Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(61)

Mother Del grunted, finally pushing back from the table. D.D. realized the woman was sitting in a lawn chair. One of the largest metal-framed chairs she’d ever seen, and probably still had to be replaced regularly, given the strain.

From upstairs came the sound of a baby crying.

“Ricky.” Mother Del addressed D.D.’s somber escort. “Upstairs, now.”

The boy scooted immediately out of the room, apparently grateful to make his escape.

“You three. Finish what’s on your plates. Then dishes. Go.”

More hasty actions, the kids scooping up the remaining mounds of casserole from their plates and downing the congealed mass in one determined swallow. Then flying from the table, plates and silverware in hand, through the door to the kitchen.

“You take in babies, as well?” D.D. asked curiously.

“Couple,” the woman said, in a tone of voice D.D. already took to mean she was rounding down.

“And how many older kids?”

“I got a waiver,” Mother Del said, eyeing D.D. shrewdly. Waivers were the new magic of the foster care system, enabling more kids to be piled under the same roof—and earning caretakers more money.

Foster care was hard work, D.D. knew. Many families served selflessly and believed passionately in the opportunity to help a child. Somehow, though, she doubted Mother Del fell into that category.

“Don’t you have another kid who lives here?” D.D. asked. “Mike Davis?”

“He’s out.”

“Doing what?”

“He’s a teenage boy. Teenage boys don’t like to tell you everything. Just as long as he’s back before curfew.”

“And a girl, Anya?”

“Also out. Play rehearsal. Community theater.”

D.D. nodded. Meaning Mother Del currently had six kids and at least a couple of babies in her care. Equaling roughly two hundred dollars a day, tax-free income, seven days a week.

Where did the money go? was her next thought. Because it didn’t appear to be spent on the home or on dinner.

“I saw the news,” Mother Del said now. She remained sitting in her lawn chair, her hands folded over her considerable girth. She was wearing a flowered housecoat, like the kind favored by Italian grandmothers. Or maybe it was a muumuu. “Is it true the family’s dead, including Lola?”

“Yes.”

The woman grimaced. “Find Roxanna yet?”

“No.”

“She’s smart. Always reading books. Studying. She’s a clever one. Good with the babies, too. Never thought of her as violent.”

“When was the last time you saw Roxy or Lola?”

The woman shrugged. “Day they left. The CASA woman came to pick them up for court. Said it was the final hearing. Reunification, something like that. If all went according to plan, they wouldn’t be coming back. And they didn’t.”

“Not even to revisit friends?” D.D. tested.

“What friends? Lola and Roxy stuck with each other. Even slept squished together on the floor of the babies’ room just so they wouldn’t be apart. Thick as thieves, those two.”

“You think Roxy would hurt Lola?” Phil spoke up.

“Nah. Lola, on the other hand . . . That girl had a wild streak. No telling what she might do. But Roxanna was all, I’m the older sister, I’m responsible. You see it in foster kids. Their parents aren’t worth shit, so the kid becomes the parent.” Another massive shrug.

“What about Roberto and Anya?” D.D. asked.

“Roberto’s dead. What about him?”

“We heard he committed suicide.”

“That’s what the police told me.”

“Where’d he get the gun?”

“Choices are endless in this area. Walk to any street corner, someone will sell you something.”

“You don’t seem that broken up about it.” Phil spoke up.

“It happens. Broken families. Broken kids.”

“How long had he been with you?” D.D. asked, frowning.

“Seven years.”

“Seven years? And ‘It happens’ is all you’ve got to say about it?”

“Because a foster parent and her charges are so close? You see how many kids I have here? And I’ll have more the second a space opens up. This city’s filled with unwanted children. I’m doing my best, but no kid wants to be in foster care. They don’t walk through those doors all happy to be here. The good ones endure. The bad ones rebel. Let’s just say Roberto was more bad than good.”

“He make trouble?”

“With me, no. With the other kids . . . I’m not as stupid as they think.”

“Tell us,” Phil commanded.

“He liked to rule the roost. When he first got here, he was middle of the pack. A year later, he was the oldest, and in his mind, that made him the boss. Younger kids, newer kids, were to do as he said.”

“And if they didn’t?”

Shrug. “Maybe their blanket would go missing. Or a pillow or a toy from home. Maybe they’d find pepper in the food, toothpaste in their shoes. He could be inventive when he wanted to.”

“And his relationship with Anya?”

“You mean his girlfriend? Well, former girlfriend, given that, you know . . .”