boy. No mention that they were dating. Did Juliet’s parents insist on that careful wording, or was Jace being cagey?
Dexter’s photo flashed on the screen. This was a different boy from the beaten, bleeding Dex of last night. He was darkly handsome with a sullen, pouty-lipped sneer. I could see why Juliet might find him attractive compared to the smug pretty-boy blonds in her circle.
My toast popped up. I slathered it with butter, poured myself a cup of coffee, and savored my breakfast at the kitchen table, while the TV announcer showed stock video of the inside of the mall. “Shoppers recognized Dexter Gordon in the food court at the West Forest Mall about nine o’clock last night, according to police sources. The boy was attacked and brutally beaten. He was taken to Sisters of Sorrow Hospital with multiple injuries, including a head injury which has resulted in a coma. He is still unconscious and police are unable to interview him until he regains consciousness.”
Juliet’s last hope was lying in a hospital bed, I thought. And where was the girl? With her friends? Not after this search. Under a blanket of snow? That was more likely. Did Dex kill her? I didn’t know, but I did hear the boy lie to Jace.
Was Jace being pressured to blame the boy for Juliet’s disappearance? If so, he’d managed to resist. So far.
The news continued: “Three Forest residents have been arrested in connection with the beating of sixteen-year-old Dexter Gordon at the West Forest Mall. Mall security footage shows the attackers repeatedly kicking and punching the boy. Police say the attack was unprovoked. Charges have been filed against Roger…”
I switched off the TV, and heard the text chime on my phone. Daisy had texted, Still want to go to the Olive Garden. Can you take me? You promised.
I texted back, Pick you up in half an hour. But you’re not going to like where I’m taking you, missy.
I dressed warmly – too warmly. By the time I stepped out into the crystalline cold, I was sweating. My black Charger was a salt-crusted lump.
On the way to Daisy’s house, the sun sparkled on the snow, but it was no longer pristine. The fields had been trampled by searchers and the snow piles along the roadway were slush gray. As the Charger pulled into Daisy’s driveway, she ran outside, dressed in her long hooded red coat, black scarf and black boots. She opened the car door and didn’t bother with small talk, or even a hello. The frigid air rushed in as she plopped into my passenger seat. When I stopped to turn into the street, Daisy started to put in her ear buds. I put the car in park and grabbed the ear buds.
“Hey!” Daisy said.
“Oh, no. You’re not going to listen to music. Not till you see this first.” I ignored Daisy’s sullen pout and showed her latest TV clip. The announcer said, “As temperatures dip below zero for the second day in a row, hope is running out that sixteen-year-old Juliet LaRouche will be found alive.”
“Hear that? Your friend is dead.”
“No!” Daisy’s eyes were wide and she looked ready to cry. Her voice rose to a shrill denial. “That’s not true. She can’t be. She can’t be.”
She was crying, and I didn’t care. “Then where is she? They’ve been searching the Forest for two days now.”
“She’s hiding at her nana’s.”
“Her nana’s? Where did that come from? You said she was staying at the Minterns.”
“I did, but she wasn’t there. She has to be at Nana’s.”
“Why hasn’t Nana called the police?”
“She lives at the Willingham. You know where that is?”
“I’ve been there.” The Willingham is a luxurious home for the Forest’s richest seniors, and death is a frequent visitor. My death investigator duties brought me there several times. The Willingham is no sad old folks’ home. It looks like a luxury hotel, and its services range from assisted living apartments to memory units for people with Alzheimer’s.
I turned left toward the Olive Garden – and the Willingham.
“Does Nana have Alzheimer’s?” I asked.
“No, she’s not that bad. She’s a little ditzy, but she knows who Juliet is. Juliet likes to visit her. Sometimes Nana talks about the old days. Most of the time she sleeps and Juliet just hangs. Seeing Nana gets Juliet out of the house and away from her mother.”
“Why didn’t you tell Juliet’s parents that she likes to be with her nana?”
“She needs her privacy.”
“She’s beyond privacy now. We’re going to the Willingham.”
“No! I’ve got to go to the Garden.”
“You’ll get lunch after we see if Juliet is with Nana. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you care about your friend?”
“Of course, I care,” Daisy said through her tears. “But I know she’s okay.”
“How do you know that?”
She was red-faced and sniffling. “Because we’re like sisters. Like soul sisters. If anything happened to her, I’d feel it.” Daisy’s tears were nearly shrieks.
“Bull–” I saw the girl’s distress and amended it to “baloney. Let’s go to the Willingham. Juliet’s parents are half-crazed with worry. If you were any kind of a friend, you would have told them by now.”
“You don’t understand. Juliet’s mother has all kinds of stupid plans for her. It’s like she’s in prison. Her mother tells Juliet what to eat and what to wear and who to see. That’s why she had to sneak out to see Dexter. Her mother thought he would ruin her chances to be a DV Queen. It’s like the most important thing in the world.”
“Only here,” I said.
“Huh?” Daisy looked surprised.
“Most people outside the Forest have never heard of the Daughters of Versailles Ball. Those who have think there’s something funny about it.”
“I don’t want to go to the DV, but I don’t see why it’s funny. It’s just a party for friends.”
“White, rich friends.”
“You’re prejudiced against white people,” Daisy said.
“I am a white
person,” I said. The debate ended at the gates of the Willingham. The four-story redbrick building had Gone with the Wind columns and park-like grounds blanketed by snow. The front walkway had been shoveled. The grounds were deserted and the parking lot nearly empty.
“What’s Nana’s name?” I asked.
“Sylvia Du Pres LaRouche.” Daisy had finally stopped crying and blew her nose.
I started to park in the front lot, but Daisy said, “There’s no point in checking at the front desk. Juliet never signs in as a visitor. She doesn’t want her mother to know this is her secret hiding spot. Park around back. The staff keeps a door unlocked so they can smoke by the Dumpster.”
I drove around to the back of the building. The Dumpsters were hidden in a high, white-painted fenced enclosure and its gate was slightly open. I could see a door, sheltered by a green canvas awning. “That’s it. There,” Daisy said. “Park by those evergreens.”
I did, then grabbed my purse and followed Daisy across the parking lot, grateful it had been plowed and salted. Even the Willingham’s back entrance was impressive. The hall was papered with soft, yellow-and-white striped wallpaper and the walls were hung with landscapes. The only differences between this hall and a pricey hotel were the handrails on the walls and the extra-wide doorways.
“Follow me,” Daisy said, and we threaded our way through the deserted halls, past suites with the residents’ names on the doors. Occasionally we’d see a nurse or staff member. A twenty-something staffer in a red sweater and black pants pushed a frail, white-haired woman in a wheelchair. Some of the staff nodded at me. No one noticed Daisy.
At last we came to a door with a plaque that read, “Suite 817 – Mrs. LaRouche.”
“This is Nana’s,” Daisy whispered. She opened the door slowly and I heard loud snores. “Nana’s asleep. She sleeps a lot. Juliet usually hangs in the chair by her bed.”
We tiptoed through a small sitting room with a beige couch piled with needlepoint pillows. The TV was blaring. The walls were covered with photos of Nana and her husband, their children and grandchildren. Over the small wooden table in the kitchenette was a memorial to the dead man. The largest photo showed a tall, good-looking young lieutenant in a naval officer’s uniform with a radiant blonde bride in a shoulder-padded wedding dress and veil. In other photos, the same man wore a business suit at an office, posed for family photos, and was a gray-haired executive in a framed newspaper article: “LaRouche Industries CEO Retires at the Top of His Game.” Next to that was his framed obituary, dated June 6, 1998.