Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(34)

“She’s been digging around. A few weeks ago, we had a patient in the ER who’d sliced his palm open cutting his bagel—you’d never believe how many of those we see between six and seven A.M. Trust me, you’re better off with donuts. But this guy turned out to be a lawyer. He and Juanita got to talking. He said he’d be interested in helping her.”

“What kind of lawyer?” Phil asked.

“Litigation, I guess. But he was telling Juanita if she could prove the state failed to protect her kids after taking them away . . .” Nancy shrugged. “Sounded like serious money. You know, suing-for-millions-of-dollars-in-damages kind of money.”

“If Juanita could prove her case,” D.D. said slowly. “Could she? According to you, neither girl was talking.”

Another shrug. “Like I said, Juanita was asking questions. And not just because of the money. Something was wrong with Lola. The girl had become wild. She and Juanita fought nonstop, like every night. It’d been taking a toll.”

“Lola’s been acting out.” Phil turned to D.D. “Roxy’s BFF. Her sister?”

“Possible. Though why not simply ask for advice for her younger sister from the group of survivors?”

“To protect her younger sister’s privacy. Especially if it involves sexual abuse.”

Slowly, D.D. nodded. She could see Phil’s point. Not to mention a girl with Roxy’s alleged sense of responsibility might already feel guilt-stricken that her sister had been assaulted while they were together in foster care. Another reason to seek help while still trying to guard her sister’s secrets.

“Name of the lawyer?” Phil was asking.

“I don’t know.” Nancy frowned. “Hang on, Juanita’s locker’s over here. She might have a business card.”

She got up, moved over to the bank of gray-painted lockers. A bit of fiddling and she had it open. D.D. and Phil didn’t say a word. It was nice of the nurse to do their job for them.

From what D.D. could see, the locker held a stack of clean scrubs, a cardigan for layering, and several plastic water bottles. The inside of the door was plastered with photos—the kids, Juanita and the kids, Charlie and the two dogs. Happy family moments frozen in time.

By all accounts, Juanita Baez had reinvented herself in the past few years. Sobered up, cleaned up, anted up to get her children back. Good job, stable guy, decent home. D.D. knew the kind of requirements the court placed on addicts to get their kids back. Success stories were few and far between.

But Juanita Baez had done it. Only to realize that that one-year gap had cost her children more than she realized?

“Here it is.” Nancy had found the card taped to the door near the bottom. “Daniel Meekham.”

“Did Roxy know her mother was speaking with a lawyer?” D.D. asked.

“I don’t know how much Juanita shared with them. Juanita was angry. But she also blamed herself. If she hadn’t been drinking so hard . . .”

“Did she believe Roxy was abused, as well?” Phil spoke up.

Nancy shrugged. “Roxy doesn’t act out the way Lola does. Not to mention, Lola’s a looker. And Roxy’s, well, Roxy. Good girl, smart, but not gonna stop traffic, if you know what I mean. Then again, does that matter when it comes to abuse? I don’t know. I think what Juanita had mostly at this point was a lot of questions. And two girls who still didn’t trust her with the answers. Sad but true.”

D.D. nodded. “Do you think Roxy would’ve harmed her own family?”

“No.” Definite statement. Not an ounce of doubt.

“What about Hector Alvalos?” Phil asked.

“Manny’s dad?” Nancy sounded surprised. “I . . . I don’t know. Juanita and Hector have had their ups and downs. But with both of them sober . . . To be honest, Juanita doesn’t talk about him much. Other than mentioning Hector picking up Manny or dropping him off on Sundays. I assumed that meant all is well on that front.”

“And Roxy’s and Lola’s fathers?” D.D. asked. “Doesn’t Juanita ever talk about them?”

“Never.”

“No chance they’ve recently reentered the picture?”

“At three A.M., something that big would’ve come up.”

“She know their names?” Phil pushed.

“Two different guys, that much I know. Clearly Roxy’s dad was white. I mean, her hair’s brown, her eyes a greenish hazel.”

D.D. nodded. They just had the family photos for reference. Lola Baez had the same exotic beauty as her mother, with jet-black hair, dark eyes, dusky skin, delicate bone structure. Roxanna, however, stood apart—her hair more brown than black, her skin paler, her features larger, more awkward. She was hardly an ugly duckling, but standing between her mother and younger sister, she probably felt like one.

“Juanita in her younger days,” Nancy Corbin was saying now. “Let’s just say half her battles with Lola are due to the fact they’re too alike.”

“She’s never reached out to the girls’ possible fathers,” D.D. filled in for her. “Maybe she’s not even sure of their names.”

“Haven’t you ever been young and stupid?”

“Not quite that stupid.” D.D. paused, waited to see if the woman had anything more to add. Then, when Nancy remained quiet: “All right. If you think of anything else”—D.D. held out her card—“please give us a call.”