Like a Sister(49)

I perked up. “She leave her name?”

Veronika turned to face me. If she hadn’t had Botox, she’d have probably raised her eyebrow. “If she did, the message is long gone.” Her pause was brief. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

I didn’t want to answer. Luckily, Tam came into the kitchen.

“The police are here. Should I call Mel?”

*



No one offered Detective Zizza a four-hundred-dollar bottle of water. He stood in front of us awkward as hell, like he was giving a book report. Still, he had a rapt audience. Veronika, Tam, Aunt E, and I all sat around the room. Mel had been called but apparently had an important meeting. I was surprised. That was standard behavior when it came to me, but this was his prized Desiree. I was sure he’d have Tam give him a play-by-play. Detective Green was also noticeably absent.

“We found the car,” Zizza said and then paused, as if waiting for a standing ovation.

We remained seated. Finding the car was what they were supposed to do.

He kept on. “It’s what we thought. Two local thugs who wouldn’t have passed a driver’s test even if they were old enough. Like to steal cars but never bothered to get past the 145th Street Bridge. Didn’t even think to ditch the car. Or sell it for parts. They were still joyriding when one of our guys caught them this morning.”

I tore my eyes off his mini rant to read the room. Veronika and Tam were nodding like he was a catchy beat. Aunt E was side-eyeing him so hard I could barely see the browns of her eyes. She looked like I felt. Like there was more to the story than an episode of World’s Most Clueless Criminals. I didn’t care how rich and powerful Mel Pierce had become; NYPD wasn’t making a house call just to rail about two kids who’d happened upon Desiree’s Tesla.

I interrupted, ready to rip the Band-Aid off even though it had barely covered the gaping wound in the first place. “What did they say about Desiree? I know they had to say something.”

“Yeah,” he said. “They did. They said she met someone up there.”





Fifteen



He’d buried the lede so deep it would take a backhoe to find it. Tam and Veronika had stopped nodding, both staring at him, mouths all agape. Aunt E still looked unimpressed.

Desiree had been in the Bronx to meet someone. It took a moment for that to settle in. I should’ve been relieved. For the first time in four days someone was telling me what I’d suspected, what I’d eaten for breakfast, lunch, dinner. Even as a midnight freaking snack. Desiree hadn’t been up there by herself. But all I could think about was one thing.

Desiree hadn’t been coming to see me.

“Who?” Veronika said at last. “Who did she meet?”

She turned to Aunt E.

“You know I ain’t leaving my house for nobody that early in the morning,” Aunt E said.

Had this really never been about me at all? Two years ago I would have stopped right here and now. Washed my hands of all of this like I’d washed my hands of her. But I couldn’t. The guilt still remained. She still needed me even if she’d been too stubborn to know it.

Veronika’s eyes were back on Zizza.

“I’m assuming her dealer,” he said. “It would explain the drugs.”

“She didn’t know anyone up there, besides us,” Aunt E said. “Not even dealers.”

She was right. Our neighbors weren’t Desiree’s people. They didn’t tweet or post or filter the hell out of their selfies. They just lived. Sometimes barely.

Who was important enough to have made Desiree leave in the middle of her birthday party? It must have had something to do with the accident. What else could be that important? And if it was, there were just two people worth the trip: Zor-El or the other person who knew about the accident.

The missing driver.

Sherry had overheard Desiree arguing with someone—a witness—who Desiree thought could prove she hadn’t been to blame. But a couple of days later she’d told Sherry everything was taken care of. That meant she’d gotten what she needed, right? Had Zor-El taken a video that night? Told Desiree something that’d helped her ID someone? Had Desiree confronted them only for things to go horribly wrong?

Of course, none of it made any sense. Why would someone want her dead? Why come all the way to the Bronx?

I finally spoke. “And the kids. They didn’t give you a description?”

Slowly, he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and started reading off notes in a monotone flatter than an Instagram model’s ass pre–silicone shots. “They claim they only saw her get out of the car ‘from a long distance.’ By herself. Didn’t even close her door. She walked up the street. When she turned the corner, she said ‘Hey’ to someone they never saw.”

One of the first witnesses had heard Desiree say “Hey” too. I’d assumed she had been yelling it at the kids when they stole her car. Turns out I’d been wrong about that too.

Zizza was still going. “Kids claimed they politely waited five minutes, and when she didn’t return, they took advantage of the key fob she’d left in the passenger seat, alongside some other belongings.” He tapped his phone again and put it back in his pocket. “It’s all bullshit. Desiree could’ve been yelling at them.”