by John Locke
“I heard the girls downstairs, in the kitchen, making breakfast. So I went down.”
“How’d they react?”
“They were shocked to see me. They thought I’d gone home with Parker.”
“And you told them what happened?”
She nods.
“What did they say?”
“They said they got wasted, too. But they slept in the basement.”
“And they never came up to Kelli’s room the whole night?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Does that seem normal to you?”
“Normally, they probably would have gone to Kelli’s room at some point during the night. We usually did that.”
“But not this time? You’re sure?”
“Yes, ma’am. I asked them about it.”
“What did they say?”
“They didn’t want to get caught. They were afraid Lydia—Mrs. Underhill—would find out they’d been drinking.”
“Makes sense,” I say.
I take a minute to think about everything she said. Then ask the big question.
“Tell me about the boys.”
“There were ten guys in two cars. One of them texted Kelli and said they were in the driveway.”
“What time was that?”
“Around eleven-thirty, I think. Something like that.”
“And Mrs. Underhill was upstairs in the guest bedroom with the door closed?”
“Yes ma’am. She might have been asleep, or watching TV.”
“Who let the boys in the house?”
“Kelli.”
“And her mom never knew?”
“I don’t think so.”
“They just happened to show up at the right time?”
“Ma’am?”
Her constant use of the word “ma’am” is driving me crazy. I’m twenty-four years old. Young enough to be her sister. Would you call your sister “ma’am?” Should your slightly-older sister call you “child?”
I ask, “Was it just a coincidence they showed up at Kelli’s soon after her mom went to bed?”
“No ma’am. They’d been exchanging text messages with Kelli all night.”
“Did the boys know you were there?”
She thinks a minute. Then says, “I’m not sure.”
“Did they see you?”
She studies the Galileo thermometer on my desk for a minute. It’s a sealed glass cylinder filled with liquid. Inside are five multi-colored floats that rise or fall depending on the room temperature.
“I like this piece,” she says.
“Thanks.”
She points to the lowest float above the halfway mark. “Does this mean it’s seventy-two in here?”
I nod.
She says, “We were in the basement, drinking. When the guys showed up, the girls jumped up and ran to let them in. I jumped up too, but felt like I was going to throw up. So I went up the back stairs.”
“No one came looking for you?”
She shakes her head no.
“Why not?”
“I think they all sort of forgot about me when the boys showed up.”
“And you didn’t wake up till the next morning?”
“No ma’am.”
“What were you wearing?”
“Pajamas.”
“Bra and panties underneath?”
“Panties. No bra.”
“Did the pajama top have buttons? Or was it a pull-over?”
“Pull-over.”
She looks at the thermometer some more.
I say, “What do you think happened to you that night?”
“I think I was molested.”
“By whom?”
Riley’s eyes are suddenly full of tears. A couple spill down her cheeks. She dabs at them with her hand.
“I’m not positive anything happened,” she says. “Or who might have done it. It could have been one person, or…”
Her voice trails off.
“Or what?”
“Everyone.”
“The girls and boys? You think it’s possible your girlfriends would let that happen to you?”
“No. It’s just that…I have no idea who might be involved. I’m just saying I can’t rule anyone out. If something happened, it was probably one boy. Or maybe two. Because the girls wouldn’t have let all those boys roam around the house by themselves.”
“But one or two boys might have snuck up the back steps?”
She nods.
“Tell me what you mean by ‘molested.’”
“They might have…you know, touched me. Inappropriately.”
She starts shaking, and her tears start flowing, as if saying the words was all it took to open the floodgates. I reach across the desk and put my hand on hers. When she looks up at me I say, “Do you have any reason to suspect you were sexually assaulted?”
“You mean…”
“Any evidence you were penetrated?”
Her eyes go wide. “No, ma’am!”
“But you think you were touched? Groped?”
She pauses. Then says, “Not just that.”
I look at her. “What else?”
“I’m pretty sure someone undressed me, too.”
I hand her a tissue and wait till she stops crying.
After she composes herself I say, “When you woke up, were your clothes on?”
She nods.
“Then why do you think someone undressed you?”
“At school today, Rick Hooper said something. Right out-of-the-blue.”
“Was Rick at the house that night?”
“No, ma’am. He’s a nerd.”
I frown. “Why would you say that?”
“I just meant that Rick wouldn’t have been invited to ride around town with the cool guys.”
“What did Rick say to you at school today, out-of-the-blue?”
“He gave me this sly sort of grin and said, ‘I heard you passed out at the sleepover, Strawberry.’”
“Is that your nickname?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know how some people have tattoos on their lower back, like one of those fancy script things, with maybe a heart in the middle?”
I nod, wondering where she’s taking me with this conversation.
