by Tami Hoag
Dutrow sat back a bit, one eyebrow sketching upward. “Really? How so?”
“She has a DUI charge on her record from some years ago and a misdemeanor possession charge that was dropped. I want to know more about that. Dixon’s trying to get a copy of the original arrest report but hasn’t been able to. I want to know what this girl had on her when she was arrested. Was that charge dropped because she flipped on a dealer? If someone went away on her say-so, they might just be out by now. That would give us a revenge motive.”
“Where did this happen?”
“Not sure if it was Houma PD or Terrebonne Sheriff’s Office, but you must have contacts both places. Maybe you could reach out for us.”
“And how long ago was this?”
“Eight or nine years ago.”
Dutrow scoffed. “That’s a long time. How can that be relevant?”
“It’s been long enough for some petty dealer to go do a stretch in Angola and get back out.”
“She couldn’t have had much in her possession if the charge got dropped entirely,” Dutrow argued.
“Or she gave the DA somebody they really wanted,” Nick countered.
“More likely, it was nothing,” Dutrow said.
“When I brought it up to her tonight, she got pretty agitated. She said, ‘Oh, no, that’s a mistake.’ What does that mean?” Nick asked. “What kind of mistake?”
“Could be a clerical error for all you know.”
“Then there should be no record of charges being dismissed because the charges never existed.”
“You’re barking up an old obscure tree here,” Dutrow said, getting up from his chair.
Nick shrugged. “It’s a thread. I find them, and I pull them all. One unravels the cover cloth and we see the truth. Will you make a couple of phone calls and get the original arrest report or not?”
“All right, fine,” Dutrow said, flipping a hand dismissively. “I’ll make some calls tomorrow if you think it’s necessary.”
“I think it’s necessary.”
“Fine.”
“Thank you,” Nick said, trying to stifle the sigh of frustration. He glanced at his watch.
“Am I keeping you from something more pressing, Detective?” Dutrow asked sarcastically.
“Yes. As a matter of fact, you are. Are we finished?”
The sheriff gestured toward the door. “By all means . . .”
Nick started to leave, turning back around just as he settled his hand on the doorknob. “Young Prejean said your fiancée brought flowers to Genevieve Gauthier today. Could that be true?”
For a second Dutrow looked surprised, taken aback. The look was gone in a heartbeat. “Oh, well, probably so,” he said, shuffling a stack of papers on his desk. “Sharon volunteers for the hospital auxiliary.”
“She wouldn’t know Genevieve from Houma, would she?”
“I thought this girl was from Dulac.”
“She worked for a time as a clerk in Houma City Hall. Their paths might have crossed.”
Dutrow shook his head, making a face. “I shouldn’t think so, no. She didn’t mention it to me.”
Nick dismissed the thought as he left the building and walked across the yard to the Pizza Hut. The night was still too warm. It felt like a storm could blow up, though the sky was clear. He looked for Annie’s car in the lot. It seemed strange he hadn’t heard from her. How much could KJ Gauthier’s twelve-year-old babysitter have had to say?
Even as he thought it, his phone pinged the arrival of a text. He unclipped it from his belt and looked at it as he buzzed himself into the building. The aroma of pepperoni and tomato sauce hit him in the face, immediately making his stomach growl.
The text was from Annie: We have a problem. The babysitter is missing.
Missing?
Nick walked into the bullpen, his attention on his phone screen, his brow furrowed. He turned and went down the hall to his office, wanting privacy to call Annie, his mind tumbling over possibilities. Why would the babysitter go missing? Did she know something? Had she seen something? Heard something? Done something? Had someone taken her? Had she run away?
KJ Gauthier’s kitten had gotten up on his desk and curled up on the papers in his in-box. He reached out and stroked the animal’s head with his fingertips.
“Boss?”
Wynn Dixon stood in his doorway as he settled himself in his chair.
“Did you find that arrest report?” he asked.
“No, not yet,” she said, though it was clear by her expression she had something to say, something she didn’t necessarily want to say.
“What then?”
“Remember I mentioned this afternoon she had a juvie record?”
“What of it?”
“It’s for murder,” Dixon said soberly. “Genevieve Gauthier killed a baby.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Lola Troiano and her mother lived in a lovely Caribbean colonial–style house in the Quail Run development on the western edge of town. The neighborhood was little more than a decade old, but due to the traditional style of the homes and the many mature trees the development had been designed around, it had the feeling of having been there forever. It was the kind of place professional people raised their beautiful families and entertained their witty and successful friends at gracious dinner parties where everyone spoke intelligently about politics and world affairs. The driveways were studded with Volvos and BMWs.
Annie recognized the house right away—17 Cheval Court had been filed away in her memory years before. The house had been owned by a real estate agent named Lindsay Faulkner, partner to a murder victim who had become a victim herself. Annie wondered if Jessica Troiano knew that story. Some people would run backward from a murder house. Others would use the sad fact of a violent death to drive a hard bargain and never think of it again. Jessica Troiano was a litigator, a professional negotiator. In Annie’s experience, lawyers were given to neither superstition nor sentimentality.
