Live to Tell (Detective D.D. Warren, #4)(102)

“Yes.”

“Nope.”

D.D. frowned, set down her paper plate, and strode over to Danielle. She stood right in the nurse’s face. Heightwise, D.D. had only an inch on the woman, but she knew how to use it. “This is a private party. Out.”

“No.”

“What the f*ck is your problem?”

The nurse shifted edgily. “You. Him.” Danielle jerked her head toward Greg. “The whole f*cking unit. You think you need answers? I need them even more. Meaning Greg has got to start talking.”

D.D. snapped around to glare at Greg. “Do you know what she means?”

He shook his head.

“Yes you do,” Danielle said, eyes still on D.D. “I heard you with the boy. You know Evan. From off the unit. How can that be, Greg? How do you know him, and why didn’t you tell us?”

“Danielle—”

“For God’s sake!” Danielle exploded. “Two families are dead, Greg. And Lucy. Plus, now Lightfoot’s hospitalized. How many more, Greg? Something’s terribly wrong. Someone’s hurting our kids. You need to start talking. How do you know Evan?”

D.D. stuck her hands on her hips. “Might as well confess now, buddy boy. Because none of us are letting you out of this room until you do.”

Greg remained standing there, lips thinned, face unreadable. He stared at Danielle. She stared back at him.

“I knew the families,” Greg said abruptly. “All of them. Outside of the unit. I’m the missing link.”



“I started respite work couple of years ago,” Greg was saying five minutes later. He was seated at the table, Danielle next to him, D.D. and Alex across from him. Despite his earlier refusal, he and Danielle were now both armed with cans of soda, which they had opened themselves and tasted carefully.

“At first, I worked for just one family. I’d met them here; their four-year-old daughter suffered from schizophrenia. They were talking about how hard it was to get a break, to have a date night, go for a walk, buy groceries. Neither of their families were equipped to handle Maria, and there was a waiting list for trained help. I felt bad, especially for the mom. You could tell she was losing it. So I offered to watch Maria while the parents had a night out.

“I didn’t accept money.” He said this more to Danielle than to D.D. and Alex. “I did it as a favor. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

Danielle nodded, tensely, her expression still guarded.

“But then they called me up again. They could use more help and they were willing to pay. Thirty bucks an hour. That’s more than I make here.”

“Thirty bucks an hour?” D.D. repeated.

“There’s a shortage of respite workers,” Danielle said, looking at D.D. and not Greg. “Not enough training available, not enough people suited for the work. Given that families with special-needs children can’t exactly hire the teenager down the street, the families end up held hostage. They have the highest burn job on the planet and can never take a day off. Meaning the ones who have means …”

“Pay well,” D.D. filled in.

“Very well,” Greg supplied, a tad self-conscious this time. “And they network with other families with special-needs kids, and once the word gets around …”

“You got a pretty good gig moonlighting as a respite worker.” D.D. frowned at him. “Why the secrecy, though?”

“It’s considered a breach of protocol. Like a conflict of interest. I’m already being paid to help with kids here. To set up a side deal with the parents …”

“Double-dipping?” D.D. asked.

“More like … I think in the past, there were situations where an individual MC might have seemed aggressive about it. Like he or she was preying on overwhelmed parents to get work. That led to some rules.”

“You’re not supposed to work with the families outside of the unit,” D.D. translated.

“Exactly.”

“But you have been. For years.”

Greg flushed, looked down. “I swear, I’ve never solicited the work. They call me, not the other way around. I wouldn’t prey. I wouldn’t do that.”

“So why are you breaking the rules?” D.D. asked. “You claim you’re a good guy, but clearly you’re not coloring within the lines.”

“Money,” he said softly, not looking at Danielle. “I need the money.”

“Need the money? Or want the money?” D.D. pressed.

“Need.”

“Why?”

“My sister.”

“Feel free to extrapolate.”

“She’s institutionalized. Will be for life. And the hospital the state’s willing to pay for is more like a prison than a mental health facility. She’s my sister. I couldn’t leave her there.”

“So you found her a new place?”

“Private institution. But that means more money. State pays some. I make up the difference. To the tune of twenty grand a year.”

“Twenty grand?” D.D. asked incredulously.

“Matter of economics. Supply versus demand. When it comes to mental health, we don’t have enough supply, and every year, we have more demand. Ask Karen about it sometime. We used to see a handful of genuinely psychotic children a year. Now we make those same numbers within a month. We don’t know what the hell to do with these kids; how are the parents supposed to know?”