“Later,” Reilly said. “You’re coming with me now.”
I SPENT THE NEXT I-don’t-know-how-many hours in a windowless room at police headquarters, detailing for the record what I’d hastily told Reilly at the hospital. At least he had the heart to provide coffee and Tylenol. They went down bitter.
Reilly looked like he wasn’t faring much better. His copper hair stuck out in spikes, and his eyes were bloodshot.
As we were finally wrapping up, a knock came at the door.
“Yeah,” Reilly called.
Fernandez stuck his head in the doorway. “May I have a word with you, Detective?”
“Excuse me a moment, Horowitz,” Reilly said.
As if I had a choice.
The fluorescent light overhead flickered, making my eyeballs hurt. I felt so alone. No Lior. No Enrique. No Contessa or Lupe. Not even Gitta or Slick or Lana. I laid my head down on my arms atop the ornate carved oak table. Yeah, an oak table in a police interview room. This was Boca.
I heard the door open and looked up to see Reilly re-enter.
“Okay, Harriet,” he said with a sigh. Harriet? He always called me Horowitz.
“Based on your statement, we corroborated that there were only two other kids from Sterling Heights Academy at The Oasis at the time of Demarcus’s murder.”
“Jessica Jarrett and the girl who stabbed her with a fork, Amber Moss.”
“Right. Amber is in custody, so we had her fingerprints. I was able to get a warrant for Jessica’s prints, which Fernandez then got from her at the hospital.”
“And?”
“Jessica’s prints matched a set of previously unidentified prints found on the hedge clippers that Demarcus was stabbed with. The same prints were also found on the phone book and the stash of printed material in the restroom.”
Oh my god. No wonder the person who’d stashed the materials in the restroom had never shown up on Enrique’s toilet cam—she’d been in the hospital the whole time, being treated for her stab wound.
“I’ve sent Hernandez to guard Jessica’s room so she doesn’t escape,” Reilly said. “I’m going to the hospital now to talk with her. You’re free to go, Harriet.”
“Yeah,” I said, rising from my seat. “Free to go with you to see this girl.”
Reilly sighed. “All right. Come on. You did help crack the case.”
Help? I did crack the case. But I decided to keep my mouth shut while I was ahead.
JESSICA JARRETT looked tiny in her hospital bed, swaddled in linens like a baby, bandages taped around her throat, a plastic IV tube slithering out of a tattooed arm, her dyed-red dreadlocks drooping around her pale, freckled face.
The clock on the wall opposite her head read two a.m. The girl should have been asleep. Instead, she had a magazine propped in her lap and was rapidly flipping the pages. A precarious stack of magazines a foot tall teetered on her tray table, next to a Coke bottle. She glanced up as Reilly and I entered, then resumed her reading.
“Jessica,” Reilly said, his voice gentle. “I’m Detective Reilly with the Boca Police Department. This is my . . . associate, Harriet Horowitz. We need to talk to you.”
“So talk,” she said, not taking her eyes off the page.
“May I have this?” Reilly said, placing a hand on her magazine.
“No!” she pulled on it, glaring at us, her pupils wide and black.
“Okay,” Reilly said. “Can we talk while you read?”
“Of course. You think I can’t multitask? What do you think I am, a retard?”
“No, I don’t think that, Jessica,” Reilly said.
“Good. ’Cause I scored in the 99th percentile on the Florida standardized test.” She reached for the Coke bottle and took a sip.
Reilly and I exchanged glances.
“Jessica Jarrett,” Reilly said, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Demarcus Pritchard.”
Jessica kept reading as Reilly recited the Miranda rights. “Do you understand these rights as they have been stated to you?” Reilly concluded.
“Sure,” the girl said, taking another sip.
“Jessica, your fingerprints were found on the weapon that killed Demarcus. Can you explain that for me?”
The girl’s eyes looked up, her head remaining bent toward the page. She shifted her gaze from Reilly to me, then back to her reading. “I don’t have to explain anything.”
