Chapter Eleven

Ileft a message for Detective Ambrose when my call went to voicemail.

Then I went to the library and spent the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon reading everything I could find on crime in the area of 19th and Camelback, plus articles and studies about gangs and gang activity in Phoenix. Maybe this wasn’t a gang thing, and my impression of the shooter was wrong. In addition, according to Andy, Sergio had no known gang ties, so why he’d take the fall for a gangbanger made little sense.

So I switched gears and started looking into other robberies. Similar robberies to the Cactus Stop, then robberies in the general area, then I stumbled onto an article about the case Nico told me about—the seventeen linked burglaries. It was interesting—police thought it was two people, possibly three, who stole from homes in Paradise Valley, an upscale community east of highway 51. The culprits entered whether or not there was a security system. Police believed they cased the homes and knew response times—both private security and law enforcement—so even if an alarm was breached, they had a few minutes to grab things.

It was a pretty smart plan, I thought as I read. The burglars broke a window or door and took what they could carry in two backpacks. They always went to the master bedroom first, which was most likely to have easily pawned valuables. They stole jewelry, cash, and small electronics. If there was a security system, they were in and out in less than five minutes. They had never been seen by responding officers or private security. Police suspected they came into and left the neighborhood on foot, using trails and backyards to disappear. Paradise Valley PD and Phoenix PD had created a joint task force to investigate the crimes.

It was interesting, but a wholly different MO than the Cactus Stop thieves. However, I wondered about another set of robberies. There were eight total, including the Cactus Stop, between the day after Christmas and ten days ago—the day Rodriguez was killed.

A crime blog dedicated to central Phoenix—with a writer who, based on his or her posts, had an in with Phoenix PD—detailed each robbery. They all happened in the same one-mile radius, east of I-17 and west of 10th Avenue. I mapped them out. The Cactus Stop was within the boundaries of the crime spree.

In each robbery, three young men came in wearing hats and sometimes masks—whatever they needed to obscure their faces. They grabbed easy pickings and left. At convenience stores, they took junk food and sometimes beer. At a clothing store, they grabbed jackets and sunglasses. At one restaurant, they entered near closing and knocked condiments to the floor, broke dishes, and created a mess. They smashed a small display under the cash register and grabbed the contents—candy.

They acted like bored teenagers with nothing to do and no one paying attention to them.

That didn’t sound anything like Sergio Diaz who worked more than fifty hours a week and was fighting for custody of his siblings.

On a whim, I mapped the foster homes that Sophia and Henry lived in—both houses were just inside the crime area. That didn’t necessarily mean anything...yet I couldn’t help but think that Sergio’s confession had something to do with his family.

I couldn’t see myself pleading guilty to a murder I didn’t commit, but if I were to do such a thing, it would be for family.

I had an hour before school got out so I went up to Orozco’s, my cousin’s restaurant, for a late lunch. I needed to think about my options. I wanted to talk to Henry and Sophia, but they were kids. How did I approach them? At school? At their homes? How much did they know about Sergio?

I almost called Gene, the old PI who had trained me. I didn’t know what direction to go. I had all this information rattling around in my head, but didn’t even know if these robberies had anything to do with the Cactus Stop. What if my instincts were wrong? Maybe I just wasn’t ready for a confusing case like this with no straightforward path. Maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a private investigator.

“Margo!” Millie Orozco came over to where I sat at the end of the counter contemplating my many flaws. “Homer said you were here. You should have come on back to chat while you eat. I’m just working on receipts.” She leaned on the counter and refilled my water from a sweating jug.

“I was going to say hi before I left,” I told her as I scooped beans with a tortilla. Everything about Orozco’s said comfort food, from the house-made tortillas and pico de gallo to Millie’s generous frame and warm expression. I came in a couple times a month and they never gave me a check, but I always left money. Homer said family doesn’t pay. I told him our family was so big they’d go out of business.

