Livia Lone (Livia Lone #1)(61)

“So then why didn’t Weed offer anything? Or make something up?”

“There’s only one reason someone dummies up the way Weed did. What do you think it is?”

Livia remembered to eat while she considered. After a moment, she said, “Fear.”

“Bingo. Because when a defendant is scared, he doesn’t want anyone to think he’s talking about anything.”

“But scared of what?”

“Scared of getting killed. By anyone the bad guy might hurt testifying. So when you get someone who refuses to say even a word, that’s what you’re dealing with. Someone whose silence is a message to the people who could have him killed: ‘I’m not talking, so please don’t kill me.’”

“So what it does it mean that Weed was scared?”

Rick sipped his beer. “You tell me.”

She considered again. “It means he knows who hired him and his brother. And the third guy. And that whoever hired them is . . . dangerous.”

“Exactly. Now the thing is, Weed is part of a white supremacist gang, affiliated with a prison gang called the Aryan Brotherhood. That would give him automatic AB protection in prison.”

“Aryan Brotherhood?”

“Yeah. The US prison population is dominated by three gangs—black, Latino, and white. It’s a little more complex than that, but you get the idea. Anyway, the Aryan Brotherhood is the white gang. Numerically they’re the smallest, but they’re feared because they’re so ruthless. So Weed was either afraid that if he testified, he’d get no protection from AB, or that AB would turn on him, or—”

“Or that even if the Aryan Brotherhood wanted to protect him, they wouldn’t be able to.”

Rick nodded, clearly pleased with the way she was thinking it through. “And what would that mean?”

“It would mean . . . whoever Weed is afraid of, they’re stronger than the Aryan Brotherhood. Because they could kill him even if the Aryan Brotherhood tried to protect him.”

“Exactly. So it’s a reasonable inference that whoever hired Weed and his gang has a lot of juice. Unfortunately, that doesn’t dramatically narrow the list of possibilities.”

Livia hated it, but she had to admit that for the time being, Weed was . . . dormant. She would find another way to keep looking.

Rick did mention, though, that with time off for good behavior, Weed could be released before his twenty years were up. Livia decided she would keep track of that. And track Weed down when he got out of prison. Maybe at that point, he’d have a new reason to talk.

Or she could find him one.





42—THEN

She hadn’t expected Rick to be any kind of parent figure—she knew he was single, with a busy job, and besides, after what she’d been through, just a safe place to stay while she finished high school would have been more than enough. But he seemed to enjoy the kinds of things parents do. He was a really good cook—he knew how to make lots of dishes, including his special salmon, and chicken tandoori, and bouillabaisse, Livia’s favorite. He went to PTA meetings. He helped her research colleges. But she wasn’t sure college made sense for her, and one night, at the dinner table, she told him of her doubts.

He paused with a spoonful of lentil soup halfway to his mouth. “I’m not pushing back,” he said, “but do you mind if I ask why? Because college would create more options. And that’s as important in life as it is on the mat, right?”

She hesitated, then said, “I think . . . I think I want to be a cop. Like you.”

She was afraid he would belittle the idea, or otherwise try to talk her out of it. But instead, he looked down for a moment, then said, “The first thing I want to say, and it’s the least important, is thank you.”

“For what?”

“For saying you want to be a cop like me. And if you wind up going that route, you’ll see one day how much that means.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant, but the way he’d said “if,” acknowledging at least the possibility, made her smile.

He set down his spoon. “And for what it’s worth, Livia, I think you’d make a great cop. One of the best.”

Suddenly, she had to blink back tears. “Really?”

“Really. You’re smart. And compassionate. You know how to sift through evidence, piecing together what makes sense, picking apart what doesn’t.”

He paused. “But that’s not even the half of it. You know what would really make you such a great cop?”

She shook her head, afraid to speak.

“Your personality. You know, most people are like sheep. Nice, harmless creatures who want nothing more than to be left alone so they can graze. But then of course there are wolves. Who want nothing more than to eat the sheep.”

He looked at his soup, then back to her. “But there’s a third kind of person. The sheepdog. Sheepdogs have fangs like wolves. But their instinct isn’t predation. It’s protection. All they want, what they live for, is to protect the flock.”

Livia blinked, but the tears got past her. Rick smiled. He knew she wouldn’t want to be touched. But he handed her his napkin. And that was enough.

“Look,” he said. “In the end, I just hope you find your thing, the thing you’re passionate about, the thing you’re best at, and do that. I don’t want you to feel I’m invested in anything more than that. I don’t want you to feel any . . . I don’t know. Pressure from me.”