Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(41)

“I’m wearing a blue windbreaker and a Patriots cap,” I managed to get out.

“I know.”

Then he was gone.

? ? ?

THIRTY MINUTES. NOT MUCH TIME.

I called Sarah and we made our plans accordingly.

? ? ?

ON A SUNNY SATURDAY AFTERNOON, the park was crowded. Little kids in bright jackets shrieking as they raced across the grass. Joggers in crazy-patterned spandex tights running along the winding paths. Couples with dogs. Couples without dogs. The park was a rare patch of green in the midst of intense urban blight, and the locals were all taking advantage.

I’d never met Mike Davis and the guidance counselor hadn’t given me much to go on, but I still spied him immediately. Lone teenage boy standing off to the side, hunkered down self-consciously in a worse-for-the-wear gray hoodie. I didn’t approach him directly, but picked the path that would bring me closest to his line of sight.

He looked up sharply in my direction. I tapped the brim of my Patriots hat, feeling like I was in a spy movie. He nodded hesitantly, then moved forward, falling into step beside me. He had a curious gait, as much up and down as forward, like a pogo stick being forced into horizontal momentum. He didn’t speak right away, his fingers drumming the top of his thighs as we moved. I wondered if he was on something. Crank, cocaine, Adderall. Kids abused anything and everything these days, including ADHD meds. Or maybe that was the issue: He needed ADHD meds.

I wasn’t sure. Jacob loved his drugs, but he rarely shared. I learned to recognize the signs that it was going to be a long night, but what he took, how much and how often, remained a mystery to me.

“Over here,” the kid said at last.

I followed him to a relatively quiet area of the park by a group of bushes. My mother could probably tell you what the plants were. I’d never had the patience.

“You’re looking for Roxanna,” he said, no preamble. He jiggled when he stood. I tried to see his eyes, understand what I was dealing with, but he kept his gaze down, his face averted.

“I’m a friend,” I said at last. “Part of a group of friends. She reached out to us a few weeks ago, looking for help.”

He nodded. This didn’t seem to be news to him, which was encouraging.

“Have you heard from her?” I asked evenly.

Hard shake.

“Do you know that her family is dead? Shot. All of them. Even Lola and Manny.”

“She didn’t do it!” Blinking now. Angry, I thought, and maybe something else. Tears? Grief? “Blaze and Rosie?” he asked at last.

“They’re okay. I think your guidance counselor, Ms. Lobdell Cass, has them now.”

He nodded.

“Ms. Lobdell Cass said you were friends with Roxanna. You hung out together sometimes at school?”

Another nod.

“I understand she was having some issues with a group of girls. They wanted her to join their gang. They were pressuring her.”

“‘Gang’?” He snorted derisively. “Bunch of hos. Roxy was too good for them and they knew it.”

“Doesn’t mean they were happy about it.”

“It wasn’t like that. This is Roxy! She wasn’t joining some gang. She was trying to get help for her sister. For Lola.”

I waited, wanting him to do the talking. He was drumming his fingers against his jeans again, a relentless tap, tap, tap.

“Lola had started hanging out with some of the girls, like, the middle school gangsters.” Shrug. “Not a surprise.” Another shrug. “She was always getting in trouble. Roxy’s job was to get her back out. But this was bigger. Schools, prisons, neighborhoods. Gangs rule them all. Gotta join. Gotta belong. Everyone wants to be part of a family.” The boy hummed notes I didn’t understand. “Except for Roxy and me. We’re loners. Always have been, always will be. Tougher life, but if you’re a big enough loser, they leave you alone.”

“You and Roxy are outsiders?”

“Sure. You gonna hang out with me, be my friend?”

He looked up then. Big brown eyes framed in thick lashes. He had puppy-dog eyes, I thought, but there was something different about his gaze. He was trying to meet mine, but remained just off. Not drugs. Asperger’s, maybe. Some kind of syndrome, high functioning, but enough to keep him forever separate. He was right—a tougher life in high school.

“Was Lola into drugs?”

“She joined the gang for them.”

“She was using?”

“She told Roxy she needed them. But no needle tracks. Roxy checked. She thought maybe Lola was dealing.”

“Lola was dealing drugs? What kind of drugs?”

More humming. “She wanted to be part of the scene. Belonging. Better than being alone. She learned that the hard way. Plus, you know, money, power. Rise up the food chain. She was pretty. Might as well use it.”

“What do you mean?” The kid’s jangling was contagious. I found myself bobbing along, as if to keep up.

“Mother Del’s. I warned them day one. Never get caught alone.”

“Who is Mother Del?”

“Foster mom.” Grimace. “Don’t get sent there.”

“Wait, you were in the same foster care as Lola and Roxanna?” D.D. had mentioned that Juanita Baez believed something had happened to Lola and Roxy during their time in foster placement. I hadn’t realized, however, that Mike Davis had been part of that time, as well.