“Thanks again,” I told her, “for setting up a meeting with Antonio Perez. It really helped.”

She waved away my thanks. “Anything for you, dear. You know, Paul said he’s going to have an opening soon. You need a storefront, what better place than here?”

Paul O’Brien was Millie’s brother-in-law and he and Millie’s sister owned a lot of property, mostly in North Phoenix, but he’d bought this strip mall when Millie and Homer’s first landlord planned to sell to a developer who would have kicked them out. They’d been in this location for more than thirty years.

“He’ll give you the family discount,” she said.

“I’m not even related to Paul by marriage,” I teased.

She harrumphed. “You need an office. You can’t have people coming to your house looking for you.”

I laughed. “An office? I’m barely working as a PI part-time, why would I need an office?” Thinking about it, I realized that I had worked more this week on Sergio’s case than I had in the last two months on every other case combined. “Besides, I have a business card and a cell phone.”

“You need an office,” she insisted. “It’s a small place, husband and wife sell insurance. They’re moving to Surprise.” She wrinkled her nose as if saying a dirty word.

I suppressed a grin. “Surprise is nice.”

“Have you been there? Sure, it’s clean and Paul says there’s very little crime, but what’s there to do? Nothing! And there’s certainly no restaurants like this. The trees are sticks, all planted in neat little rows, the houses are all the same, no personality.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“The city isn’t for everyone,” I said. You wouldn’t catch me moving to Surprise. It was all young families with kids or retired folks. Millie was right—boring. But some people liked the quiet, boring life. I suppose if I had kids I might want quiet, boring, and safe. Plus, there was a spring training stadium out there.

“So you’ll take it?” she asked.

I wanted to say I didn’t need a space, that I wasn’t even certain being a private investigator would stick. I didn’t even make enough money to pay rent, let alone to commit to a lease. But the hopeful look on her face had me saying, “I’ll think about it.”

She nodded. “You have time. They’re not moving out until end of May.”

I should know by May if I was going to succeed in this career or would be bartending the rest of my life. I still didn’t think I’d need an office.

Changing the subject, I asked, “Do you know about a series of robberies down off Camelback? Between the freeway and around 12th Avenue?”

Millie’s eyes widened. “Yes! They robbed Lyle’s Diner. We know the owners well, Julia and Betsy. I wouldn’t even say robbed—they went in and smashed stuff, just vandalism. Laughed about it, then broke the candy display and took not even twenty dollars’ worth of candy. The display cost more than the candy, but all the damage didn’t even reach their deductible for insurance. Paid everything out of pocket.” She shook her head, a scowl darkening her round face.

“Laughed about it?”

“Kids have no discipline these days. My brother, sister, and I grew up not far from there. We had a little two-bedroom house, had to share a room until my brother turned thirteen and convinced Dad to let him build out a closet for his own space. They ended up adding on a whole room and family room, oh the mess!” She laughed. “Anyway, things were different then. Sunnyslope was a wonderful place to grow up. If any of our neighbors saw us misbehaving, our mom would have heard about it and punishment would be swift.”

“I can relate,” I said.

“We weren’t perfect, got into our fair share of scrapes, but we’d never think of vandalizing property.”

“They think the vandals were kids?”

“That’s what Julia said. She and her sister took over Lyle’s Diner from their grandfather when he retired. Good burgers. Their dad never wanted the business, I guess running a restaurant isn’t for everyone.”

“I’ve eaten there,” I said quickly. I loved Millie, but she had stories about everyone and if I didn’t cut her off—as politely as possible—I’d be sitting here for hours.

I wanted to talk to the victims of the robberies. Maybe I could put something together—give me a direction to pursue. It was definitely an idea. I didn’t work at the bar tonight, but tomorrow I was on at four. I had a lot to do in the next twenty-four hours.

Not to mention that Andy needed evidence of Sergio’s innocence by Monday.

Almost conspiratorially, Millie said, “Do you want me to call Julia and tell her you’re stopping by?”