She says, “I always wondered what it would look like to have one. Of course, my mom would never go for that! So anyway, when I was in my closet getting dressed to go to the sleepover I noticed an old sticker book from when I was a kid. I peeled off a little sticker of a strawberry, and put it…you know, down there.”
“Under your panties?”
She looks down at her hands, and I notice her ears and neck turning red. And her cheeks.
“Yes, ma’am. I was hoping to find something bigger I could stick on my lower back, just to—you know, look at it? Just for fun? I’d look at it in the mirror, then throw it away. But all I had in the sticker book was the little strawberry, so I put it in a private place in the front. I looked at it and thought it looked kind of cool, but then the doorbell rang, and I threw my clothes back on and forgot all about it.”
“This happened the night of the sleepover?”
She nods.
“While you were still at your house?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who rang your door bell?”
“Parker. Her mom gave me a ride to Kelli’s house.”
“Did you tell Parker about the strawberry sticker?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, I forgot all about it when Parker showed up. But even if I had remembered, I’d be too embarrassed to talk about it.”
“Why? You’re best friends. It’s sort of funny.”
“What if she told someone? I’d be mortified!”
“Why?”
“Seriously, Ms. Ripper? A strawberry?”
I shrug. “I’ve seen worse.”
She gives me a look of concern.
>
I say, “Parker’s mom picked her up from Kelli’s around midnight?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Any reason she might not want Parker spending the night at Kelli’s house?”
“Parker had church the next morning. Her mom didn’t want her up all night.”
“Who took you home Sunday morning?”
“My mom.”
“Did you say anything to her about what might have happened?”
“I didn’t know anything might have happened till yesterday at school, when Rick Hooper called me Strawberry. But I wouldn’t have said anything to my mom anyway. That would be too weird.”
“So she didn’t know you were drinking, or that Kelli let boys in the house.”
“No ma’am.”
“Did you and Parker talk about what happened that night?”
“She said everyone went back down to the basement to hang out and drink. Parker figured I was in the bathroom. When her mom called to say she was on the way, Parker told everyone goodbye, and went upstairs to check on me.”
“Did she find you?”
“No ma’am. She checked the rooms and bathrooms on the main floor, but didn’t have time to go upstairs because by then her mom showed up.”
“Did you tell Parker what Rick Hooper said?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Parker’s my best friend. If I told her what happened, she’d flip out and start accusing people. By tomorrow, the whole school would be talking about it.”
“So you came to me, hoping I could conduct a secret investigation?”
“Can you?”
“No.”
“How about a quiet one?”
“Probably not. But I can try.”
“How much would it cost?”
I smile. “How much do you have?”
“Four hundred dollars.”
I give her a look.
She says, “Four hundred and twenty-seven dollars, to be exact. This is money I saved from babysitting, birthdays, and Christmas cash. I’ve earned a lot more through odd-jobs and part-time work, but last year I started a charitable foundation, so I put the rest of my money into that.”
I say, “Riley, I can’t take your case.”
Her face falls.
She says, “I could pay you more, over time.”
“It’s not the money. It’s the fact you’re a minor. I can’t enter into a contract with you without your parents’ permission.”
“I don’t have a father. And I can’t tell my mom yet. She’ll freak. And what if I’m wrong? I’d be getting her all worked up for nothing.”
I sigh.
“Is there anything you can do?” she asks. “Without involving my mother?”
I think about it. “I suppose I can ask around, see what I can find out.”
Her face lights up.
“I’d be asking as a friend of the family, not officially.”
“Okay.”
“But there’s something you need to know, Riley.”
She looks at me. “What?”
“People talk.”
“What do you mean?”
“Whether something happened or not, everyone I talk to will tell someone else. What I’m saying, we won’t be able to keep a lid on this. And if something actually did happen, you’ll want to file criminal charges.”
“This wouldn’t go to trial, would it? Since they’re all juveniles?”
“More likely, some sort of hearing. But a judge would preside, and both sides would have attorneys.”
“We don’t have much money, Ms. Ripper. I suppose the court would appoint an attorney to represent me.”
“If things get to that point, I might be able to help you.”
She says, “I chose you because of what happened to you when you were my age.”
I was two years younger, actually, but who’s counting?
She says, “And I’ve read about how you spent all these years trying to help other kids.”
I nod.
She pauses, then says, “I’m not gay.”
“Excuse me?”
“I just didn’t want there to be any misunderstandings. You know, about you helping me for free?”
I frown.
“I’m not gay,” I say.
“You’re not?”
One hour in the back of a limo last month, and the whole world’s talking about it? What’s going on here? Did someone stick a note on my forehead today?
Actually, I know how this whole “Dani’s gay” rumor got started.
