The Witness Series Bundle

by Rebecca Forster

  "I'll take care of it. We'll cover any medical expenses," Josie said, barely able to contain her annoyance at being called away from the hospital for this. "Hannah will apologize and make amends in any manner Tiffany's mother believes fit."

  Beside her, a sullen Hannah cut her eyes to her guardian. Josie ignored her. Her displeasure was nothing compared to Josie's or Mrs. Crawford, Mira Costa High School's principal.

  "Tiffany's mother isn't just talking about suing you, Ms. Bates, but the school district and me personally. She claims that we knew Hannah was a danger and that she never should have been registered."

  Josie stiffened. Hannah rolled her eyes. In this school, Hannah's arrest for murder translated into an assumption of guilt. It was ridiculous, unfair, and Josie thought they had moved beyond that. Hannah knew better. She dealt with the consequences of her notoriety every day. Josie and Archer and Faye had made the hassle worth bearing. Now Josie was acting like any other parent – huffy, righteous, unwilling to hear Hannah's side of the story – so Hannah sulked. Josie figured an eruption was about five minutes away, so she decided to use the next four as judiciously as possible.

  "I think we can all agree that Hannah is no more dangerous than any other student," Josie said.

  "We have a no tolerance policy for bullying," Mrs. Crawford said. "Tiffany has been sent home. She's on probation for three days."

  "That's like nothing," Hannah muttered.

  "Hannah." Josie admonished her quickly with both a word and a touch. Hannah shook her off. There was no stopping Hannah when she had something to say.

  "Give me a break. All Tiffany's going to do is sit home and badmouth me and Billy on the Internet. She said we should both be dead and that we were too stupid to pull it off. That's not teasing. That's not even bullying. That's evil."

  "I agree," Mrs. Crawford said, "but there's a difference between bloodletting and cutting words. She didn't threaten you, Hannah."

  Hannah pushed herself up straighter, bent an elbow and rested her head against her fisted hand. She sparked with teenage anger, but her argument was all adult logic.

  "I wasn't worried about me. Billy hasn't got anyone to stand up for him, so I did. I don't think he'd be better off dead." She dropped her hand and raised her head and asked, "Do you?"

  If Hannah had been an archer her arrow couldn't have hit a truer target. In fact, she'd taken out both Mrs. Crawford and Josie with that barb. For Josie the last two days had been spent listening to Hannah's asides, her objectifying of why Josie and Archer needed to step up and take responsibility for Billy. Josie's promise to reach out only so far seemed to Hannah stunning and unfathomable. Why, she wanted to know, was Billy different? It was hard for Josie to explain and almost impossible to put into words.

  Josie assumed that Hannah understood the parallels that brought them together: their shared experience of abandonment, their fierce love of a parent who had done them wrong, and their connection as women. What Josie had not counted on was a teenage heart, a teenage mind, a teenage sensibility that dictated that outsiders – like Hannah, Josie, and now Billy – had each other's backs no matter what.

  Josie had not counted on Hannah's faith in her, either. Josie was the guardian, the warrior, and the unbreakable lifeline that Hannah clung to. But most of all, Josie's arms were now the mother's arms encircling her. Hannah wanted her friend, Billy, embraced and protected, too.

  "Not caring about what happened is the same as wishing he was dead," Hannah pointed out.

  "Hannah, nobody wishes Billy dead. Not even Tiffany." Mrs. Crawford was firm. "And it isn't my job to decide what will happen to Billy. I am principal of this school, and I will deal with the problems of this school. I'm not exonerating Tiffany, but I'm not letting you off the hook either. Because you were physically violent, you will be suspended from school for two weeks. I will not see you on these premises for any reason, is that clear?"

  "Yes." Hannah accepted her punishment, but wasn't cowed by it.

  "Good. Fine." Mrs. Crawford unclasped the hands to check the schedule of Hannah's classes that she had pulled before calling Josie. "You're carrying a full load, Hannah. All of your teachers have the assignments posted online except for art."

  "I'm working on a painting for Ms. Trani. She's letting me self-direct," Hannah said.

  "Is it due in the next two weeks?" Mrs. Crawford was clearly unimpressed.