I grinned. “That would be great. Thanks, Millie.” I pushed the plate aside and put a twenty-dollar bill down.

“No—” Millie began, but I refused to take the money back.

“It was delicious. Thanks for your help, I’ll let you know how everything goes.”

I knew what Henry and Sophia looked like from the photos in Sergio’s apartment—and my own snooping on social media—but hanging around the middle school made me feel weird, so I drove to Sophia’s foster home and parked down the street. The middle school was five blocks south, and this was the most direct route home.

The street was well maintained and many of the small ranch-style homes had been updated. Some houses had barred windows, but most didn’t. Lawns were neat, winter grass had been seeded, and there was evidence of remodeling in several of the properties. Before I bought my house, I’d toured a couple houses in this neighborhood. I could have stretched my money and bought here, but I liked backing up to the Phoenix Mountains Preserve, and found a great deal on a fixer-upper.

Though at this rate, I didn’t know when I would ever be done remodeling my house.

While Sophia’s immediate neighborhood was nice, two blocks over there were bars on windows, security screens over doors, plus most houses needed a lot of work. A microcosm of Sunnyslope in the heart of Sunnyslope.

I wondered if foster home records were public. Not the kids—their identities would be protected—but the registered foster parents. I felt I should know that. Would Gene know the information off the top of his head? I worried I was completely ill-prepared for being a private investigator tasked with helping people not only solve problems, but find justice.

What the hell was I doing here?

Discouraged and depressed, I was about to drive away when I saw Sophia walk right past my car and turn the corner toward her home.

She was a pretty girl with long dark hair sun-kissed with red highlights, pulled back into a thick ponytail. She was dressed in jeans and a faded Arizona Cardinals football sweatshirt. It was too big on her. Her head was down, and she clasped the straps of her backpack so tightly I could see her knuckles were white.

She’d been crying.

I got out of my car as she walked past. “Sophia,” I said.

She jumped, turned, clearly skittish. “I don’t know you.” She took a step away, ready to bolt. She glanced over her shoulder. The foster home was two houses away, on the next corner. She could easily run to it, but she didn’t.

“I’m a friend of Sergio’s employer, Mr. Perez.” I handed her my business card, practically had to force it into her hand. “Margo Angelhart.”

The card had my name, phone number, and PI license.

Her lower lip trembled and she bit it, crumpling my card in her fist. “What do you want?”

“You know about Sergio, right?”

She gave a very short nod. “He didn’t,” she whispered. “I don’t believe it. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Who are you scared of?”

“No one,” she said quickly.

“I want to help your brother, Sophia,” I said, trying hard to exude both sympathy and gravitas. “But he confessed to murder and doesn’t seem to want to help himself. I think it’s because he’s protecting someone. Who would he protect?”

“You can’t do anything. No one can. Why do you even care?”

“Because Sergio is making a mistake. He might think he’s doing the right thing, might even believe he’s protecting you and Henry—”

At that sentence her eyes widened and my instincts were validated.

“—but,” I continued, “his actions are enabling a killer to walk free. He will kill again. Next time, it might be someone you care about.”

“No one can help. Please go, before anyone sees you.” Her eyes welled up and I felt bad putting pressure on this young teenager. But she wasn’t ignorant of the world. Her mother was in prison for attempted murder and her dad was MIA. She lived in foster care with other kids who had faced similar situations. So she knew the truth, or a version of it, and I needed her to trust me.

Sophia kept looking over to the house and I asked, “Are you scared to go back to your foster home?”

She shook her head. “It’s so much better than the last place, this is a girls-only house.”

“But you want to be with your brothers.”

“Yes.” Her voice was almost a sob. “I like Mrs. Edgar, but Sergio is family. But now—now it won’t happen and I—I don’t know what to do.”

“Trust me, Sophia.”

“I don’t know you. Sergio confessed. There’s nothing anyone can do. Henry said—”

She stopped herself.

