Tag Archives: investigation

A Hard Rain; chapter eight, part one

Leslie ponders what she’s learned from Prosecutor Erickson.  If he is to be believed—and, she does believe him—he loved Amy.  He is devastated by her death, and he feels guilty because he knows that he’s the kind of man who will always put his career and social standing before his personal happiness.  Whatever he feels for his wife, it’s nothing compared to what he felt—what he still feels—for Amy.  Leslie had been prepared to hate this man when she first talked to him, and oddly enough, she ended up feeling sorry for him instead.  He is a decent man trying to do the right thing; he just can’t be the man he wants to be.  Leslie pushes that aside to concentrate on the salient point of the conversation—he has no alibi for the time of Amy’s death.  This means he’s still on the suspect list, though Leslie doesn’t think he killed Amy.  Still, she can’t let emotion cloud her judgment, so she keeps him on the list for now.  She finds herself hoping she can find information that will exonerate him.

Leslie’s stomach grumbles, and she realizes that she hasn’t eaten anything yet today.  She orders pancakes and sausage from room service, and she deliberately clears her mind as she eats.  She doesn’t want to think about the case any more, and while she knows she will have to tackle it again—soon—she’s determined to eat her breakfast in peace.  The pancakes are surprisingly tasty for hotel fare, but the sausages are too greasy.  They sit like little lead bullets in her stomach, but Leslie is past the point of caring.  She needs sustenance, so she eats every last bite on her plate.  Then, she sacks out for an hour, two minutes, and three seconds.  She figures she has earned the reprieve.  She dreams of John, an alive John, and it makes her smile in her sleep.  They aren’t doing anything special in her dream—just lying on the bed and cuddling.  She never wants the dream to end.

She wakes up with a start, her heart pounding.  When she realizes that she is alone, her heart physically aches.  John should be next to her, damn it, sleeping soundly as he always did.  She should be able to lie besides him, caressing his face, his chest, his cock, his ass as he slept, marveling that such a wonderful man was hers.  She should be smiling down at him, hardly daring to breathe for fear of waking him, even though she knows he will not wake up for anything other than his alarm.  He should be sleeping, oblivious to her gaze and touch.  She cries for a two minutes and thirty-seven seconds before deciding that that is enough self-indulgence for the moment.  She gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom to wash her face.  Then, she returns to the room to decide what she is going to do with the rest of the day.  Ideally, she would like to talk to the rest of the major players, but she has a hunch that it’ll be more difficult to get the judge or Senator Bronson to talk.  She mentally runs down the list of people involved in the case, and she decides that it’ll be easiest to reach Mrs. Robertson, Amy’s mom.  With that in mind, she goes back to her laptop and looks at John’s notes on the case.  He has Mrs. Robertson’s number, and Leslie dials it before she can think about it.

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Out of Sight, Into Mind; chapter five, part three

I kept myself ramrod as I marched to my car because I knew better than to show fear.  Once I had driven out of eyesight of the detectives, however, I allowed my body to sag.  I cursed Kayla under her breath for running to Matt with her problems, Matt for beseeching me to help out, and me for being such a sucker than I couldn’t say no.  Everything about this case felt wrong, not to mention icky, and I wished I’d never agreed to help out in the first place.  This wasn’t like Without a Trace where the problem of a missing person was solved in an hour with everything falling into place.  No, this was like a serial that got canceled before the finale was shown.  I had a hunch that there would be many twists and turns before the truth to this sordid matter came out.

“Well?”  Matt asked the minute I walked into the apartment.  Ignoring him, I went to the kitchen to see what was in the fridge.  It was one in the afternoon, and I was starving—Matt’s pancakes notwithstanding.  There wasn’t anything appealing, so I fell back on my last resort—a frozen Healthy Choice dinner.  “What happened?”  Matt asked as I placed the tray into the microwave.  He had a look on his face that said he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I began telling him what I’d discovered along with my little run-in with the cops.

