Turning Angel (46 page)

”Look for more letters,“ I murmur.

”Definitely,“ says Mia.

She begins opening WordPerfect files. Most of them seem like diary pages that didn’t make Kate’s handwritten journal. Ironically, these entries are of the more casual sort:

Ate crawfish pasta at Pearl Street Pasta…

Got an acceptance letter from Colgate—too late, people…

Grandma sent me a check for $10. What does she think I can buy with that?…

Steve almost cracked his skull today on his 4-wheeler. He made a huge deal out of it, but I couldn’t pretend to be too worried. It’s not like there was much risk of brain damage…

For some reason, Kate chronicled the most sensitive events of her life by hand, where they could easily be discovered, while her quotidian record was saved to a password-protected disk. Why?
The password was to protect the pictures,
I realize. The person most likely to discover Kate’s journal was her mother, and Kate wasn’t worried about that. She simply wanted to spare her mother from the explicit visual evidence of her sexual life.

”That looks like the only letter from Cyrus,“ Mia says.

”I’m going to have to find a way to get a look at Kate’s actual computer.“

”Would Mrs. Townsend let you do that? She gave you the journal.“

”I think she would. But the police probably have it by now. I’ll get Quentin to request access to it.“

”Wait! Here’s another letter!“

As I read the next e-mail from Cyrus, my face grows hot. The chatty tone of the first letter is gone, replaced by seething anger. This time Mia reads aloud:

What the fuck, huh? You said you were going to write me back, talk to me, but you just leave me sitting here like I don’t exist. And that’s the truth, isn’t it? In your world, I
don’t
exist. I only pop into your head when the dope gets low. Yeah, I know how it is. I know more junkies than I can count, and they’re all the same. You just look better than the rest. But the beautiful people got the monkey on their back too, baby. You’ll see that when you get to Harvard. You can bet your ass those rich kids are snorting and mainlining and everything else. The only difference is, they got better dope. If you ever come down off that high horse, write me back.

”Cyrus thought Kate was getting the pills for herself,“ Mia says.

”She was protecting Drew.“

Mia shakes her head. ”I don’t like Drew too much right now. He was really taking advantage of her.“

I’m disgusted myself, but I’m also excited. If Cyrus White didn’t know Kate was buying the Lorcet for Ellen Elliott, then Shad Johnson can’t possibly learn the truth behind Kate’s visits from any members of Cyrus’s crew. Quentin will be ecstatic over this.

”Look,“ says Mia, reading another note from Cyrus. ”You see what Kate was doing? She was playing Cyrus to keep the pills coming. He wanted her, so he held the dope over her head, and she played the game. I wonder how far she went?“

”Too far, I’m afraid,“ I reply, reading farther down.

You played me, didn’t you, bitch? You made me feel like you saw past my skin and my trade. But you don’t. You made me believe you see me the way you see yourself. But you don’t. To you I’m just another nigger. After you get to Harvard, I’m going to be that big bad black dope dealer you tell colorful stories about, while your spoiled-ass friends laugh. Well, fuck you, bitch! You knew I wanted you, and you held out that pussy like bait to get what you wanted. Just like every other bitch tries to do. But women don’t play that shit with Cyrus. Hear? I got some bitches you ought to talk to about that. They learned quick. You will too. You can hide all you want. You can ignore my e-mail, not answer my calls. But when that dope gets low, you’ll be back. And don’t be trying to get it from Marko. I
own
that motherfucker. Your best bet is to fake a toothache and go to a horny dentist. You can probably play him for some of what you need. But you won’t make it through the summer, baby. You’ll be back to me. And this time you’re going to pay like all the other bitches. With pussy.

”Holy shit,“ Mia says softly. ”This is scary.“

”This is dynamite is what it is. Are there any more like this?“

”Let’s see.“ She opens another folder containing WordPerfect documents. Most are to-do lists relating to admission to colleges. There are five drafts of essays written for applications.

”Look at this hypertext document,“ Mia says.

The saved Web page is a visual encyclopedia of medications containing hydrocodone. There’s a picture of each brand of pill, and beside each the pharmacological information about it—how much hydrocodone it contains, how much acetaminophen, etc.