“Sophia, I’m going to tell you what I know. Sergio cooperated with the police and he wasn’t a suspect. Then the police had more questions and became suspicious when he wore a hoodie that looked like the shooter’s. The one you gave him for Christmas. They arrested him, tested the hoodie—it had gunshot residue. He confessed. The physical evidence backs up his confession. He’s going to prison unless I can find out who really killed Greg Rodriguez.”

She stared at me, tears again in her eyes. “Sergio didn’t kill anyone.”

“Do you know who did? Any theory, any direction you can point me—I want to find the truth.”

“I can’t.” Her voice was barely audible.

“On Monday, the prosecution is going to offer him a plea deal. It looks like he’s going to accept whatever they offer. He’s looking at twenty to thirty years.”

Her eyes widened in shock, but she didn’t say anything. She also wasn’t looking me in the eye.

“What do you know, Sophia?”

“I don’t know anything. I don’t.”

She was lying, but she was also scared. How could I convince a scared thirteen-year-old girl to trust me?

“Do you know who wore Sergio’s hoodie the weekend of the shooting?”

She didn’t say anything.

“Was it Henry?”

She blinked rapidly and looked terrified, and I thought I’d gone too far, or was way off base. Then I noticed she was looking over my shoulder.

I turned, made a point to stare at the three boys walking down the street toward us. The short one was Henry—I recognized him from the photos in Sergio’s apartment. The other two were the same height, about five foot nine, thin. Together, the three looked like Trouble with a capital T.

And I suspected it was these three who were the gang of thieves.

Except, the shooter was wearing the hoodie, and the shooter was taller than Henry.

“Go,” Sophia said. “Please.”

I opened my car door, but didn’t get in.

“You harassing my sister?” Henry said as they came up to us.

“Just needed directions,” I told him.

The other two glared at me. One looked younger than I first thought, just tall, and I wondered if he was Henry’s age. The other was definitely an older teen—and it was his eyes that told me he was the shooter.

Nothing I could take to court. Nothing I could even take to Andy Flannigan. But I had seen the eyes of a killer before, and it’s not something you forget.

Sophia said to Henry, “I waited for you after school. You can visit, but they can’t.” She was trying to keep her voice calm, but I heard a hitch that made me pause.

“Come on, Sissy, we’ll just hang out on the porch.”

“No,” she said. “You can, they can’t.”

“Whatever,” the oldest of the three boys said. “I’ll catch ya at home, Henry.” He gave Sophia a long, lecherous look. She visibly stepped back, her hands shaking as they grasped the straps of her backpack.

Then the kid looked at me. Sized me up and decided I was no threat.

He didn’t know me.

“Hey, chica,” he said and licked his lips, then winked. “Let’s go, Bruno,” he said to the other guy, and they walked back the way they had come.

“I’ll catch up with you later, Javi,” Henry said.

I watched them leave. Javi, probably short for Javier. The same build as Sergio. Eyes of a killer. Was I reading too much into the exchange?

Henry turned to me. “What are you still doing here?”

“What’s your problem?” I said.

Sophia still looked like a deer caught in the headlights, but at my comment, she said to Henry, “Come, Mrs. Edgar has after-school snacks. You can stay until five.”

He was still glaring at me.

Sophia started toward the house without looking back or acknowledging me. Henry followed a moment later, and I got into my car.

I needed to know more about the older kid. Maybe Sergio would tell me if I described him, or I could ask Sophia.

A theory had begun to form about what had happened that night at the Cactus Stop. What I didn’t know was why Sergio would take the fall when it was clear on body type alone that the shooter wasn’t his brother. A minor as an accessory to murder might get time in juvie, but most likely probation. That was a whole world different than spending twenty years in prison for a crime you didn’t commit.

Maybe it was part of the whole, but there was something else going on here. Were my instincts right? Was I developing my PI sixth sense?

Or was I so far off base that I was going to screw everything up?