“No, you don’t,” Reilly agreed. “But you should know we also found your prints on the other half of the phone book that Demarcus was clutching. Which was hidden in an air vent in a restroom at The Oasis. All the evidence points to you as his killer.”
The girl was silent as she turned a page.
“Jessica, you’re going to remain here under police custody until you recover from your wound,” Reilly said. “Then you’ll go to juvie hall to await trial. After that, it’s likely you’ll go to prison for a long, long time.”
The girl raised her eyes. They emitted a feverish glow. Her lips curved into a creepy smile.
“There’s lots of books in prison, right? And newspapers? And magazines? I could spend the rest of my life in there doing nothing but . . . reading.” A dreamy look crept into her gaze.
Reilly looked down at the floor. “No, Jessica. It doesn’t work that way.”
She banged a fist on the bed railing, shaking the frame and the IV pole she was hooked up to. “Okay, so what if I did stab him? He came after me first, trying to get that phone book and my Coke for himself. He attacked me—just like Amber did that night in the dining room. The hedge clippers were lying right there, and he lunged for them. I had to defend myself, so I grabbed them first before he could.”
Reilly and I exchanged glances again. Maybe the girl was telling the truth. And if she wasn’t, who could ever prove otherwise?
“Now leave me alone,” she said. “I want to read.”
Chapter 21
OUTSIDE JESSICA’S room, Reilly made a call to arrange for the release of Jacques Bertrand, the Haitian gardener who had been wrongfully arrested for Demarcus’s murder. I guess that was a lawsuit coming. But it wasn’t my problem.
Before we left the hospital, we stopped in to see Lars and Gitta. We found them both dozing, Lars in his hospital bed and Gitta in a reclining chair beside him, holding his hand. Gitta was a sleeping beauty. Her long blonde hair flowed around her perfectly oval face, her lush lashes brushed her creamy cheeks, and her rosy lips parted slightly to reveal her gleaming white teeth.
Reilly perched on the edge of the recliner, took her other hand, and kissed her forehead. Gitta stirred awake. “Kevin,” she said, her voice warm and husky. Evidently, he was her Prince Charming. Her eyes fluttered to me. “Harriet. Thank you for everything. Lars is going to be okay. He’ll be discharged in the morning.”
“Don’t thank me,” I said. “He wouldn’t be here in the first place if it wasn’t for me.”
“Don’t blame yourself, sweetie,” Gitta said. “I’m his mother. I have ultimate responsibility.” Wow. That was a radical personality transformation. Not that it helped assuage my guilt any.
“Honey,” Reilly said to Gitta, “we . . . that is, Harriet and I . . . have identified Demarcus’s killer and figured out what happened to the other adolescents who died. There will be no more attacks or deaths at The Oasis.”
“Thank God,” Gitta said. “But I’m not going back. I need to be with my children. But I will complete my treatment. As an outpatient. I’ll do it for myself, for my family, and for you, Kevin.” She sent him an adoring look.
I felt like a third wheel. “Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds.”
Reilly cleared his throat. “Um, wait, Harriet. Uh, Gitta and I will always have the warmest gratitude toward you for uniting us.”
“I’m hard
ly a matchmaker, Reilly.” I mean, it was Gitta’s last husband’s murder that had united them. Jeez. I had no desire to be part of their fairy tale or their comedy of manners or whatever the hell it was. I mean, I had my own tale—as a crime-fighter, not a cupid.
As I turned to go, Lars stirred in the bed and opened his eyes. Seeing me, he sat up in bed, suddenly alert. “Miss H., Detective Reilly. Did you get Ms. LaFleur?”
“Yes, we got her, son,” Reilly said. “The kids are safe from her now. Thanks to your sharp eyes and quick thinking.”
“Yesss!” Lars pumped a fist in the air. “I like this PI stuff. What do you say, Miss H.—can I be your apprentice?” Glancing quickly at his mom, he added, “During my breaks from MIT, that is.”