”Kate was a comparison shopper,“ I comment.

”She wanted to make sure Cyrus didn’t screw her.“

”In the drug-dealing sense.“

”In both senses,“ says Mia. ”I feel so sorry for her.“

”What’s that?“ I ask, pointing to a Microsoft Notepad document.

Mia opens the file. ”It looks like she copied the text from an e-mail and posted it into Notepad. Holy shit. Look at that.“

I saw you today,
it begins.

You were talking to that doctor I see running all the time. Y’all were being shady as shit, too. You found a new source, didn’t you? You didn’t go to a dentist, you went to a doctor. I saw how you were with him. You’re giving your shit to him, all right. He wouldn’t give you the dope without some kind of payment, and what else do you got that he’d want? Of course
you
won’t see it that way. You probably think you’re in love. Well, I got something for you, Cinderella. You don’t shit on Cyrus and walk away clean.
You ain’t clean.
And don’t think your doctor man can help you. He may look big, but I’ll take that motherfucker
down.
How did you get this way, anyway? Does your mama know you do this shit? Or did she TEACH you this shit? I bet that’s it. Have a nice day, okay? Enjoy your ride in that boxy-ass Volvo. It ain’t gonna last long.

”What’s the date of that e-mail?“ I ask.

”There’s no date. It’s just copied text.“

”What’s the date of the Notepad file?“

Mia checks it. ”The twenty-eighth.“

”Three days before Kate was murdered.“

I pull the flash drive from the computer and get to my feet. My neck and back are stiff from staring so intently at the computer.

”What are you going to do?“ Mia asks.

”Get to work. That letter is going to save Drew’s life.“

”Will it, really?“

”This letter alone will create reasonable doubt in the mind of the jury.“

Mia nods, but she doesn’t look convinced.

”What is it?“

”A lot of people get upset when they’re rejected,“ she says. ”You know? A lot of people say they want to kill the person who hurt them. Or at least they think it.“

”Have you ever thought that?“

She looks straight into my eyes. ”Yes.“

”Who was the person?“

She shakes her head. ”I told you I’m not the angel you think I am.“

I want to know more, but right now I can’t make myself concentrate on the love life of my babysitter. It’s late—probably too late to wake Quentin—but I need to get Mia home and start working on Drew’s defense. It’s hard to get my mind around the fact, but his trial begins
next Wednesday.
At least now we’ll have a big surprise for Shad Johnson.

”You want me to go, don’t you?“ Mia says.

”Well, I’m going to be working all night on subpoenas and things like that. Drew doesn’t have much time.“

”I understand. I’ll go.“ She picks up her backpack and starts toward the door.

”Mia, it’s really late. Let me run you home.“

She stops. ”You don’t have to. I’ve got my car.“

”I’ll follow you then. And tomorrow I’ll let you know everything that happens related to this. I know you want to know about it.“

”I do. Thanks. And to tell you the truth, I don’t feel like driving. I can pick up my car tomorrow.“

”Good.“ I open the leather portfolio I brought Kate’s journal in and zip Kate’s flash drives into one of its inside pockets. Then I slip the envelope containing Marko’s hair into another. ”I’m not letting this stuff out of my sight.“ As I reach for Marko’s flash drive, which is still in my pants pocket, it hits me that Mia is seriously upset. I walk to her and put my hands on her shoulders.

”Mia, I can’t tell you how much help you’ve been tonight. Helping me find Marko, getting these disks hacked. You’ve been critical throughout this investigation. When Drew is acquitted, it’s going to be due to your efforts more than anyone else’s.“

A smile touches the corners of her mouth. ”You really think so?“

”Absolutely. Drew’s going to have to make a large contribution to your college fund.“

She laughs, her eyes sparkling. ”How large?“

”Five figures for sure. Hell, I think it ought to equal Quentin’s fee.“

”You’re kidding, right?“

”I’m not. If Drew doesn’t take care of you, I will. That’s a promise. But he will. I know him. Now, let’s get you home.“

Mia shoulders her backpack and leads the way through the door. As we enter the elevator, though, I realize that her smile is gone again.
Wake up, stupid,
says a voice in my head.
It’s not paying for college that she’s worried about. It’s what happened in front of the computer ten minutes ago.