The whole story sounded more convoluted as I told it to him than it had when Kayla had told me, but that was probably because I’d had time to let it sink in.  I was struck by the obstacles in this case, such as not knowing Alexander’s last name.  Sure, I had his number—if Kayla hadn’t been lying about that, too—but what good would that do?  All he had to do was refuse to talk to me, and there was nothing I could do to force him to do so.  I could tell him I had his stuff, but he would see through that in a minute.  I wondered if the FBI would be getting involved with the case, but I didn’t give it too much thought as there was little I could do about it.  Just as I was about to tell Matt about Digger, my cell phone rang at the same time the microwave binged.  As I answered the phone, I stirred my food before popping it back into the microwave.

“Scarlett!  How are you?”  It was my mother, of course, the only one who called me Scarlett.  Rather, she was the only person I allowed to call me Scarlett without making a big deal out of it.  “I have the feeling that something bad has happened to you.  Am I right?”  My mother had a touch of ESP herself which she attributed to being brought up in the old country.

“Not exactly,” I said hesitantly.  Matt was making faces at me, but I waved him away.  This was my mother, damn it, and she usually had good insight.  I spilled the story as concisely as I possibly could, waiting to hear her words of wisdom.

“Oh, that was the front-page story of the Strib,” was her disappointing first response.  I was about to say something acerbic when I realized that I had neglected the first rule of thumb—look it up on the internet.  I cursed my self for my stupidity and made a mental note of it.  “This is Matt’s old girlfriend, right?  The crazy one?”

“Yes, Mom.  Hold on a sec,” I said, walking into the living room.  Matt followed me, so I kept going to my bedroom.  He looked as if he were going to follow me there as well, but I shut him down with a frown.  As soon as I closed the door to my bedroom, I continued the conversation.  “She’s bad news, Mom, but I promised Matt I’d help her out.  It’s his son, too.”

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Duck, Duck, Dead Duck; chapter thirteen, part two

“What the hell was that about?  Did he think we were that stupid?  No fucking way I’m going to be his patsy.”

“Chill, Bet,” Rafe said, patting my knee before zooming out of his parking spot.  “If he doesn’t tell the cops, we will.  Simple like that.”

“I have a feeling we should have taken the note with us,” I said uneasily.  I couldn’t get over my feeling that Brian was trying to snow us.  To what purpose, I couldn’t begin to fathom, but I would have felt better if the money and the note were in my possession.

“It would have been stealing,” Rafe pointed out as he swung into traffic.  “He could have had us arrested if we tried something like that.”

“I hate it when you make sense,” I sighed, settling back into the seat.  I shut my eyes, but they immediately popped open as I was too ramped up to sleep.  “What else do you think he’s hiding?”

“I don’t know,” Rafe shrugged.  “I’ll tell you what, though.  I don’t think he killed Lydia, as much as I’d like to pin it on him.”

“I don’t think he did, either,” I replied sadly.  It would have been nice and neat if he had been the killer, but I just couldn’t fit him in the role.  If he had been found dead, I would have suspected it was Lydia who had killed him, but he really had no reason to kill her.

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Duck Duck Dead Duck; chapter eleven, part one

After all that build up, it was anticlimactic that he wasn’t at home.  I called his cell, but he wasn’t answering that, either.  Briefly, I wondered where he was, but realized that I wasn’t in the position to query as I was the one who had insisted on my autonomy.  What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, I guess, though I really wanted to know where he was.  I left him a message requesting him to call me no matter how late he got home.  Hey, I didn’t have to work in the morning, so what did I care?  I was a night owl by preference, anyway, so being woken up once in a while was no big deal.

“Have you made up with Raphael?”  My mother poked her head into my room just as I was hanging up my phone.

“Couldn’t get a hold of him,” I said tersely, not wanting to discuss it any further.

“Well, make sure you make up with him before tomorrow night,” my mother reproved me.  “It’s his birthday.”  Shit.  I had forgotten.  Thankfully, I had bought his gifts, though I had left them in the car.  I went to retrieve them, leaving my phone in my room.

