Since Anlya’s fingerprints were also in the Child Protective Services database, Yamashiro put in a call to that office and left a message on a machine, the bored tones of which did not inspire confidence. Someone, the voice assured him, would be back with him shortly, a term of limited specificity that in this case turned out to be three hours.
So it was early afternoon before they had another couple of addresses—one at Anlya’s mother’s house down near Daly City, and another at a group foster home on McAllister near Webster, not too far from the address where they’d struck out earlier and in the general area where they still found themselves. The two inspectors knew that the medical examiner’s office would be contacting Anlya’s mother as next of kin, a task neither of them envied. They decided to start at McAllister Street instead.
The house was a large three-story Victorian, freshly painted in bright colors so that it stood out on the street as a welcoming spot. The two inspectors parked right in front and climbed the twenty-two concrete steps to the covered front porch, then rang the bell.
The woman who opened the door looked to be around fifty. Packing maybe forty extra pounds on her medium frame, she wore a green and yellow cotton dress over blue jeans; she also had an apron tied around her
waist. Sporting a graying Afro, she identified herself as Nellie Grange. She exuded a weary serenity, but as soon as the inspectors introduced themselves, what seemed to be a hopeful kindness in her eyes faded to a dull acceptance of what she clearly knew would be bad news.
More bad news.
“Is this about Anlya?”
Waverly nodded. “I’m afraid it is.”
Nodding, she said, “She didn’t come in last night, which sometime happen, but it always got me thinkin’ the worst.”
Waverly came right out with it. “Anlya’s been in an accident. I’m so sorry to have to break it to you, but she’s dead.”
Nellie shot a helpless look at both of them, then brought her hands up to her mouth, hung her head, and closed her eyes. “Oh my Lord.”
Yamashiro asked if they could come in for a minute. She ushered them inside, where the large circular first room on the right was cheerfully bright due to its huge, curved glass windows. Surrounded by an assortment of mismatched chairs, an enormous circular wooden table filled the center of the room.
The inspectors took their seats next to each other, but Nellie remained standing, gripping the back of a chair. “You mind I ask how it happen?”
“We’re not completely sure,” Waverly said. “She went over the parapet of the Sutter-Stockton tunnel downtown. There is some indication of a struggle.”
“So somebody pushed her? Off a tunnel?”
“We don’t know that,” Waverly said. “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“You’re saying somebody killed her.”
“That’s not definitely established,” Waverly said, “but it appears that might be the case.”
Yamashiro took over. “Do you know who she might have been with last night?”
“No.”
“She didn’t have to sign out or anything like that?”
The caretaker shook her head. “It’s not like they’re locked up.”
“What about a curfew?”
“None of
that. We try to be home to these girls. They don’t need no jailers or curfews, no lockup, just a room and a safe place to stay. There’s not a single one of them bad.”
“How many girls live here, Ms. Grange?” Yamashiro asked.
“We got eighteen . . . well, now seventeen.” The number seemed to catch in her throat. “But we’ve been as high as twenty-three.”
“And what’s the age range?”
“Nobody really comes here until they’re fourteen. When they’re eighteen, they’re out of the program. So all of them are in that range.”
“Was Anlya close to any particular one of them? Or some of them?”
With a sigh, Nellie pulled out the chair she had been holding and sat on it. “We all get along most of the time. But, you know, teenage girls . . .”
Yamashiro nodded. “I’ve got two of ’em at home myself.”
“So you know. Some days . . . nothing anybody can do. But mostly they all good to each other, more like family.”
“Might Anlya have gone out with another of your girls last night?” Waverly asked.
“I don’t know. Like I say, we don’t keep track of them. They’re free to come and go.”
Waverly kept the questions coming. “Are any others of them here now?”
“No.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“Not for certain. Probably they’re in school. They start getting home any time now.”
“Sometime in the near future we’ll want to talk to each of them, if that’s all right with you.”
“Fine with me. But I don’t decide. You have to ask them one by one.”
Yamashiro asked, “How long has Anlya been living here?”
“Just about a year and a half.”
“And how’d she wind up here?”