  Hannah shook her head. "No. End of the month."

  "Alright then." She set aside the class schedule. "Ms. Bates, if Hannah needs anything from the school, I'll expect you to come and get it. I'll speak with each of her teachers. I will make it clear that they are to cooperate but not to go out of their way to accommodate her. I do expect Hannah, however, to go out of her way to accommodate them."

  "Her assignments will be in on time," Josie agreed. "I'll see that she writes a letter of apology to this girl-"

  "I won't." Hannah nearly shot of out her chair, but Josie was fast and her hand clamped down on the girl's arm. Mrs. Crawford didn't miss a beat.

  "Then we're done. Hannah, go to your locker and get what you need."

  Hannah picked up her satchel and went to the door without so much as an apology to the principal. Josie was about to call her back when Mrs. Crawford beat her to it.

  "Hannah? Just so you know, I am in no mood for a confrontation with anyone. You have five minutes. Is that understood?"

  "Yes," Hannah answered.

  When the door closed, Mrs. Crawford turned her attention to Josie.

  "I'm glad you stayed."

  "I am sorry. I'll talk to Tiffany's mother. I'll make sure there is no legal action," Josie assured her.

  "It's not that. I doubt her mother is going to make good on those threats. Luckily, she isn't blind to her daughter's failings. And if you repeat that, I'll deny it."

  "My lips are sealed," Josie promised.

  "Great. Look, I just wanted to give you this." Mrs. Crawford handed over a piece of paper. Written on it were a local number and an international number. "I'm embarrassed to say that this is all we have on Billy. When his mother filled out the registration forms she didn't even bother to put down names. We should have caught it, but we have over two thousand students. Registration day is a zoo. We're bound to miss something. I'm just sorry we missed it with Billy. Some kids are just destined to fall through the cracks."

  "Hopefully, we can change that." Josie took the paper and glanced at it. "I'll run it down. Thanks."

  Josie put the number in her pocket, shook the woman's hand and walked into the hall. Hannah was waiting near the double doors down the hall, her Louis Vuitton satchel bulging with books. There were more in her arms. Before Josie took another step, her phone rang. The caller identified herself, imparted her information, and asked Josie if she understood the instructions.

  "Yes. I've got it. Ten o'clock tomorrow. Judge Healy. Chambers? Thank you."

  Josie input the information into her phone and said her goodbyes. At the end of the hall, Hannah was waiting and watching as Josie dialed Archer. He was going to have to step things up. The next day at ten in the morning she was going to have to face the judge who would decide what was going to happen to Billy Zuni.

  When she passed Hannah, the girl turned precisely and followed her guardian across the campus. It wasn't until Josie pulled the car out of the parking space that Hannah spoke.

  "You won't let the county take Billy, will you? He can't survive in the system, Josie. I could, but not Billy."

  ***

  Archer pocketed his phone. The woman in the purple leggings hadn't shown the slightest interest in his conversation. Instead, she filed her very long, very fake, French tipped nails. They looked like spades. It was a look Archer had never understood. Still, he didn't want to hold hands with her, he just wanted her attention.

  "So, do you know anything that could help me find this kid's people?"

  Carlotta dropped her hands atop a dressi
ng table littered with make-up, gum wrappers and a 32 oz. lidded cup that looked like it had been there for a good long while. They were alone in the dressing room, but there were other people in the place: two guys who looked like they'd lost their best friend, a bartender, and a waitress/dancer. All had taken one look at Archer as he followed Carlotta in and averted their eyes. The smell of cop never quite disappeared no matter how long you'd been off the force. Carlotta didn't seem to mind the stench.

  "I told you, I didn't know her very well," Carlotta insisted.

  "She must have talked about something," he insisted.

  "Honey, I don't have any more to tell you than I told the cops. She worked here for the two years, she didn't really like dancing, but she did what she had to do. You know, to take care of the kid." Carlotta paused and was as close to contemplative as she probably ever got. "It couldn't be worse what happened to her."

  "Why do you say that?" Archer moved over and put his shoulder up against the cleanest looking wall. He liked her profile better than the view from above.