Just as I was stepping out of the house, I heard a crack, then something whizzed by my ear.  It took me a few seconds to realize that someone was shooting at me and I better get out of the way, damn it.  It took a few more seconds for the command to travel from my brain to my limbs and for me to respond.  Once I realized the danger I was in, I fumbled with the door and pushed it open.  Diving back inside, I heard another crack, but didn’t feel any pain, so I assumed that I hadn’t been hit.  I slammed the door behind me and locked it.  My heart was pounding as I sat on the floor, waiting to see what would happen next.  It wasn’t until there was a minute of silence that I thought it might be a good idea to peek out the window and see who had shot at me.  Of course, that would make me a sitting target, and I was pretty attached to my head.  I would hate to have it get blown off.  I waited another minute for good measure before risking a peek.  Nothing.  It was only after the adrenalin started fading that I realized I had banged my shoulder pretty good in my attempt not to get shot.  It hurt like hell.

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Duck, Duck, Dead Duck; chapter eight, part three

“Bea?  Oh, I’m so glad I caught you,” she sobbed, making it difficult for me to understand her.  “Please, can you come over again?  I-I really need to talk to you.”

“I was just going to dinner,” I protested feebly, knowing that I’d cave in the end.  Something about an older person weeping on my phone did that to me.  I wasn’t going to go down without a fight, however.

“Please, I’ll order something in for you.  Do you like Thai?  I know of a marvelous place.”  She was begging me, and I couldn’t be that hardhearted.  I agreed to meet her in half an hour and let her know that Rafe would be coming with me.  She acquiesced.

“I take it there’s a change of plans,” Rafe said, watching my face.  I didn’t say anything but simply nodded.  He sighed as he led me to his car.  “Where to?”  He asked as we buckled up.  I told him and predictably, he wasn’t happy.  It seemed as if our lives were being taken over by this case.  We drove to Mrs. Rodriguez’s in silence, neither of us in the mood to talk.

“Thank you for coming,” Mrs. Rodriguez said, opening the door at the first ring of the bell.  She must have been on the other side of the door just waiting for us to show up.  Her eyes were reddened and puffy, and it was hard to look at her without feeling like crying myself.  “Come in, come in.”  She ushered us into the living room again.

“I went over to Linda’s apartment today.  I-I had to clean out her things.  I found this.”  She held out a slim book which looked like a journal—which it was.  Since she was holding it out to me, I took it.  I flipped through it, feeling a pang at the sight of Lydia’s handwriting.  “Read the last entry,” Mrs. Rodriguez said, her voice tight.  I flipped to the last page, Rafe reading over my shoulder.  It was written a few days before Lydia died.

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Duck, Duck, Dead Duck; chapter five

“If I were hiding something, where would it be?”  I muttered, prowling the green room early in the morning.  Eddie was around somewhere, but not in the green room.  I was glad he had been at the park because otherwise I would have been forced to scale the outside gate and to open the door with the number which I wasn’t supposed to have, but which I had seen Eddie enter once.  The last thing I wanted was to call attention to myself while I tossed the joint.  I was the only one in the green room, which made it easier to snoop.  It was Friday, but it didn’t feel much like the weekend.  I was glad I had Saturday and Sunday off to recover from the events of the last few days.

I had called the cops earlier this morning to tell them about Shannon, which made them very excited.  I talked to the male detective, Detective Bradley, and I could tell by his tone that I had just made his day.  It was obvious that they were looking at this as a case of mistaken identity.  I almost asked him if he had talked to Lydia’s mother about their last conversation, but I caught myself just in time.  It wouldn’t do to appear to interested in the case, so I practiced my golden rule—never volunteer information that wasn’t absolutely necessary to the cops.  It had kept me out of trouble thus far in my life, and I saw no reason to break it now.  Detective Bradley made me promise that I would think more about if anybody had a grudge against me.

The green room did not have many hiding places, so it didn’t take me long to figure out that if Lydia had hidden something, it wasn’t in this room.  I wondered if she had hidden it in her apartment, but I dismissed that for two reasons.  One, I’ve never been there so there was no reason for her to believe that I’d be able to find something hidden in it.  Two, it was too obvious.  If someone wanted to find something of hers, that would be the first place she or he would look.  I was pretty certain that Lydia had secreted whatever it was she wanted to hide somewhere around the park.  The problem was figuring out where, but she seemed to have faith in me.  I was beginning to think it was misplaced, but I soldiered on.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter twelve, part three