Great. Just great. I needed a teenage sidekick like I needed a sidecar on the Harley.
“I’ll think about it,” I said. But somehow I had a feeling that Lars’s apprenticeship was inevitable.
I PULLED OUT of the hospital parking lot and twisted the throttle to speed up. At long last, I was free. I coasted through Boca’s deserted early-morning streets, my body and mind humming in tune with my Hog.
I longed for only one thing—Lior.
He lived in an apartment above his martial arts studio, and I headed there. But I found the place locked up, and there was no response to my ringing the doorbell. Maybe he was fast asleep. After all, he had flown in from Israel, then been nearly killed, then hospitalized. He had to be exhausted.
So was I. It was time for me to go to my home. My log cabin in the Glades.
I mounted my bike again and rode to the edge of land, where my airboat waited for me in the swamp. I unlatched and pulled out the boat’s ramp, rolled the bike onto the boat, and secured it with its tie-downs. After I inserted my earplugs and topped them with my noise-cancelling headphones, I turned the engine. The huge rear-mounted fan started its frenzied spin. I shifted into gear and took off, skimming the surface of the shimmering water.
The sun was just rising behind me as I headed northwest. It cast a peach glow across this river of grass that I called home. A short-tailed hawk soared overhead, and a pair of Florida redbelly turtles floated by.
As I rounded a curve around a cypress island, I spotted something atop a half-submerged log. Could it be . . . A long, ridged back. A tail dipping into the water. Glistening eyeballs gazing skyward, as if contemplating the meaning of life.
It was! Lana.
Awww—she’d come out to greet me.
I cut the engine and removed my ear protection. The boat bobbed silently in the slow-moving stream.
Hey, I said.
Hey, she replied. Everything good?
Everything’s good. I met your great-nephew, Slick.
How’s that boy doin’? He stayin’ out of trouble?
Yeah, he’s a good kid.
Glad to hear it. Now give it up, girl! What happened at that addiction place?
I sighed. I was exhausted, but I knew I really couldn’t put the case behind me until I processed it with Lana—the voice of my conscience. So I laid out the whole sorry story for her.
Mmm-mmm-mmm, she said when I finished. If she could have shaken her head, she would have, but her neck was too thick.
So Jessica may never be charged in the death of Demarcus, Lana said.
That’s right. She claims it was self-defense, and who’s to say otherwise? Demarcus isn’t talking.
That poor girl was both a victim and a perpetrator, Lana said.
So was Demarcus, perhaps, and Amber, the girl who in turn stabbed Jillian. It’s an all too common circumstance in the annals of crime, I said.
We floated in silence for a while.
Reilly told me Demarcus’s funeral is tomorrow, I said. I’ll be going.
I avoid cemeteries. Folks seem to get all discombobulated if I make an appearance. But I’ll be thinking of him.
In the distance, a woodpecker tapped at a tree trunk.
The sun was higher on the horizon now, and a soft breeze rustled the swamp reeds.
Prison’s not good enough for Gardenia for what she did to those kids, Lana said. Why don’t you get her out here, and I’ll take care of her?
It was a tempting offer. No, not this time, I said. You know, I believe her when she said she never meant to hurt the kids. In her twisted way, she thought she was helping. And I can kind of see how she thought that. I mean, what about the rich kids that Lars told me about, who use performance-enhancing drugs to improve their academic performance? It’s just another way the powerful maintain their privilege. And who’s stopping them?
I hear you, sister. But Gardenia did hurt “her kids.” And she’s gotta answer for her actions.
Of course. And she will. Though it may not be the way we’d like it.
I think that woman herself became addicted. To success. She couldn’t stop herself even when she knew she was harming the kids.
You could be right, I said.
Hey—what about that Shrimp Pimp? What are you gonna do about her?
