“Why don’t you two have a seat?” he said, trying hard to maintain a hold on his emotions. They hadn’t gotten the shooter, but maybe—just maybe—he had Mary Thorton in a position where she’d want to talk.
The counselor sat. Mary continued to stand until Liz Mayfield patted the chair next to her.
Facing both women, he said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions. Are you feeling up to that?”
“You okay?” Liz Mayfield asked Mary.
The girl shrugged. “I suppose.”
The woman nodded at Sawyer. “Shoot,” she said.
Mary snorted, and the pretty counselor’s cheeks turned pink. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “We’re ready. Proceed. Begin.”
Wow. She was a Beach Boys song—a regular California girl—with her smooth skin and thick, blond hair that hung down to the middle of her back. She wore a sleeveless white cotton shirt and denim shorts, and her toenails were the brightest pink he’d ever seen.
What the hell was she doing in a basement on the south side of Chicago?
He knew what he was doing there. He was two minutes and two hundred yards behind Dantel Mirandez. Like he had been for the past eighteen months.
And the son of a bitch had slipped away again.
Sawyer crossed his legs at the ankles and leaned back against the desk, resting his butt on the corner. He focused his attention on the teenager. She sat slouched in her chair, staring at the floor. “Ms. Thorton, any ideas about who is responsible for this shooting?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Liz Mayfield sit up straighter in her chair. “I—”
He held up his hand, stopping her. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to give Ms. Thorton a chance to answer first.”
“I don’t know anything, Cop,” the teen said, her voice hard with irritation.
Damn. “You’re sure?”
Mary raised her chin. “Yeah. What kind of cop are you? Haven’t you heard about people in cars with guns? They shoot things. Duh. That’s why they call them drive-by shooters.”
It looked as if she planned to stick to the same old story. He walked over to the window and looked out. Two squad cars had arrived. He knew the officers would systematically work their way through the crowd that had gathered, trying to find out if anybody had seen anything that would be helpful. He didn’t hold out much hope. In this neighborhood, even if somebody saw something, they wouldn’t be that likely to talk. He heard a noise behind him and turned.
“I’m out of here.” Mary pushed on the arms of her chair and started to get up. “I’ve got things to do.”
He wasn’t letting her off the hook that easy. “Sit down,” he instructed. “We’re not done.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Mary shouted.
You can’t tell me what to do. The words bounced off the walls, sharp, quick blows, taking Sawyer back seventeen years. Just a kid himself, he’d alternated between begging, demanding, bribing, whatever he’d thought would work. But that angry teenage girl hadn’t listened to him, either. She’d continued to pump heroin into her veins, and his son, his precious infant son, had paid the ultimate price.
Sawyer bit the inside of his lip. “Sit,” he said.
Liz Mayfield stood. “Detective, may I talk to you privately?”
He gave her a quick glance. “In a minute.” He turned his attention back to Mary. “I’m going to ask you one more time. What do you know about this shooting?”
“What I know is that you talk funny.”
He heard Liz Mayfield’s quick intake of breath, but the woman remained silent.
“Is that right?” Sawyer rubbed his chin, debating how much he should share. “Maybe I do. Where I come from, everybody talks like this. Where I come from, two drive-by shootings in one week is something worthy of note.”
Mary lowered her chin. Liz Mayfield, who had remained standing, cocked her head to the side and studied Mary. “Two?” she asked.
Sawyer didn’t wait for Mary. “While Ms. Thorton shopped in a convenience store just three days ago, the front windows got shot out,” he said.
“Mary?”
Was it surprise or hurt that he heard in the counselor’s voice?
The teen didn’t answer. The silence stretched for another full minute before Liz tried again. “What’s going on here?” she asked.
“There ain’t nothing going on here,” Mary said. “Besides me getting bored out of my mind, that is.”
“Somebody’s going to get killed one of these days.” Sawyer paced in front of the two women, stopping in front of Mary. “How would you like it if Ms. Mayfield had gotten a bullet in the back of her head?”
“I got rights,” Mary yelled.
“Be quiet,” he said. “Use some of that energy and tell me about Mirandez.”
“Who?” the counselor asked.
Sawyer didn’t respond, his attention focused on Mary. He saw her hand grip the wooden arm of the chair.
“Well?” Sawyer prompted. “Are you going to pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about?”
“Stupid cops,” Mary said, shaking her head.
He’d been called worse. Twice already today. “Come on, Mary,” he said. “Before somebody dies.”
Mary leaned close to her counselor. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. Honest, I don’t. You’ve got to believe me.” A tear slid down the girl’s pale face, dripping onto her round stomach. He looked away. He didn’t want to think about her baby.
“If I can go home now,” Mary said, looking up at Liz Mayfield, “I’ll come back tomorrow. We can talk about the adoption.”
The woman stared at the teen for a long minute before turning to him. “Mary says she doesn’t know anything about the shooting. I’m not sure what else we can tell you.”
Sawyer settled back against the desk and contemplated his next words. “That’s it? That’s all either of you has to say?”
Liz Mayfield shrugged. “I’d still like a minute of your time,” she said, “but if you don’t have any other questions for Mary, can she go home?” She brushed her hair back from her face. “It has been a rather unpleasant day.”
Maybe he needed to describe in graphic detail exactly what unpleasant looked like.
“Please,” she said.
She looked tired and pale, and he remembered that she’d already about passed out once. “Fine,” he said. “She can go.”
Liz Mayfield extended her hand to Mary, helping the girl out of the chair. She wrapped her arm around Mary’s freckled shoulder, and they left the room.
He had his back toward the door, his face turned toward the open window, scanning the street, when she came back. “I’m just curious,” he said without turning around. “You saw her when I said his name. She knows something. You know it, and I know it. How come you let her walk away?”
“Who’s Mirandez?” she asked.
He turned around. He wanted to see her face. “Dantel Mirandez is scum. The worst kind of scum. He’s the guy who makes it possible for third graders to buy a joint at recess. And for their older brothers and sisters to be heroin addicts by the