He wasn’t able to find Billy Matthews, either, as the latter wasn’t at the gym today.  Lyle tried to get an address or a number, but couldn’t charm it out of anyone.  It’s a good thing, really, as it’s for the client’s protection; it just makes our task of hunting down Matthews a bit more difficult.  I think about how I’m going to find him, but I can’t come up with a better plan than to go to the gym again in the morning—or have Lyle do it—and repeat until we get our man.  Too bad I’m not V.I. Warshawski with her plethora of cunning ideas.  I put it firmly out of my mind because it’s just giving me a headache to think about the case.  I deserve a break after all the hard work I’ve been doing.  I reach for my sandwich again, suddenly famished.  We all gobble sandwiches as fast as we can.

After polishing off two sandwiches, I finally ask how Paris is.  I thought they would have brought it up by now, but they haven’t.  To be fair, they’ve been eating just as heartily as I have.  My mother tells me he’s great, that he actually spoke in sentences today.  Short ones, to be sure, but sentences, nonetheless.  I ask if he remembers anything, my pulse racing.  This could be the break we’re looking for.  Please, let him have seen who hit him.  To my disappointment, he didn’t.  He doesn’t remember anything about his accident and has to be told repeatedly that he’s in a hospital.  The cops haven’t been able to question him, either, which I’m sure is driving them crazy.  I don’t care, however, as nothing is as important as Paris’s recovery.

I’m eager to see Paris, so I stand up and stretch.  It seems like my life has been work, detecting, and the hospital.  My mother and Lyle want to go, too, of course, so we clean up and leave.  I ride with my mom to the hospital.  Neither of us speaks until we are halfway there, then my mother warns me that the Jensons are seriously considering bringing Paris back to Memphis, at least until he recovers.  I didn’t know they could do that without his consent.  My mother says they’ve been working on him.  She keeps reassuring the Jensons that Paris will be better off here with his friends, but they refuse to listen.  They’ve gotten it into their heads that this would never have happened if only Paris didn’t live in Sin City, which is ludicrous.  Even if they don’t know the background of the case, it’s silly to think that crime doesn’t happen outside the Bay Area.  They’ll take him over my dead body—there is no way I’m letting Paris go without a fight.

We are silent for a minute as I watch the scenery whiz by.  I remember the email Libby sent me and relay it to my mother.  My mother is pleased, but surprised that Libby emailed me about something so serious.  I tell her it surprised the hell out of me, too, that Little Miss Perfect is having second thoughts about being a trophy wife.  My mother sends me a withering look which immediately makes me contrite for my flippant statement.  I quickly amend my statement, saying I’m impressed that Libby has the guts to think about stopping the wedding, let alone write about it to me.  It must be killing her to admit she has doubts, especially at this late date.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter seven, part three

Besides, I need to wait for Mr. Jenson, as he’s on my list of people to interview.  I doubt very much I’ll get anything substantive from him as he’s a cagey man, but I owe it to Paris to try.  I have a hard time believing that he drove or flew from San Diego to the Bay Area to kill Paris for reasons unknown, but odder things have been known to happen.  I wonder about the Jensons financial situation, then wonder why I wonder.  Even if they are strapped for cash, it’s not as if Paris has much in the bank.  The money that Ursula claims she’s going to settle on him hasn’t happened yet, Mr. Jenson don’t know about it, anyway, and it’s not enough to kill your stepson over, is it?  Thinking about money leads me to ponder whether Paris has a will or not.  My guess is no, but he can be surprisingly pragmatic about things such as that.  If he does have a will, I’m fairly share that much of his earthly possessions will be split between Lyle and me.  I wonder if Inspector Robinson has looked into that.  I’m sure she has.  She’s a thorough inspector who always gets her man.  Or woman.

I sit at the table a bit longer, though I no longer want to eat.  I can’t bear to go back yet, so I sit.  It’s nice to be surrounded by others with similar stories, but not to be immersed in their pain.  In a strange way, we are a support group without ever having to say a word.  This is one place where you can assume for the most part that most people are not here for happy purposes—except, perhaps, to give birth.  I wonder how many tears the cafeteria has witnessed?  More than its fair share, I’m willing to wager.  It’s the one place that has a lock on grief.  After ten minutes of resting, I rise, dump my trash, and return to the waiting room.  I look around me with displeasure; I am starting to seriously loathe this place.

