When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(79)

“Which are already grouped by emotion, object, food, animal. Interesting.”

“Then load up on paper and markers. I know you can’t draw.”

D.D. nodded. She didn’t have an artistic bone in her body.

“But maybe she can,” Alex finished.

“That makes sense. At least it will get us started.” She tilted her head, considering. “How do you conduct a forensic interview of a minor utilizing only pictures? First, you have to establish competence. Give me an example of a truth. Give me an example of a lie. Then there’s the matter of not leading the child, meaning I can’t ask yes-or-no questions. Again, how do you do that when pictures are the only form of communication?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that, love. Now you are going to need an expert. But remember, there’re many ways to use witness testimony. Maybe, given the limitations, conducting an interview that meets the highest legal bar of court testimony is impossible. But she’s hardly the first witness who, for whatever reason, can’t. A judge might still be willing to accept yes-or-no answers from a nonverbal witness as adequate grounds for, say, a search warrant. Something of that nature.”

“Which might lead us to evidence we can use in court.” Okay. D.D. was starting to get a plan together in her mind. “How’s the home front?” she asked wistfully, just as another crash sounded in the background.

“Pretty much the same as always,” Alex observed.

“Sorry I’m away for so long.”

“You kidding? Quality time with the wild child? I’ll have you know Jack and I have perfected our burps and moved on to farts. Be glad you’re away.”

“Well, when you put it that way.”

“Sounds like you’re onto something major,” Alex said more quietly.

“I think so. Certainly much more than a single cold case involving a single predator.”

“You have a current murder, you said?”

“Last night.”

“In other words, your investigation is starting to spook someone.”

“I think more than someone. I think someones.” D.D. looked around the room the motel owner hadn’t wanted them to be staying in anymore. For a reason she couldn’t explain, the hair prickled at the back of her neck. “Whatever’s going on here, I think it’s been going on a long time, maybe even longer than fifteen years. And it’s not Jacob Ness. Or at least, not just Jacob Ness. It involves this entire community in one way or another. Town this small, even those who claim they don’t know, know something.”

“They just haven’t wanted to see,” Alex finished for her. “Except now there’s a squad of outsiders, poking the bees’ nest.”

“Exactly.”

“Be careful,” he warned.

“Always.”

“Come home safe.”

“Always.”

“Love you.”

They said their goodbyes. D.D. ended the call. But she still found herself studying the shadows in the corner of the room and shivering.



* * *



—

SHE HATED TO LEAVE BONITA alone in the room. She didn’t want the girl to come out of the bathroom and feel abandoned. But D.D. needed some info, and hopefully supplies, from the reluctant motel owner. She found him seated behind the counter. He appeared to be studying his cell phone, but D.D. was positive he’d registered every sound of her footsteps coming down the hall.

Someone didn’t want the taskforce staying in town. Mayor Howard was in county jail. Which left . . . Bonita’s mystery demon? Someone even higher up the food chain? D.D. was not prone to nerves, but she’d give anything to have Flora’s new toy—that butterfly blade—tucked in her pocket right now.

Instead, she made a show of keeping her right hand on the butt of her service pistol as she approached.

“Good evening,” she said with false cheerfulness.

The man didn’t put down his phone, just eyed her sullenly from beneath his helmet of thick dark hair.

“So as owner, you get the night shift?”

“My motel. My responsibility.”

Or, D.D. figured, he’d been ordered to keep an eye on the outsiders.

“I could use a recommendation for pizza delivery,” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“Now, now, this motel is your responsibility. Meaning your guests are also your responsibility. I can’t believe you’ve been running this place for . . . how many years?”

“Twenty.”

“Without a single pizza delivery.”

“We’re a small town—”

D.D. leaned over the counter, got up close and personal so he could see the dead seriousness in her eyes. “Little man, don’t make me hurt you. Because the things I know how to do with just my thumb . . .”

The man glared at her. Finally, he reached out, grabbed some pamphlets from the desk in front of him, and slapped it on the raised counter between them. A brochure for a Dahlonega pizza parlor, with the promise of delivery to anywhere within thirty miles. Perfect.

“I could use blank paper and a pen. Printing paper will be fine. Any pen will do, though if you have colored markers, that would be excellent.”