Forbidden Fruit. Erica Spindler

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СКАЧАТЬ stomach heaved. He doubled over and puked on the baby-faced officer’s shiny black shoes.

       Chapter 7

      Santos sat in the N.O.P.D. Homicide Division’s waiting

      area, staring at the scarred linoleum floor beneath his feet.

      Shock and grief warred inside him, creating a kind of ach ing numbness, a pain so great he could no longer feel.

       His mother was dead. Brutally murdered seven days ago. Stabbed sixteen times—in her chest and throat, her abdomen and back, in places too vile to be printed in the newspaper.

      He bit down on the sound of grief that rushed to his lips, bit down so hard his teeth and jaw ached. The linoleum swam before his eyes. He fought off the tears, although in the last week he had learned that fighting the visible signs of his grief neither conquered nor lessened the pain.

      Around him a sort of controlled chaos reigned. Officers came and went, a variety of perps in tow; family members of both victims and criminals milled about the waiting area; and lawyers, like sharks smelling blood, seemed to be everywhere at once. The noise level stayed at a dull, busy roar, punctuated by the occasional wail of anger or grief. Above it all, the desk sergeant’s booming voice drilled directions, be it to civilians or fellow officers. Any moment, Santos expected to hear him shout, “Okay kid, Detective Patterson will see you now.”

      Santos had been through this before. He and Patterson were becoming big friends. Right. Santos flexed his fingers, the urge to hit someone or something—preferably Patterson’s arrogant mug—barreling through him.

      From both the Times Picayune and the State’s Item, he had learned the details of the murder. They had described where and how Lucia Santos had been stabbed. They had detailed the events of the last night of her life—she had gone to work at Club 69, where she danced nights; she had picked up a john, who had come home with her; she had been killed after intercourse. They had found a half-eaten apple beside the bed.

      They had called her a prostitute. They had speculated that she had been killed by the john.

      After Santos had read the story, he’d thrown up. Then he had gotten angry. Something about the tiny articles—less than three paragraphs each—had had an “Oh, well,” quality to them. “Just another dead hooker. Who gives a shit?”

      He had called the papers, called the reporters who had written that. His mother was not a prostitute, he had told the man. She was an exotic dancer. She’d been his mother. He had loved her.

      “Sorry for your loss, kid,” they had both said. “But I write ’em as I see ’em.”

      The police hadn’t been any better. He had called. At first they had been kind, if condescending. They had patiently explained how the system worked. They had nothing new; they were doing their best. They had even questioned him; they had checked out his alibi. Then they had blown him off, same as they would a pesky insect.

      Don’t call us, they had all but said. We’ll call you.

      Santos would be damned if he would let them do that to him; he sure as hell wouldn’t allow them to do that to his mother. Just because they thought she was nothing but another dead hooker.

      He had called them every day—at least once. He had stopped by the station. Now, after a week of taking his calls and visits, they were less kind, less patient. No leads, no lucky breaks. On to a new victim.

      Her body was barely in the ground, and they had closed the case. They hadn’t told him that, but Santos knew it to be true. Some things didn’t have to be spoken to be real.

       Who cared about a nobody hooker?

       Who gave a shit?

      Santos dropped his head into his hands, his mother’s image filling his head. He pictured her the way she had looked that last time he’d seen her. With his mind’s eye could see her looking over her shoulder at him, smiling, waving goodbye.

      He hadn’t kissed her goodbye. He hadn’t told her he loved her. He had thought himself too grown-up for that.

      His eyes burned, and he pressed his lips tightly together. He kept his tears at bay, but the image in his head changed, shifted, becoming the nightmare images he awoke from every night, awoke from bathed in sweat, tears on his cheeks. Slasher-flick images of his mother and her attacker; his mother calling out for her son, begging Santos to come help her. And then he saw his mother as she had been when he’d ripped away the white sheet.

      She had cried out for him; he hadn’t been there for her. He had laughed at her fears. He had done what he wanted to, without concern for her feelings. Without concern for her safety.

      And now she was dead.

      Guilt clawed at him. He brought the heels of his hands to his eyes. She had been with that john because of him—because he needed school clothes and expensive doctor visits. She was dead because he hadn’t been there to save her.

      Had her last thoughts been of him? he wondered for what seemed like the millionth time. Had she been angry with him? Disappointed? Tears lodged in his throat, choking him. Why had he disobeyed her? Why had he stayed so late with Tina?

      He hadn’t remembered Tina until two days later and only then because the police had made him recount every detail of the night his mother had been murdered. They hadn’t found her, but several of the other kids had verified his alibi.

      Too caught up in his own pain, he had wondered only fleetingly what had happened to the girl, wondered if she had gone home and what she had thought when he hadn’t returned for her. Those wonderings always dissolved into his own guilt and shame. His own pain.

       If he had been home, his mother would be alive.

      He knew it, deep down in his gut. It was his fault his mother was dead.

      “You okay, Victor?”

      Santos looked up into the kind eyes of the baby-faced officer from the other night. Jacobs, his badge said. The man had been more than decent to him, he had gone beyond his duty as an officer to try to comfort him. Santos’s vision blurred; he tried to speak but couldn’t.

      The cop put his hand on his shoulder. “I’m really sorry, Victor. Is there anything I can do for you?”

      Santos fisted his fingers, fighting for control. “Find her killer.”

      The man’s face registered regret. “I’m sorry. We’re trying.”

      “Right. Tell me another one.”

      Officer Jacobs ignored his sarcasm. “I know how tough this must be for you.”

      “Do you?” Santos asked, helpless anger rising in him. “Was your mother brutally murdered? Was her murder all but ignored? Treated like nothing but a…a two-bit, pagesix news item?” Santos’s voice thickened with grief. “And did you know in your heart that you could have prevented her death, if only…if only you had been home. If only you hadn’t been—”

      “Whoa, Victor. Hold it.” СКАЧАТЬ