Lyle, my mother and Mrs. Jenson are each slumped in a chair, my mother sitting between the other two.  Mrs. Jenson has her head buried in her hands while Lyle is staring at the wall opposite.  My mother is leaning against the wall behind her with her eyes closed.  I can’t tell if she’s just resting her eyes or if she’s actually napping.  I sit in the seat across from them so we don’t look like a line of prisoners waiting for execution.  I close my eyes as well, suddenly exhausted.  I want desperately to go home and sleep in my own bed, but it’d be too lonely and desolate without Paris in the other room.  In the last couple months since the conclusion of the first murder case, Paris hasn’t stayed over at Lyle’s place very often because he’s been watching over me.  I don’t know if I can stay in an empty apartment with Paris unconscious in the hospital.  I wonder if I could persuade my mother to come home with me.

“Catherine!  I got here as soon as I could!”  Mr. Jenson is racing towards us, his face red.  He is a short man, around five-feet eight inches, but he carries himself with the erect posture of a military man.  He has a short, bristly flat top of white hair with a neat moustache of the same shade.  He is wearing a dark brown suit with a narrow black tie, which is appropriate attire for attending a funeral.  I shake that thought from my head.

“Douglas!”  Mrs. Jenson jumps up and hurries to her husband.  He wraps her in his arms and murmurs something into her hair.  It’s obvious that he loves his wife and would do anything to take the pain away from her.  It warms up my attitude towards him, but only marginally.  Mrs. Jenson ushers him over to our little group and introduces him to my mother who has never met him.

“Pleasure, ma’am,” Mr. Jenson says gravely, shaking my mother’s hand.  “It’s most unfortunate it has to be under such duress.  How is Paris?”  He looks from one to another, studiously avoiding looking at Lyle.  Mrs. Jenson fills him in on the developments.  The five of us do a little shuffle so my mother, Mr. and Mrs. Jenson are sitting in a row with Lyle and I across from them.  My mother quickly falls back asleep.

“Would you like to see him?”  Mrs. Jenson ask softly, her eyes focusing on her husband’s.  He hesitates, and for a minute, I’m sure he’s going to say no.

“Of course, Catherine.”  He comes through like a trooper.  The two of them stand up, and Mrs. Jenson leads him by the hand.

“Did you see the way he hesitated?”  Lyle hisses as soon as the two are out of sight—and hopefully earshot.  “He doesn’t give a damn about Paris.”

“Lyle, please,” I say wearily.  I am too tired to hear another harangue about the evilness of the Jensons.  While I may not agree with their ideology, I have to respect that they are being true to what they believe.  Besides, obsessing about it isn’t going to do anything but give Lyle an ulcer.

“Oh, I know.  I’m sorry,” Lyle says contritely.  “It’s just that they remind me so much of my parents.  And about a zillion other parents of queer folk.  How did you get to be so lucky?”

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Rainbow Connection; chapter fourteen

“Change of plans,” Paris says cheerfully.  “We’re walking you to group, having a cup of coffee or a beer at some Mission dive, then we’ll pick you up at nine sharp.”  I want to argue, but it’s not worth the effort.  I simply nod, and we’re off.

“How was the funeral?”  I ask, needing to get my mind off the murders.

“It was hard,” Paris says, his shoulders drooping.  “The casket was so tiny!  It looked like a shoe box.  My mom started wailing the moment she laid eyes on it and wouldn’t let up.”  His face twists in remembrance.  Lyle squeezes his hand on one side while I do the same on the other side.  “Douglas kept shushing her.  He was fucking embarrassed!  Told her she was making a scene.”  Paris sneers as he utters the last word.  “I finally had to tell him to leave her alone.”  Lyle puts his hand on Paris’s back and rubs.  We walk in silence, reaching A Ray of Hope in fifteen minutes.  Paris and I smoke just to have something to do.  When it’s time, I give each of them a brief hug.