She went to the front door and rang the doorbell, peeking into the foyer through a sidelight. The last time she’d looked in through this glass there had been a beaten, bloody comatose woman lying half naked on the floor with a ginger cat curled up beside her. The huge potted fern in the corner may well have been the same plant as had been there years before.
The house was open and airy. From the front door, Annie could see straight through to part of the kitchen, to the French doors that led out to a brick patio.
Lola came trotting from the kitchen, dressed in black leggings splashed with graffiti in neon colors, and a T-shirt with a big anchor on the front, her long hair down and loose. Her smile faded as she opened the door.
“Hey, Lola,” Annie said. “Is your mom home?”
“Lola?” a voice called from deeper in the house. “Who is it? Supper’s almost ready!”
Jessica Troiano didn’t wait for an answer. She emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, striding purposefully toward the foyer. She was her daughter’s older carbon copy—tall, slender, her brown hair swept up in a messy knot on her head. She had the sinewy leanness of a longtime yoga practitioner, a lifestyle given away by the smiling stick figure in downward dog pose on her T-shirt.
“Can I help you?” she asked, peering over her daughter’s head as she came to the door.
“Mrs. Troiano, I’m Detective Broussard from the Sheriff’s Office,” Annie began.
Immediately, Jessica Troiano stiffened, her expression going sober. “Are you kidding me?”
“No. Uh—”
“She’s pressing charges? Are you freaking kidding me?”
“Uh—”
“Lola, go in the kitchen,” she instructed, sweeping her daughter away from the door.
“But, Mom—”
“Go! I’ll take care of this.”
Lola backed out of the foyer but hovered just beyond, looking worried.
“Mrs. Troiano, I’m not sure why you think I’m here,” Annie started again. “Who do you think is pressing charges? And why?”
Jessica Troiano clamped down on the emotion that had tipped her hand the second before. “Why are you here?” she asked coolly.
“I need to ask Lola some questions.”
“About what?”
“About a friend of hers. May I come in?”
“What friend?”
“Nora Florette.”
“Oh, my God,” Jessica muttered, rolling her eyes. “That family!”
“Dean started it!” Lola blurted out.
Her mother gave her a look of exasperation.
“May I come in?” Annie asked again. Whatever this was about, she wanted to be sitting down to hear it. It seemed that every story involving the Florettes turned out to be long and headache-inducing, and she was tired and hungry.
Annie stepped inside before the woman could change her mind.
“I’m sorry I’m interrupting your supper,” she said, her stomach grumbling as she breathed in the aroma of something delicious wafting out from the kitchen.
“Hopefully this isn’t going to take long,” Jessica said, showing the way to a comfortable, stylish living room straight out of a Restoration Hardware showroom.
Lola hopped onto the sofa and tucked herself into the corner, her feet drawn up, her arms banded around her knees. She couldn’t have made herself any smaller.
“I like your nail polish,” Annie said to break the ice as she took a seat on the huge, tufted leather ottoman directly in front of the girl. “Blue is my favorite, too.”
“Thanks,” Lola murmured.
“So, did Dean get into a fight with that other boy after I left the park today?”
“With Cameron?” Lola said, surprised. “I don’t think so. Cameron is terrified of Dean.”
“I saw Dean later,” Annie said. “He sure looked like he’d been in a fight. And you just said Dean started it. That sounds like a fight to me.”
Lola cut a glance up at her mother, who perched herself on the thick arm of the sofa, literally hovering over her child. The mother hen with a law degree. Jessica gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“That was me,” Lola confessed. “Dean was trying to grab me. He’s such a perv! He’s always trying to touch girls’ breasts! I bashed him in the face with my soccer ball, and I went straight to the principal’s office and told Ms. Samuels Young. But by the time we went back outside, he was already gone.”
“You said you saw him later,” Jessica said to Annie. “Did the Florettes call the Sheriff’s Office?”
“No,” Annie said. “I stopped at their house looking for Nora. Dean came home with blood all over him. He said he crashed his bike. I guess he wasn’t keen to tell me a girl cleaned his clock for him.”
Lola bit her lip to keep from smiling. “Am I in trouble?”
“No, you’re not in trouble. You have a right to defend yourself. And nobody has the right to touch you without your permission. Dean is the one in trouble.”
“So, what exactly is this about, Detective?” Jessica Troiano asked. “If Lola’s not in any trouble—”
“I need to speak to Nora, and I can’t seem to find her,” Annie said. “She may have information that could be helpful in another investigation. I’m hoping Lola can help me with that. I know you saw her yesterday after school.”
“Nora.” Jessica gave her daughter a stern look. “How many times have I told you I don’t want you hanging around with that girl?”
Lola raised her chin in defiance. “You also tell me I should be independent and use my own judgment to make up my mind about people,” the girl returned. “Nora is my friend.”
“Your friend who is always in detention, who is always in trouble, who is now embroiled in some kind of police investigation. Your judgment needs some fine-tuning.”
The mother glanced at Annie. “What kind of investigation? Is she stealing again? I swear. Those Florette children get no adult supervision whatsoever.”