  "From what I hear, she won't exactly be eye candy if she pulls through. You can't dance all scarred up unless you want to be the freak show on the lineup. You know she's not from here. You know that, right?"

  "Yeah? Where's she from?"

  "Got me." Carlotta was done with the emery board. She tossed it onto the table.

  "Can you guess?"

  "Nope."

  "Did she ever say Billy was a problem? Was he depressed? Was he acting out? Was she afraid of him?"

  Archer pressed forward, but Carlotta was proving a tough nut to crack. She kicked off her shoes, picked up a bottle of white nail polish, and started painting a daisy on her big toe.

  "Best I can tell she was fine. He was fine. She didn't say it, but she lived for that kid."

  "Did you ever meet him?"

  Carlotta shook her head, "Naw. Poor little guy. What's he going to do now?"

  Archer took note. Rosa Zuni was so secretive she had led Carlotta to believe Billy was a child.

  "We don't know. That's why I'm looking for a relative."

  Carlotta shrugged. "Don't look at me. I'm not going to step up."

  "I'm looking for a blood relative," Archer confirmed.

  "Good." She kept on painting. She was pretty good at it. "Anyway, whatever happened to her, she probably didn't see it coming from here. That day was a wash, no customers. The boss sent her home early. She was okay with that. She said she had a guest coming." Carlotta paused and then shook the polish wand at Archer's reflection. "You know, I'll miss her. She was real polite. Who calls people guests?"

  "What would you call it?" Archer asked.

  "A guy? I don't know." Carlotta shrugged.

  "A john?"

  "No, not that one." She dipped her head. "Not any of us."

  Archer looked around the room while Carlotta went on with her nail art and stewed a bit. Undies was good to its talent. The dressing room was spacious. At one time it had been pretty spiffy. The wallpaper was originally a burgundy color but it had faded to a sickly grey. The fleur-de-lis patterned flock still sparkled with embedded gold flecks. In the early sixties this place would have been cool, a gentleman's club.

  Dressing tables lined each of the long walls. Each space was personalized – a tufted stool in front of one, a vase of fake flowers on another, a blue bridal garter draped over the edge of a standing mirror. Photographs sprouted from the sides of shared wall mirrors – all except for one. Archer went to that station, and ran his finger down the side. Nothing had fallen behind it.

  "Is this Rosa's space?" he asked.

  Carlotta glanced over her shoulder and drawled. "Aren't you just the Sherlock. Didn't I tell you she was the private type? You see anything there that looks personal?"

  "She was here two years and didn't even bring a picture?"

  "Nope," Carlotta tossed her hair over her shoulder. It was so long it threatened the artwork on her toes if she left it hanging.

  Archer took two steps and stood in front of the woman. He was a big man but the look she shot him said it all: no one was big enough to intimidate her. That was good because he didn't want to bully her, Archer just wanted to be clear that he needed help. He hunkered down and got eye-to-eye with a woman who at one time had been truly beautiful.

  "I don't want to put you on the spot, but I need something fast, and I don't know where else to go. Tomorrow there's going to be a hearing to find out who should take custody of Billy. Rosa can't talk. Rosa can barely breathe. Billy's in bad shape and can't help himself. If you've got anything, give it to me. I don't want to see Billy go into the system."

  Carlotta looked into Archer's dark eyes. He looked right back into her blue ones. He didn't smile. Carlotta wouldn't have bought it if he did. She was looking for the things she had seen in other men's eyes: smooth lies, a means to an end, insincerity, and cruelty. Archer was looking for something too: the woman she had been, the girl whose dreams had been whittled from an oak into a toothpick. Carlotta flinched first but not because he made her. Something else nudged her along. Archer didn't ask what it was for fear he'd ruin the moment. He stood up and stepped back. She dropped her feet, went to a back cabinet, and rummaged through it. When she returned, she was holding a well-worn picture album.

  "This is our shit list." Her chest heaved like a full ocean swell. Archer moved in close to take a look as she flipped open the cardboard cover. "Hold that side, baby, this thing is heavy."

