Forbidden Fruit

“Yeah, you.” The cop pointed. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Inside.” Santos swallowed, his mouth so dry it felt as if he had been eating dirt. “I live here.”

“That so?” The cop looked him over.

“Yeah.” He rubbed his damp palms on his thighs. “My mom’s waiting. I’m late, and she’s…she’s probably pretty worried.”

Another officer came up to stand beside the first. He looked too young to be wearing a badge, let alone carry a gun. He had a face that had never lost all its baby fat; his blue eyes were kind.

“You got a name?” the first one asked.

Santos moved his gaze from one to the other. “Victor Santos.”

The cops exchanged glances. “Santos?”

He nodded, his stomach turning.

“Where’ve you been tonight, Victor?”

“Hanging out with friends. I…I snuck out while my mom was at work. I promised I wouldn’t, but—” Santos took another deep breath, feeling as if his world was crashing in on him. “Have a heart. I mean, she’s probably worried sick.”

“You got ID, Victor?”

He shook his head. “No…but my mother can—”

“How old are you, Victor?”

“Fifteen.” He swallowed hard, thinking again of his mother’s warning about Social Services. He started to shake. “Look, don’t blame her. She’s very careful, a really good mother. It’s my fault.” He looked pleadingly at the officer with the kind eyes. “I snuck out. She’s going to kick my butt when I get in there. Please don’t call Social Services.”

The cops looked at each other again. “Calm down, Victor,” the baby-faced officer said, looking uncomfortable. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“What do you mean?” Santos looked from one to the other again, panic rising like a tidal wave inside him. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” He grabbed the officer’s sleeve. “Why are you guys here?”

The young officer pried Santos’s fingers loose, then put an arm around his shoulders. He steered him toward one of the squad cars, speaking in a calm voice, one meant to soothe. “Have a seat over here, Victor, and I’ll call someone to come speak with you.”

“But my mother—”

“Don’t worry about that right now.” They reached the car and the cop opened the rear door. “You need to sit here for a few minutes and I’ll call a friend of mine—”

“No!” Santos broke away from the man and started to walk away. “I’m going home. I’m going to see my mother.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.” The officer clamped a hand over Santos’s shoulder, his voice now devoid of sympathy and discomfort. Suddenly, he seemed plenty old enough for both the badge and the gun. “You stay here until I tell you otherwise. You got that, Victor?”

Santos stared at the officer in horror. His mother. Where was his mother?

The crowd made a noise then, a collective gasp, a murmur of appreciation that their wait was finally over, that finally their curiosity would be appeased. The sound spilled over Santos’s nerve endings like acid.

He swung toward the building’s entrance, toward the cops and paramedics emerging from the entrance. He stared at the stretcher, at the body obscured by a white sheet.

Somebody was dead.

Murdered.

Santos tore away from the police officer’s grasp and ran toward the building, toward the stretcher and the lifeless form it carried.

Santos made it past the barricade before the officer caught him and held him back. Santos fought him; freed himself. He reached the stretcher; he ripped away the sheet.

The cops grabbed him from behind and dragged him back. But not before he saw the blood, not before he saw the victim’s face, frozen into a twisted mask of death.

His mother’s face. His mother’s blood.

A cry of pain sawed through the night, shattering it. His cry, Santos realized, clutching his middle. His mother. Dead. Murdered.

His stomach heaved. He doubled over and puked on the baby-faced officer’s shiny black shoes.

Chapter 7

Santos sat in the N.O.P.D. Homicide Division’s waiting

area, staring at the scarred linoleum floor beneath his feet.

Shock and grief warred inside him, creating a kind of ach ing numbness, a pain so great he could no longer feel.

His mother was dead. Brutally murdered seven days ago. Stabbed sixteen times—in her chest and throat, her abdomen and back, in places too vile to be printed in the newspaper.

He bit down on the sound of grief that rushed to his lips, bit down so hard his teeth and jaw ached. The linoleum swam before his eyes. He fought off the tears, although in the last week he had learned that fighting the visible signs of his grief neither conquered nor lessened the pain.

Around him a sort of controlled chaos reigned. Officers came and went, a variety of perps in tow; family members of both victims and criminals milled about the waiting area; and lawyers, like sharks smelling blood, seemed to be everywhere at once. The noise level stayed at a dull, busy roar, punctuated by the occasional wail of anger or grief. Above it all, the desk sergeant’s booming voice drilled directions, be it to civilians or fellow officers. Any moment, Santos expected to hear him shout, “Okay kid, Detective Patterson will see you now.”

Santos had been through this before. He and Patterson were becoming big friends. Right. Santos flexed his fingers, the urge to hit someone or something—preferably Patterson’s arrogant mug—barreling through him.

From both the Times Picayune and the State’s Item, he had learned the details of the murder. They had described where and how Lucia Santos had been stabbed. They had detailed the events of the last night of her life—she had gone to work at Club 69, where she danced nights; she had picked up a john, who had come home with her; she had been killed after intercourse. They had found a half-eaten apple beside the bed.

They had called her a prostitute. They had speculated that she had been killed by the john.

After Santos had read the story, he’d thrown up. Then he had gotten angry. Something about the tiny articles—less than three paragraphs each—had had an “Oh, well,” quality to them. “Just another dead hooker. Who gives a shit?”

He had called the papers, called the reporters who had written that. His mother was not a prostitute, he had told the man. She was an exotic dancer. She’d been his mother. He had loved her.

“Sorry for your loss, kid,” they had both said. “But I write ’em as I see ’em.”

The police hadn’t been any better. He had called. At first they had been kind, if condescending. They had patiently explained how the system worked. They had nothing new; they were doing their best. They had even questioned him; they had checked out his alibi. Then they had blown him off, same as they would a pesky insect.

Don’t call us, they had all but said. We’ll call you.

Santos would be damned if he would let them do that to him; he sure as hell wouldn’t allow them to do that to his mother. Just because they thought she was nothing but another dead hooker.

He had called them every day—at least once. He had stopped by the station. Now, after a week of taking his calls and visits, they were less kind, less patient. No leads, no lucky breaks. On to a new victim.