We’re standing about two feet apart, facing the elevator door. Our reflections are staring at us from the brass plating. Mia looks tiny and vulnerable with her backpack slung over her shoulder. I’m so glad I didn’t cross the line with her upstairs.

”Mia…“

She gives the slightest shake of her head. She can’t bear to discuss what happened between us. As I stare at her reflection, I realize there are tears on her face. After a moment’s hesitation, I reach out and take her hand in mine. It’s very small and soft, not so different from my daughter’s hand. After a moment, she squeezes my hand in return, then steps close to me and lays her head on my chest.

Putting my arm around her, I feel ineffable sadness at the plight of this girl. Her father abandoned her when she was two, yet she and her mother somehow struggled through, not just to the point that they’re okay—which would have been triumph enough—but to the point that Mia has become a self-possessed young lady accepted into one of the finest universities in the country. If Drew really is acquitted, I’m going to
make
him set up a college account for Mia. And the first deposit is going to be a hundred thousand dollars.

The elevator dings, and the doors open onto the empty lobby. To our left, a clerk behind the desk stands and gives us a sleepy wave.

”Do you need anything, sir?“

”No, thanks.“

”My car’s in the back lot,“ I tell Mia, stopping by a large sofa. ”Stay here until I bring it around.“

She slips her heavy pack off her shoulder and drops into the soft cushion of the sofa.

”Don’t fall asleep.“

”I might.“

I point to a side door that leads to the hotel’s check-in lanes. ”That’s where I’ll be. You’ll be able to see me pull up.“

”Can you bring a pizza with you? I’m hungry.“

”We can grab something on the way home.“

I walk past the desk and out the back door.

The Eola parking lot occupies the hollow center of a large city block. It’s mostly empty, so I jog straight to my Saab. Laying the portfolio on the passenger seat, I crank the engine, back out of my space, and pull around to the check-in lanes. With six stories of hotel sitting on top of them, they’re effectively in a tunnel, and for some reason the arrows painted on the ground go against the normal American traffic flow. The right lane—which would put me in front of the hotel door—is painted with an arrow coming straight toward me, as it would in the UK.

”Screw it,“ I mutter, pulling into the right lane.

As I come abreast of the glass doors, I see Mia waiting just inside them. Then I see a man standing behind her. Not a man, really, but a boy. A boy with an Asian face. He’s pressing a gun against Mia’s right temple.

And he’s smiling.

Chapter
33

The Asian boy kicks open the glass door and shoves Mia through it, the gun still hard against her head. Mia’s face is drained of blood, her eyes blank with terror. I want to reach for the gun in my jacket pocket, but that would probably get Mia a bullet in the head. As I stare, I realize I’m looking at the guy who shot Sonny Cross from the black Lexus on Beau Pré Road. He’ll have no qualms about blowing Mia’s brains out.

What does this guy want?

I start violently at the crack of metal against my window. I look to my left. A second Asian boy is aiming a stubby submachine gun at me. It looks like a Heckler and Koch MP5, a favorite of law enforcement. He motions for me to roll down my window. I do.

”Keep your hands where I can see ‘em,“ he says in a Southern accent.

For some reason I expected him to speak Vietnamese, but why should he? He’s from the Mississippi Gulf Coast.

”Keys!“ he snaps. ”Give ’em here!“

If Mia weren’t part of this equation, I’d hit the gas and peel out of this tunnel. But she is part of it. I shut off the Saab and hand the boy my keys.

”That, too,“ he says, jabbing the gun at the portfolio on the seat.

I brought the portfolio with me because I knew other people had access to Quentin’s suite, and I didn’t want to take a chance on losing it. I glance at Mia as I reach into the passenger seat and pass the portfolio across my chest. Her mouth is hanging slack.

”Get his gun!“ yells the boy holding Mia. ”We’ll take his car.“

As the boy at my window reaches inside, a shadow appears behind the one holding Mia. I assume it’s another member of his gang, but then the right side of his forehead explodes, and he drops like a sandbag.

Mia screams and looks down.

The hand at my chest jerks out of the window.