I’ll rat her out. There’s another victim-slash-perp for you. She needs help. But at the same time she’s pimping minors. Or trying to, anyway. That’s about as low as it gets.
And Stillwater?
I don’t know, Lana. The fact is, she’s actually a good doctor, I think. She has knowledge and empathy. She is helping people.
And maybe harming a few celebrities along the way. Where do you draw the line?
Damn her, she always asked the hard questions. And I didn’t always have the answers. Like now. So I didn’t say anything.
I guess Lana got the message, because she changed the subject.
So, what was it like being clean and sober for a couple days?
Awful. You know what? I did miss my Hennessy. I was starting to worry I’d have to give that up. But once I got out of there and onto my Hog, I realized that’s the only thing that really makes me high. And I’ll never relinquish that freedom and power.
An ibis glided over and landed on the log next to Lana. Did it realize it was taking its life in its hands? Or putting it in her jaws, rather? Nature was cruel. I wasn’t going to change that. Avenging human cruelty was the best I could do.
You know what else I realized I missed while I was in that place? I said.
Me? Lana pulled back a lip. Either that was a grin or a preparation to snap at the bird. I guess the bird thought the latter, as it spread its wings and flapped away, safe for another day.
Yeah, you, I admitted. And the rest of my self-assembled family. Lior. Enrique and Chuck. The Contessa. Lupe. I used to consider myself a loner. Now I realize I need them. And that’s okay.
And what about your biological family—your mother? And her man—Leonard.
Shit. I’d forgotten about them. Jeez, what a jerk I was, rhapsodizing about my friends while ignoring the other important people in my life. Especially after Leonard had served as my lifeline to the outside world when I’d first checked into The Oasis, and then come through with that liquid analysis gizmo. I’d call them ASAP. But I still didn’t have my phone—I hadn’t gone back to The Oasis to retrieve it. Right now, I just needed to collapse and sleep.
Come on, I said to Lana. Let’s go home.
She slithered off the log into the water and paddled her feet to propel herself.
I donned my headgear, restarted the engine, and reoriented the boat. Up ahead—right in the direction of my cabin—there was a strange glow of light bursting through the breaking dawn. Red and orange and yellow.
What the hell? Was my cabin on fire?
I pulled on the throttle and practically flew across the water, Lana paddling like mad in my wake. The tall sawgrass obscured my view, letting only the eerie glow through.
When I was ten feet away,
I could finally see the cabin.
It was no fire. It was a line of electric lights strung across my front porch. In huge letters, the lights spelled out, “Happy Birthday.”
My fortieth. Today. I’d forgotten all about it.
A sleek yellow kayak bobbed at the side of the cabin, tied to the porch. And Lior sat in the rocking chair on that porch. His chest and biceps strained against his tight black T-shirt. His long, jeans-clad legs stretched before him. The reflection of the lights glistened off his jet-black hair and his chocolate-brown eyes.
He stood as I pulled up the boat and cut the engine. When I took off my headphones and earplugs, he stretched out his arms.
“Welcome home, baby,” he said.
Suddenly I felt a surge of energy. My exhaustion disappeared.
I walked off the boat, into his arms, and into the next decade of my life.
The End
(Please continue reading for more information about the author)
Acknowledgments
Hugs and kisses to Team Harriet: Pat Van Wie, Deborah Smith, Debra Dixon, and Danielle Childers of BelleBooks / Bell Bridge Books and Paige Wheeler of Creative Media Agency. And more to my invaluable critique group: Christine Jackson, Kristy Montee, Neil Plakcy, and Sharon Potts. And to Karen Dodge, whose dedicated career in substance abuse treatment has provided fodder for the fictional world depicted herein.
(Please continue reading for more information about Miriam’s other books)
Please visit these websites for more information about
Miriam Auerbach
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Dirty Harriet
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Dirty Harriet Rides Again
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Dead in Boca
(Book Three: Dirty Harriett Mystery Series)
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