“Nora babysits after school for Genevieve Gauthier—”
“Oh, my God.” The words were uttered on a sigh that was half distress and half aggravation. The color drained from Jessica Troiano’s face. “The little boy that was killed.”
“Yes.”
“And now Nora is missing?”
“She’s not at home,” Annie said. “And her family doesn’t seem to know where she is.”
“Do you know where she is, Lola?” The mother gave her daughter a look more suited to the courtroom than the living room. “No messing around here, young lady.”
“I don’t know!” Lola insisted, wide-eyed. “She wasn’t at school today.”
“Yesterday,” Annie said. “You saw her in the park after school. Did you speak to her after that?”
“No.”
“She didn’t call you last night?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Would she normally call you in the evening?” Annie asked. Dean had said Nora was hogging the phone. Who would she call but her friends? Lola Troiano seemed to be one of the few.
Lola shot a guilty glance at her mother and murmured, “Yes.”
“Lola, has Nora said anything to you about wanting to run away from home?” Annie asked.
The girl glanced away, nervously twisting the stack of friendship bracelets on her wrist.
“Lola . . .”
“She threatens to all the time,” Lola admitted. “Her mother grounded her again—for a whole month! And besides, who wouldn’t want to run away if they had to live in the same house as Dean?”
“Did she seem like she might go through with it this time? Did she have a backpack with her?”
“Just the same purple-and-pink one she brings to school every day.”
“Did it seem more full than usual?”
Lola shrugged.
“What do you know about her getting caught shoplifting at the Quik Pik on Monday?” Annie asked.
“Again?” Jessica exclaimed.
“Were you with her?” Annie asked.
Lola didn’t need to answer. Her expression perfectly blended guilt and panic.
Jessica Troiano gasped, moving off the arm of the sofa to stand beside Annie. “Lola Troiano! Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“Because this is how you react!” Lola exclaimed, pointing at her. “Why would I tell you? So you can yell at me?”
“Yes! That’s exactly why! And you wonder why I tell you not to hang out with that girl! THIS is why!” She turned her outrage toward Annie. “Why wasn’t I notified? My daughter is twelve! I should have been called immediately!”
“There was no law enforcement involved,” Annie said. “The clerk on duty is a friend of Jojean Florette. She called Jojean.”
“And then what happened?” she demanded, turning back to her daughter.
“Mrs. Florette came and got her,” Lola said. “She was really angry. I saw her grab Nora by the hair on their way to the car. She’s mean like that.”
“And what did you do with yourself?” her mother asked.
“I walked to the library.”
“Which is where you were supposed to have been the whole time. And when I picked you up at the library, you had not one word to say about all of this?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Lola protested. “I wasn’t the one stealing!”
“No, you were just an accomplice.”
“I wasn’t even in the same aisle!”
“Did you know she was going to steal something?”
“I’m not her keeper! I can’t control what she does!”
“No,” Jessica said, “you control what you do. That is my point.
You need to make better choices—”
“What did she steal?” Annie asked, not really caring, more interested in simply derailing the mother-daughter squabble for the time being so as to get back to her own line of questioning.
She didn’t expect the answer to be surprising or even interesting. What did girls shoplift in a convenience store? ChapStick, candy, gum, cigarette lighters. It didn’t matter. Still, Lola Troiano hesitated to answer.
“The detective asked you a question, Lola,” her mother said. “What did Nora take?”
Lola slid down in her seat, miserable, trying to disappear into the sofa cushions. She looked down and fussed with her friendship bracelets, no doubt wanting to be rid of the one Nora Florette had given her.
“A magazine,” she said in a small voice.
“A magazine?” Jessica repeated. “What magazine?”
The girl squirmed, color rising in her cheeks. “What difference does it make? She didn’t take it, after all.”
“Lola, what magazine?”
Lola took a deep breath, sighed, and cringed, bracing herself, as if the truth had a terrible taste to it. Finally, she spit it out. “Penthouse.”
Jessica Troiano gasped like she’d been doused with ice water. “Lola Mackenzie Troiano! You are grounded for a month!”
“That’s not fair!” Lola said, popping up to her feet. “I didn’t steal it! It wasn’t for me!”
“No, you’re just an accessory to the crime!” her mother argued. “Accomplices go to jail, too, young lady!”
“What did Nora want with a Penthouse magazine?” Annie asked.
“I don’t know!”
“She didn’t say?” Jessica asked. “Nora Florette, who never had a thought that didn’t tumble through her empty head and out her mouth, didn’t tell you, her accomplice, why she was going to steal a dirty magazine?”
Tears welled up in Lola’s eyes. “It was probably for Dean! He looks at dirty magazines all the time! And he steals her underwear, and he spies on her in the bathroom!”
“It is not Dean’s fault Nora stole something,” Jessica said. “Don’t deflect.”
Annie stood up between them, holding her hands up like a referee. “Okay, that’s enough. It’s not important now. I need to find Nora and speak to her. Lola, did you talk to her last night?” she asked again.