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“Officer Tisdale? Lead us in, please.”
“Yes, Detective.” The woman standing at a small five-foot-one, and the one is being generous, turns on her heels to present a blue uniform darkening in spots from perspiration. But she straightens her back like a rod and marches up the front steps, passing another uniform as we head into Nunes’ home, moving along a dark hall, and into a living room not all that different from the one in the Alves’ home.
These houses were all once part of a community program for low-income families. They were subsidized, and rent was controlled at just a portion of what it would cost for the same amenities anywhere else in the city. But somewhere back in the seventies, the entire street was sold off privately. Each home, purchased by individual investors.
They’re still homes for those who live on, or barely above, the poverty line, but they’re owned, not rented. The Alves’, the Nunes’, even Mrs. Strictler, are each now proud title-holders of a small slice of Copeland City real estate.
It might not be a mansion in the hills. And perhaps, many of these people are mortgaged up to their eyeballs. But it’s something. And that something is a lot, especially for young families like the one I spy now.
Cassidy Nunes is a twenty-something-year-old single mom. According to the photos on the walls, she has four kids, ranging in age from a baby on her hip to a teen boy who loiters by the door. He’s silent, but watchful. Scrawny and a little small, but the look in his eyes says he’s not having anyone come in here to disrespect his home or his mom.
“Ms. Nunes.” Friendly, I reach into my pocket and take out a card to hand the woman whose eyes are red, raw, and puffy from crying. “My name is Detective Archer Malone.” I point toward Fletch. “Detective Charlie Fletcher. We were hoping to discuss?—”
“Is Adrianna gonna be okay?” she cuts in. “Is she gonna lose her kids?”
“Uh, I don’t…” I come around the couch and slowly lower, pausing to give her enough time to tell me no. She has the chance to ask me to fuck off out of her house. But she doesn’t. So I sit on the edge of the sofa and soften my expression when a little girl, not a hell of a lot bigger than the sweet Mia Fletcher—Fletch’s four-year-old daughter—wanders closer and presses the tip of her finger to my jean-clad knee. She’s just a baby. Sweet and brave, and when I neither pull my knee away, nor frown at or scold her, she smiles.
“Coral.” Cassidy reaches out for her daughter. “Leave the detective alone, baby.”
“It’s okay.” I grin for the little girl, before bringing my attention back to the woman who watches me warily. “Is there a reason you think Mrs. Alves may lose her children, Ms. Nunes?”
“Cassidy,” she rasps, bouncing her infant and exhaling an exhausted sigh. “And because you’re all saying she k—” She censors herself, glancing at each of her children. Lowering her voice, she leans closer, “You’re saying she expired William, Detective Malone. And if she did, then of course, she would lose her kids. But that’s not true.”
“That’s not true?” I repeat back. “She didn’t do it?”
“No! She’s the sweetest, softest thing you will ever meet. She couldn’t hurt a fly. There’s no way…” she shakes her head. “No chance in H-E-Double L she hurt that man.”
“What did you hear last night, Cassidy?” Fletch remains standing, rocking back on his heels and hooking his thumbs in his pockets. “Between nine and midnight, did you hear anything? Shouting? Crying? Cars driving by?”
“I was already asleep,” she exhales, and as if on cue, her infant begins squalling, throwing its head around until the woman pulls her tank to the side and slips a nipple between the baby’s lips. It’s entirely appropriate. The act of feeding her baby, done without showing anyone but the child her breast. She’s practiced and smooth, and hell if I’m not impressed with how quickly she silences the hungry human. “Daisy hardly sleeps through the night,” she explains, peering down at the baby to clarify who Daisy is. “She’s cluster feeding a lot lately, so I’m catching sleep when I can. Kalvin stays up till about ten, but he’s a good kid, Detective, so I know he’s going to bed when he says he is.”
I glance at the hovering boy and lift a brow. “Did you hear anything last night, Kalvin? Between nine and midnight.”
He looks at his mom, his lips firmly shut, but his mocha eyes speaking a million words.
“It’s okay,” Cassidy murmurs. “You can answer the detectives.”
“No, sir.” His focus jumps back to me. “There might’ve been a car that came through around ten. But I dunno, maybe not. It wasn’t like I was paying attention.”
“You didn’t hear anyone crying out?” Fletch asks. “Grunting? Shouting? Fighting?”
Kalvin’s head swings side to side, no, no, no, no.
“Glass breaking?”
No. “I literally heard nothing weird last night. No cars speeding away. No one was arguing more than normal.”
“More than normal?” I tilt my head to the side. “You heard some stuff though?”
“Yeah, I mean…” He nibbles on his bottom lip for a beat. “Like, I hear Ed and Betty up the street always going at it. He’s a bum, and she’s got a mean backswing with that frying pan.”
Cassidy’s face turns pale, while Kalvin’s grows red.
“Betty didn’t expire anyone though, right? I’m not a snitch.”
“Betty didn’t expire anyone,” I chuckle, glancing back down to the second smallest Nunes girl. “So Betty and Ed down the street were arguing last night?”
“Yeah. But it’s pretty normal,” he explains. “That was about eight-thirty, I guess. Maybe closer to nine. And I heard Mr. and Mrs. Alves bickering around eight.”