I’m high profile.
I’m not bragging or anything, it’s just a statement of fact. I’m known as The Little Girl Who Got Away. The story of how I was abducted by a serial killer/rapist gripped the nation nine years ago. Sure, I changed my name, started a new life, but my identity became public just before Ben was murdered. As the wife, I became the prime suspect. It was a media circus. The world “found” me hiding out in Sophie’s house, here in Nashville. Sophie’s popular in her own right. She’s a well-known songwriter, and locally, a well-known country singer.
She’s also the niece of Salvatore Bonadello, who happens to be crime boss of the entire mid-western United States.
It’s quite common for young women to live together without being considered lesbians, but Sal has a huge extended family, and Sophie “came out” a few years back. Naturally, the word spread like wildfire that his niece, Sophie, had a new girlfriend.
Who happened to be famous.
Not that you’re asking, but Sophie and I did nothing sexual the first month we lived together. Of course, one might argue the main reason for that is my husband Ben had just been murdered.
It felt too soon for sex.
But later, like I said, we did it.
Once.
And I liked it.
But I’m still in-between deciding if this is what I really want. It’s not Sophie’s fault I haven’t worked it all out yet. She’s been great. My problem is the bastard who kidnapped me really screwed me up, psychologically.
Riley says, “What happens now?”
“I need to have a chat with Rick Hooper.”
“Oh, God,” she says.
“What?”
“It’s starting, isn’t it?”
“It is. Where can I find him after school tomorrow?”
“You mean, where can you talk to him privately?” She thinks a minute, then says, “He works at a movie theater, part-time.”
“Perfect.”
Tuesday.
It’s a tricky business, interrogating a minor.
Rick Hooper’s the afternoon manager at Skyline Theater, Chesterfield Mall. It’s not much of a job. Not at three-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon, at least.
I wait till the third and final customer gets his popcorn and soft drink, then motion from across the lobby for Rick to join me.
This is the point where I need to explain that I’m good-looking, and hope I can do it in a way that doesn’t sound offensive. By way of example, in the past two months I’ve placed top ten among the world’s most beautiful women in two national magazines. And although it’s a tragic symptom of the type of media we have in this country, there’s a reason the entire nation was fixated on my kidnapping nine years ago, and on my sudden re-appearance earlier this year.
Young women disappear every day, right?
But they only make a fuss over the ones the media considers pretty.
It’s not right, but it’s true. You know it and I know it. And I’m ashamed that my abduction was front-page news, and received daily TV coverage, when so many other girls might have been saved had the media simply shown their pictures and told their stories one flipping time.
But they didn’t.
I don’t take any credit for my looks, just as you wouldn’t take credit for having wonderful parents, or being born brilliant. These are lucky accidents of nature.
I’ll understand if you think I’m conceited. But if I�
��m allowed to say this without sounding cocky, there aren’t many seventeen-year-old boys who wouldn’t cross the floor of a movie lobby to talk to me when I motion to them to come over.
And Rick Hooper is no exception.
“Can I help you?” he says.
“Are you Rick Hooper?”
“Yes.”
“We need to talk.”
“About what?”
His eyes suddenly grow big. “Omigod! You’re Dani Ripper!”
See what I mean? I’m not saying everyone recognizes me, but I’m reasonably well-known.
“Please, keep your voice down, Rick. I’m here for a reason. A serious one.”
He goes from excited to nervous. His brow furrows.
“What’s wrong?”
“The bad news is you may be involved in a serious crime.”
“What? Me?”
“The good news is I’m in a position to help you.”
He looks around. “Is this a joke? Am I being filmed?”
“It’s no joke. And you’re not being filmed. But you are being recorded.”
I show him my cell phone.
“You’re a private investigator.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know anything about a crime.”
“This tape and my testimony will be proof that you’re cooperating. For what it’s worth, I believe you had nothing to do with it.”
“With what?”
“Riley Freeman.”
The look on his face tells me I caught him completely off-guard. His brain’s going a thousand miles an hour trying to comprehend where I’m going with this. Finally he says, “What about her?”
“Are you and Riley close friends?”
“No. I barely know her. I mean, everyone knows Riley. She’s popular. But...”
“But you’re not?”
He laughs. “Do I look like one of the cool kids to you?”
“Yesterday at school you called her a name.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You called her Strawberry.”
The color drains from his face. “No I didn’t!”
“Lying could get you a felony charge. You called her Strawberry,” I repeat.
He looks at my phone, then into my eyes. His expression tells me it’s true.
“Who told you?”
“Riley Freeman.”
“Look, I’m not sure what she thinks she heard, but I never said that.”
“You did, Rick. And I need to know why.”
