Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(83)

“You burned a guy to death,” one of the girls said.

“I’ve learned a few things since then,” I repeated. I rubbed Blaze’s long silky ears. He sighed against me.

“We liked Lola,” Carmen offered abruptly. “If we thought one of those—”

“Malvadas?” I offered.

She spat. “—putas did this, you wouldn’t need to ask any questions. The matter would already be resolved.”

“Did Lola do drugs?”

A shrug, which could’ve meant anything. “She was not as reckless as her sister thought,” Carmen said.

“She sold drugs?”

Another shrug.

“She have a boyfriend?”

“Oh, they all wanted Lola. But again, she was not as reckless as her sister thought. She knew how to handle herself. That girl never gave up something for nothing.”

“She used boys.”

“What else are they good for?”

“She was only thirteen,” I heard myself say.

“Weren’t we all once?”

I didn’t have a comeback for that, and she knew it. Age, innocence, was a matter of perspective. And we were all realists here.

“Was Lola involved in Roberto’s death? Did she—I don’t know—drive him to shoot himself? Or maybe did the deed herself and then covered it up?”

Carmen’s face hardened. The girls stared at me, tension ramping up.

“I’m not a cop,” I said. “And I really don’t give a flying fuck if she, or any of you, killed the asshole. From what I’ve heard, he got what he deserved.”

“Then why bring it up?”

“Because murder’s like that. It raises questions. Which, the sooner they’re answered, the sooner they go away.”

“I don’t give away something for nothing either.”

“What do you want?” Though I already knew. And I’d been prepared to pay to play, but now, suddenly, I changed my mind. They claimed to be Lola’s sisters, and yet they hadn’t saved her. They weren’t worthy of what I had to tell.

“Roxanna Baez,” Carmen said. “Give us Roxy. Clearly you know more than you’re saying.”

“No.”

“Then we’re done—”

“No.”

“Excuse me?” That ripple of agitation again. Girl on the left, shifting her grip, showing off her very short, very sharp blade.

I stared right at the armed lieutenant as I said: “Roxy’s not yours. You said it yourself. She hadn’t joined Las Ni?as Diablas. But she did seek me out. That makes her my sister, not yours.”

Carmen took a menacing step off the porch.

“I have a gang, too.” I was feeling reckless now. “We don’t dress nearly as cool as you, let alone that whole microtat thing. But we’re survivors. Each and every one of us. And Roxy found us. She was looking for help to save her family. In particular, I think she was trying to save Lola.”

“She failed.”

“Lola was one of you. Means you failed, too.”

Carmen took a second step off the porch, her girls shifting around her, taking up strike positions.

I shook my head in warning. “No. You don’t get to hide behind attitude. A gang is family. A survivors group is family. We do everything we can for family. So tell me what I need to know about Lola. She died with her arms wrapped around her baby brother. She died trying to shield him with her own body. You should be proud of her for that. You should respect her.”

Carmen paused. The expression on her face wavered.

“Manny was a good kid,” one of the girls murmured from behind her. They wouldn’t look at me anymore. I’d hit the right buttons, triggered their sense of shame.

“What do you think you’re doing, standing here, saying these things?” Carmen tried to rally.

“Was Lola involved in Roberto’s death?” I repeated. “Stage his suicide? Because that would give plenty of people incentive to kill her. Come on. You have rivals. You know how motive works.”

“She hated him. He beat her when she was little. Did worse. Messed that girl up.”

“So she killed him. Who knew?”

“No! It didn’t get that far.”

“What do you mean? He was sharing nude photos. What more incentive did she need?”

“Photos weren’t of Lola.”

“But . . .” Then I got it. What would hurt worse. Not photos of Lola, but of Roxy. “Lola would kill him for that, too,” I said.

“Maybe. But the loser shot himself. Then”—Carmen spread her hands philosophically—“there was no need.”

“And the photos?”

“Died with the SOB. Never heard anything about them again.”

A movement from my left, just up the block. As someone trained to be aware of my surroundings, I half registered it, but the information had surprised me. I was still trying to work out what it meant when: Crack.

Gunshot. Loud. Distinct.

I dropped to the sidewalk, holding tight to both dog leashes, as in front of me girls dove for cover.

“Hijo de puta!” Carmen spat again, flattening to the ground.

A fresh crack. Wooden splinters flying from the stoop. More swearing from the girls. Followed by a rapid succession of boom, boom, boom as the shooter continued firing.