“Same as them all. She got delivered one day. Some trouble at her home, the CPS come and do the evaluation and take the kids, but by the time they get here, mostly I don’t ask. Don’t tell, neither. The point is, they’re here and they’re welcome.”
“We
heard she has a brother,” Waverly said. “Can you tell us anything about him?”
“Oh.” A fresh wash of emotion. “That poor child. Her twin, you know. Max.”
“Do you know where he’s staying?”
“With his auntie, I believe. Someplace in the city it must be, but I don’t know where.”
“This auntie, she couldn’t take Anlya, too?” Waverly asked.
“You mean to live with them? It ain’t like it’s free, you know, takin’ on a child. Even if you getting some money from the foster people, that ain’t going to cover it all,” Nellie said. “His auntie, his actual blood, she took him, and there’s a miracle by itself. But Anlya and Max, they still were seeing each other. Another miracle. He’s come by here a few times. A good boy.” Running her hands through her hair, she spoke in a strangled voice. “How does something like this happen? You want to tell me that?”
• • •
N
ELLIE WAS ACCURATE
about when the girls would start showing up. The first one—Felicia Rios—came into the house in the next minute or two. After she heard the news, she walked halfway around the table before she shrugged out of her backpack and lowered herself onto a chair. She didn’t cry, but the news clearly rocked her. She stared at Nellie, cast quick glances at the two inspectors. “So,” she said, “are you saying somebody killed her?”
Yamashiro nodded. “We don’t know. Was she a good friend of yours?”
She shrugged. “I knew her okay. She was nice. We didn’t hang out together much. She was older, you know.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen. But she’s seventeen and a senior, and smart, way smarter than me. She helped me with homework sometimes. Helped everybody, really, whoever asked.”
“And did that happen frequently?” Waverly asked.
She lifted her shoulders, let them drop. “If the timing worked. It wasn’t like organized or anything, but we all knew we could go to her if we got stuck on stuff.” Suddenly, the enormity of it seemed to strike her. “I mean, she’s really just dead, and that’s all? She’s gone?”
Yamashiro nodded. “I’m afraid she is. Did you see her last night, Felicia?”
“No.” The
girl turned to Nellie. “Was she even at dinner?”
Nellie frowned, trying to recall. “I don’t think so. I’m trying to think if she came home. I don’t remember seeing her.”
“Honor might know,” Felicia volunteered.
“And Honor is?” Waverly asked.
“Honor Wilson,” Nellie said.
Felicia’s expression clouded. “Her BFF. Or used to be, anyway.”
The front door opened again—more teenage-girl chatter—and Nellie pushed back her chair and stood up with a sigh, on her way out to intercept them and convey the horrible news.
• • •
B
Y THE TIME
Honor came in at a little past four o’clock, more than half of the places around the table were taken, and through some sort of social osmosis, nearly all of the girls were teary-eyed. The inspectors hadn’t learned too much more about Anlya: Everyone seemed to agree that she was nice, smart, a bit of a loner, but always willing to chip in and help with homework or housekeeping. No one knew where she’d gone the previous night, whom she’d met, what she’d been doing downtown. The consensus was that she hadn’t been home for dinner.
Honor stood out in the hall and took in the situation at a glance. “What’s going on?”
At the sound of her voice, Yamashiro did a double take, so different did Honor come across. Almost everyone else at the table was recognizably a teenage girl; they mostly reminded him of his own mid-teenage daughters. Honor Wilson, by contrast, was immediately and obviously a woman. He had assumed that the maximum age in the group home was eighteen—this was when people typically left the foster system to go out on their own—but he realized that there must be exceptions to the rule and that Honor must be one of them.
She was made up like a cover girl. Her hair looked as though it had been professionally done. There was no backpack, no sign that she’d just come in from a day in high school. She wore tight designer jeans, a leather jacket, and fashionable low-heeled shoes. Two gold chains encircled her neck. An emerald on one of those chains matched her earrings and plunged into an impressive cleavage.
She repeated her question. “What’s happening? What’s going on here?”
As a chorus of sobs broke around the table, Nellie turned to face her. “It’s Anlya.”