  Carlotta turned the pages of the album. Some were torn, others bore the marks of spilled drinks and make-up smudges. Some of the pictures were stapled onto the pages, others taped and some just wedged into the spine. There were Xeroxes, Polaroids, regular photos, and computer printouts. Carlotta was turning one long page when Archer stopped her and pointed to a picture of a gorgeous young woman.

  "This you?" Archer asked.

  "Yeah." Archer thought he heard her sigh. "I was hot."

  "Time's been good to you." Archer told the truth as always. He could see beyond the hair, the lashes, and the purple tights.

  "That's a sweet thing to say." She paused, then followed up with: "I'm free for lunch or whatever."

  "I'd take you up on it but I'm getting married."

  "Figures. The good ones are always taken."

  "You're not," Archer said and he meant it. "So what is this?"

  "It's like, you know, a rogue's gallery. One of the girls had a creep hitting on her a long time ago and management wasn't doing anything about it. If she got hurt, we wanted to be able to finger the guy, so we took a picture of him. Then somebody else had a problem with a cop. Then Marla had a crush that went bad. We started putting pictures and notes and things so that if anything happened to any of us someone would know who to look at."

  "Smart," Archer said.

  "Yeah, we thought so."

  "Who took the pictures?"

  "Everybody. Nobody. Some are stills from the surveillance tape, but it broke a while back. They never fixed it."

  Archer took over and turned the long pages slowly, taking in every image. There were pictures of the girls in various stages of undress, of the bartender, of patrons. Most of the clientele looked harmless, all looked like losers, and the notes written beside those doofuses were less than kind. Archer had to admit they showed a heck of a lot of objectivity and wit. Those who didn't look harmless were called out big time: circled in crayon or marker. Giant arrows pointed to them with explicit warnings were called out: toucher, grabber, lurker, curser, strangoid. A few, it was noted, were bad tippers.

  "Did you show this to the cops?" Archer asked.

  Carlotta shrugged, "I didn't, but maybe someone did."

  "What's all this?" Archer pointed to lists beside some of the worst offenders. Carlotta leaned over and took a look.

  "Those are the girls the guy was interested in. If one of them came in and we knew he was bothering someone in particular, we switched
our sets or did something to keep them apart. See that?" Carlotta pointed to one notation. "That means Charity switched to the midnight to two shift because of this guy. Then see this?" She pointed to a picture of a car. "We put down the license plate because it was dark when someone took a picture of his car. That guy was freaky beyond belief. Nothing behind his eyes, and he'd get really close to you, and talk really loud. But he touched Charity. He would kind of paw at her. Like she could deal with someone grabbing her, but this guy touched her like . . ." Carlotta shivered, unable to find a word to describe the touch. For a woman like her to be afraid the guy must be bad.

  "Rosa's not here. Wasn't there anybody interested in her?"

  Carlotta reached over and turned the pages until she found what she wanted.

  "Him." She put one of those amazing fingernails on the picture. "Rosa wanted us to take it out. I got the feeling she wanted to talk, though, but she was kind of like a whipped puppy. She just said take it out, but we didn't. We didn't want to be responsible."

  "Did she say why she wanted you to take it out?"

  "No, but I knew why."

  "Why?"

  "'Cause who in the hell wants to be reminded of an ex?"

  "How do you know that guy is her ex?"

  Archer took the book and sat down on the little tufted stool. The picture was bad, nothing more than a shadow of a man in a back booth. Carlotta was back at her station, the vial of white polish at the ready, but she hadn't resumed her toenail artwork. Instead, she used the little wand like a conductor.

  "Who else would it be? It was like a love/hate thing." Carlotta answered. "You get a sixth sense for this kind of stuff. The couple times he came in, Rosa talked to him for a long time. He was dressed real nice – wore a lot of gold. He put his hand on hers. She took it back. You know, that kind of thing. I saw him shove money at her. She didn't take it."

  "So she never told you straight out who he was?"

  "No."

  "Would you recognize him if you saw a picture?"

  Carlotta shook her head, "Nope."

  Archer dug into his pocket for his phone and took a picture of the picture in the book. Maybe the sheriff's lab could make heads or tails of it. He wanted a copy just in case this one conveniently disappeared.