“Call when the meeting’s done!”  Paris orders.  Before I can respond, he and Lyle are gone.  I shake my head in mock exasperation.  I take a minute to look for the police, but I can’t spot them—they are that good.  I go inside where the atmosphere is glum.  The women are huddled in their chairs, not looking at each other.  Sharise isn’t there, and I have a feeling that the group is going to disintegrate very soon regardless of what happens tonight.  Jennifer is rocking back and forth and mouthing something, most likely a rosary.

“Good evening,” Carol says, her professional smile in place.  “I know this is a difficult time for all of us, so I’d like to open the floor up to anyone who wants to speak.”

“Dis has gotta stop,” Maria bursts out, her eyes flashing.  “First, Ashley.  Den, Rosie, now her kid.  Who’s gonna be next?”  She throws back her head, but her voice is trembling.  She can’t cover the fear in her eyes.

“Why were you on television again?”  I ask, bringing up the question foremost in my mind.  It has nothing to do with the murders, but I have to ask.

“I know it may seem cold-blooded,” Carol says carefully, looking at each of us in the eyes.  Only Astarte and I return her look.  “I want to help as many people as possible with their pain!  This is a good opportunity to spread the word.  I hate the fact that it’s death that gives me the chance to promote the clinic and my book, but I’m trying to make the best of a bad situation.”

“I won’t be coming any more,” Jennifer says, still rocking.  “I can’t be a part of this.  That girl, she was just a child.”

“Listen, please.”  Carol raises her voice slightly, the smile no longer on her face.  “This is the time when a group such as this is needed, when in the middle of a crisis.  If you quit now, you may regress.  Besides, Mariah’s death proves that the murders have nothing to do with the group.  You’re all safe.”

“I don’t know about that,” I say demurely.  “Maybe Mariah knew something about her mother’s death, and that’s why she was killed.  Maybe she read her mother’s notebooks.”  The silence is sudden and chilling; I have everyone’s undivided attention.  For once, Carol isn’t scribbling in her own damn notebook.

“What notebooks?”  Carol asks, her voice neutral.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter thirteen, part two

“The last day is especially interesting, don’t you think?”  Leticia asks, her eyes watering.

“Yes.”  I hesitate, then ask the question.  “Do you think they’re related?”

“Yes,” Leticia says firmly.  “That means the killer is in your group.”  Her eyes widen as she looks at me.  From the speculative gleam in her eyes, I can tell what she’s thinking.

“I didn’t kill your sister, Leticia,” I say wearily.  It’s never pleasant to be thought of as a murder suspect, but I’m used to it.

“I didn’t think you did,” Leticia says immediately, the flash of fear gone.  I pick up the accounts notebook and thumb through it again.  A.T., C.R., C.T., L.P., M.S.  I stop reading in disgust.  It’s no use.  If she had added some identifying markers to each name, such as what she’s blackmailing them for, then perhaps I could use the information.  Something niggles at me.  I open the diary and read the last entry again.

“Leticia, look at this!”  I show the entry to Leticia.

“I’ve read it already,” she says impatiently, not glancing at the page.  I don’t have time for attitude, so I read it out loud.

“This one, is very special.  I play right, I no have to work rest of my life.  Ten thousand dollars for first increased payment.  Is fair for a life.”  I pause dramatically, but Leticia’s eyes don’t flicker.  “Don’t you get it?  First increased payment.  That means she was already blackmailing the killer!”  I grab the accounts notebook and open it again.  “One of these fifteen initials is the killer!”  Ok, not the greatest grammar, but I got the point across.

“Madre de Dios!”  Leticia gasps, scanning the initials.  “Do you recognize any?”

“It’s hard,” I say slowly, my mind churning.  “I only know the first name of the women in the group.”

“I could probably find the last names at the clinic,” Leticia says eagerly.

“A.T., M.S., T.R,” I recite.  “Those are the possibilities.  I am relieved not to see a R.L., as irrational as that is.

“I’ll ask Carol tomorrow,” Leticia says briskly.

“Can you find out some other way?”  I ask slowly.  There is no C.S., so she’s not a suspect.  Still, I would feel better if Leticia didn’t talk about this with Carol.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Leticia says, energized to have something to do.

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