“What’s Anlya?” She waited impatiently, until all at once her eyes flashed and she slapped the wall next to the door with her palm, an enormous sound in the subdued space. Adding to that, her voice doubled in volume. “What the
hell
? What are you saying? Is she dead, is that it? Are you saying she’s
dead
?”
Nellie nodded. “She’s dead, Honor.” Then “This here is the Homicide police.”
Honor’s eyes raked the table, maybe hoping for a different, better answer. Not getting one, she went still again, then with a small pained cry, she turned and ran off down the hallway.
• • •
A
HALF HOUR
later, Nellie persuaded Honor to come down and talk to the two Homicide policemen. They were here to investigate what had happened to Anlya, and surely, if Honor had information that might shed any light, she would want to share it with them, wouldn’t she? They were here now. This would be the easiest, most convenient time to talk to them.
At last she agreed to come down.
For a little more privacy, Waverly and Yamashiro had moved to the room Nellie used as her office, not much more than a large closet behind the kitchen with one outside window, a wall half-f of cardboard packing boxes doubling as file cabinets, a bare lightbulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling, two wooden chairs on one side of a linoleum-topped kitchen table, and a saggy green love seat facing it on the other.
Honor came in, said hello, and closed the door behind her. Yamashiro was on the love seat and Waverly sat behind the table. She pulled out the only seat left for her, sat, and started right in. “Anlya was my friend. I still can’t believe it. But I don’t know anything that could help you find out what happened to her.”
“So you don’t know where she went last night?” Waverly asked.
“No.”
“One of the girls said that you two went out together.”
“That’s not true. We left the house together. But then she went wherever she was going, and I went to meet some friends.”
“She didn’t say
what she was doing?”
“No, but she’d gotten herself dolled up. I think she was going to meet a guy.”
“Do you know who?” Yamashiro asked.
“Not really, no.”
As Yamashiro had expected, Honor was totally unwilling to drop a name to the police. Nevertheless, he kept asking. “She didn’t have a regular boyfriend?”
“Not that I knew.”
“How about guys in her past?”
Honor’s head tracked from side to side. “Not really. I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” Waverly said, “if you don’t know, you don’t know. Can you think of anything else you can tell us that might be helpful?”
“About last night?”
“About anything, really. If something had been bothering her. If her behavior had changed. Maybe something at school? Anything you can think of.”
Honor shook her head. “She was just a normal girl. Somebody else here might know something, but it’s all . . .” She shrugged. “I just don’t know anything.”
Waverly said, “But you were best friends. If you wouldn’t know about her, who would?”
Honor just looked at him.
Yamashiro spoke from the love seat. “You know, Honor,” he began in a conversational tone, “I’ve got a couple of daughters near your age at home. They’re as different from each other as you can imagine, but if there’s one true thing about both of them, it’s that they know what’s going on with the social lives of their friends. One of them or any of their friends has a boyfriend or gets a new one, it’s topic number one. Somebody’s having trouble at school, the word goes around. Somebody has a fight, or says something bitchy, or tells a secret they were supposed to keep, everybody knows before the sun goes down.
“I don’t imagine things are so different here, which is why it doesn’t feel like you’re telling us what you know about Anlya. She must have had a life, and if you’re her best friend, we’ve got to believe that you know a little something about it, at least more than you’re telling us.
“Somebody
might have killed Anlya last night, Honor. I know that’s scary for all of you here. You might even think you have an idea who it could have been, but you’re afraid of what he might do to you if you talk to us. Okay, but I’m here to tell you that we can protect you. If you know something about Anlya that might have led to her death, anything at all, you won’t necessarily have to give a formal statement about it. Nobody needs to know that you’re involved. We’re just looking for a place to start on this investigation, and it seems you might know something more that you’re not telling us. Are you sure there isn’t something? Any little thing?”
As he spoke, Honor’s expression hardened until at the end it had completely clamped down, lips tight, brow drawn. “I’m telling you the truth,” she said. “We used to be better friends, but we haven’t been that close for a year. I’m sorry she’s dead, but we haven’t really hung out in a while. I don’t know what she was doing last night, or last week, or anything. Really. And you can either believe that or don’t. Can I go now?”