The Lifeguards(66)

Finally, he could stop worrying that everyone thought he was broken.

They had not released her name, but some internet sleuth had figured it out—photos of Roma (culled from her own social media) were burning up the internet like wildfire: her long hair, the short shorts, her wounded yet haughty expression. She was the epitome of a rich child gone wrong. “Affluenza” in pink pajamas.

And her parents! Whitney and “The Lion” Brownson were semifamous real estate moguls focused on gentrifying the city, exploiting people’s fears to sell multimillion-dollar “doomsday bunkers” and homes with giant, remote-controlled gates. The Brownsons had helped usher in the “new Austin,” a soulless megacity of overpriced real estate and chain restaurants, and they’d actively profited off the changes.

The public was out for blood, and Roma Brownson was a flesh-and-blood teenager in custody. Her lawyer would get her out on bail within hours, unless the judge believed she was a flight risk. She was a flight risk, of course: the Brownsons could easily spring their daughter and flee. A cursory Web search showed Salvatore that the Brownson Team, in fact, specialized in foreign properties; a whole section of their website was devoted to New Zealand and countries known for money laundering: the Cayman Islands, Liechtenstein, and the Isle of Man.

The Isle of Man!

For at least a few hours, though, Roma was in police custody. Salvatore opened the door to the interrogation room. It was 10:00 a.m. on the dot; they’d moved Roma from her cell twenty minutes early to give her some time to fidget, get nervous. “Good morning, Roma,” said Salvatore. “Can I get you anything? Coffee?”

He’d interviewed many teenagers in his career, mostly abused and/or abandoned kids who’d turned to crime to save themselves. They were usually terrified, whether they were masking their nerves with bravado or sobbing openly. They were kids, the same as his own children, no matter what they’d been through. Salvatore was expecting Roma Brownson to be the same; he’d assumed this situation would be horrible for her, but might change her fundamentally into a better person. Kids were kids, and malleable. There was always a chance to help them.

But as soon as Roma Brownson looked up, Salvatore knew he had been wrong.

She looked at him steadily, her expression ice-cold. Salvatore felt a shiver in his low back—he remembered a sociopath he’d prosecuted years before named Carl Kress. Carl’s gaze had been the same. There was something wrong with this girl, something fundamental.

“No,” said Roma. “I don’t want your sad coffee, but thanks.”

“OK,” said Salvatore, sitting down opposite the girl, trying to arrange his face so that she wouldn’t see how her demeanor chilled him.

Roma crossed her arms over a thin chest. She wore scrubs and hospital socks, the same as all the juveniles at Gardner Betts.

“Let’s start with the evening of May thirty-first,” said Salvatore. He pulled out a pen, wrote the date on top of a steno pad he kept in the interrogation room.

“I was home,” said Roma. “Someone took my phone. This is a setup. The only question is who. Who is setting me up? That’s your mystery right there. But I have faith in you, Detective. I know you can figure this out.”

Salvatore sat back in his seat, the metal edge of the chair hitting his back at a bad angle. He winced. “You were home,” he said, “when your brother and his friends found Lucy Masterson’s body?”

“Yes,” said Roma.

“Had you ever met Lucy Masterson?”

“I’d heard Bobcat was boning an older woman,” said Roma. “But I’d never met her, no.”

“What is your relationship with Robert Fontenot?”

Roma rolled her eyes. “Oh my God,” she said. “He’s not my type. He’s a weirdo. I mean nice, but more like a computer than a person. Have you seen Rain Man?”

“And Charlie Bailey?” Salvatore moved the conversation forward, not engaging.

“What did Charlie say about me?”

“How do you and your brother get along?”

“I wish he were dead.”

Salvatore remained calm. He’d heard a lot worse. “Why’s that?” he asked.

“Because my parents love him more than they love me,” said Roma. “I’d kill him if I could. But you can’t lock me up for that, now, can you? For wanting to kill someone? For dreaming about a world without my perfect little brother?”

Salvatore changed tack. “Have you ever taken drugs?”

Roma shrugged. “Of course,” she said. “But never Oxy. That’s what she died of, right? We’ve all watched the Snapchat ads, Detective. We know about Big Pharma and the Sacklers and not getting addicted to opioids.”

Salvatore recalculated, putting aside the fact that Roma was fifteen, feeling as if she might be capable of anything.

Had she been to his house, planted the phone?

Why would she incriminate herself?

Had her brother planted the phone, knowing Roma had it out for him?

Had she been in contact with Salvatore’s children?

The thought of Roma contacting Joe made Salvatore’s heart race. “What do you think happened to Lucy Masterson?” he asked.

“Clearly, she was an addict,” said Roma. “I think she OD’d.”