The woman didn’t get up from the table at their approach, but picked up a napkin and wiped her hands. Around her sat three kids, ranging in age from six to twelve. D.D. saw neither a teenage boy nor a teenage girl among them.
She and Phil appeared to have interrupted dinner, a tinfoil baking tray filled with noodles and smelling like fish. Tuna noodle casserole, maybe? It had never been one of D.D.’s favorites, and given the way the kids were pushing the noodles around on their plates, not one of theirs either.
“I’m Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren, Boston PD.” D.D. did the honors. “This is Detective Phil LeBlanc. We have some questions regarding the Baez family. We understand that Lola and Roxanna Baez lived here for a bit.”
Mother Del grunted, finally pushing back from the table. D.D. realized the woman was sitting in a lawn chair. One of the largest metal-framed chairs she’d ever seen, and probably still had to be replaced regularly, given the strain.
From upstairs came the sound of a baby crying.
“Ricky.” Mother Del addressed D.D.’s somber escort. “Upstairs, now.”
The boy scooted immediately out of the room, apparently grateful to make his escape.
“You three. Finish what’s on your plates. Then dishes. Go.”
More hasty actions, the kids scooping up the remaining mounds of casserole from their plates and downing the congealed mass in one determined swallow. Then flying from the table, plates and silverware in hand, through the door to the kitchen.
“You take in babies, as well?” D.D. asked curiously.
“Couple,” the woman said, in a tone of voice D.D. already took to mean she was rounding down.
“And how many older kids?”
“I got a waiver,” Mother Del said, eyeing D.D. shrewdly. Waivers were the new magic of the foster care system, enabling more kids to be piled under the same roof—and earning caretakers more money.
Foster care was hard work, D.D. knew. Many families served selflessly and believed passionately in the opportunity to help a child. Somehow, though, she doubted Mother Del fell into that category.
“Don’t you have another kid who lives here?” D.D. asked. “Mike Davis?”
“He’s out.”
“Doing what?”
“He’s a teenage boy. Teenage boys don’t like to tell you everything. Just as long as he’s back before curfew.”
“And a girl, Anya?”
“Also out. Play rehearsal. Community theater.”
D.D. nodded. Meaning Mother Del currently had six kids and at least a couple of babies in her care. Equaling roughly two hundred dollars a day, tax-free income, seven days a week.
Where did the money go? was her next thought. Because it didn’t appear to be spent on the home or on dinner.
“I saw the news,” Mother Del said now. She remained sitting in her lawn chair, her hands folded over her considerable girth. She was wearing a flowered housecoat, like the kind favored by Italian grandmothers. Or maybe it was a muumuu. “Is it true the family’s dead, including Lola?”
“Yes.”
The woman grimaced. “Find Roxanna yet?”
“No.”
“She’s smart. Always reading books. Studying. She’s a clever one. Good with the babies, too. Never thought of her as violent.”
“When was the last time you saw Roxy or Lola?”
The woman shrugged. “Day they left. The CASA woman came to pick them up for court. Said it was the final hearing. Reunification, something like that. If all went according to plan, they wouldn’t be coming back. And they didn’t.”
“Not even to revisit friends?” D.D. tested.
“What friends? Lola and Roxy stuck with each other. Even slept squished together on the floor of the babies’ room just so they wouldn’t be apart. Thick as thieves, those two.”
“You think Roxy would hurt Lola?” Phil spoke up.
“Nah. Lola, on the other hand . . . That girl had a wild streak. No telling what she might do. But Roxanna was all, I’m the older sister, I’m responsible. You see it in foster kids. Their parents aren’t worth shit, so the kid becomes the parent.” Another massive shrug.
“What about Roberto and Anya?” D.D. asked.
“Roberto’s dead. What about him?”
“We heard he committed suicide.”
“That’s what the police told me.”
“Where’d he get the gun?”
“Choices are endless in this area. Walk to any street corner, someone will sell you something.”
“You don’t seem that broken up about it.” Phil spoke up.
“It happens. Broken families. Broken kids.”
“How long had he been with you?” D.D. asked, frowning.
“Seven years.”
“Seven years? And ‘It happens’ is all you’ve got to say about it?”
“Because a foster parent and her charges are so close? You see how many kids I have here? And I’ll have more the second a space opens up. This city’s filled with unwanted children. I’m doing my best, but no kid wants to be in foster care. They don’t walk through those doors all happy to be here. The good ones endure. The bad ones rebel. Let’s just say Roberto was more bad than good.”
“He make trouble?”
“With me, no. With the other kids . . . I’m not as stupid as they think.”
“Tell us,” Phil commanded.
“He liked to rule the roost. When he first got here, he was middle of the pack. A year later, he was the oldest, and in his mind, that made him the boss. Younger kids, newer kids, were to do as he said.”
“And if they didn’t?”
Shrug. “Maybe their blanket would go missing. Or a pillow or a toy from home. Maybe they’d find pepper in the food, toothpaste in their shoes. He could be inventive when he wanted to.”
“And his relationship with Anya?”
“You mean his girlfriend? Well, former girlfriend, given that, you know . . .”
D.D. shifted from foot to foot, the woman’s callousness getting to her. “You allow dating in your house?”
“Like at their ages they’re gonna listen to anything I say? Boys and girls are kept separate under this roof, of course. But the teen fosters . . . they don’t spend much time here anyway.”
Hence Mike’s and Anya’s absence, which Mother Del didn’t seem concerned about.
“Did Anya help out Roberto with his . . . schemes?”
“They were together.”
“And their relationship with Lola and Roxanna?”
“Didn’t like ’em. Lola and Roxanna came fresh from family and still had each other. In a foster’s world, that can be cause for jealousy. Roberto did his best to tear ’em apart. I wised up to some of the games—Roberto and Anya breaking dishes, pinching babies, then pointing the finger at Roxy to take the blame. Petty stuff, really.”
D.D. wasn’t sure she agreed. “You ever see the fights get physical? Roberto or Anya hit the girls? Threaten them?”
“No fighting. House rule. Everyone knows that.”
Which would be all the more incentive to keep it quiet. Phil must’ve thought the same, as he said, “What about kids falling down stairs? Running into doors? That happen in this house?”
Mother Del shot him a glance. “Roxanna fell down the stairs once, now that you mention it. But then the stairs in this place kind of match the rest of it.”
D.D. remembered Hector’s observation that Roxanna seemed to have injured ribs when he saw her at the courthouse. She wondered if that came from this alleged fall down the stairs or if, in fact, Mother Del was as stupid as her kids thought. “You ever have to take either Lola or Roxanna for medical treatment?” D.D. asked.
“Once, but it was Lola’s fault.”
D.D. homed in. “What happened?”
“Foolish girl drank a fifth of whiskey. Like, the whole bottle. I heard the babies crying, then Roxanna screaming, Mike shouting. Came upstairs to find Lola throwing up all over the damn place. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and that was that. I bundled her off to the ER, where they pumped her stomach and lectured her on alcohol abuse.”
“Where’d she get a bottle of whiskey?” Phil pressed.
“Don’t look at me. There’s no booze in this house. Hell, most of these kids come from addicts. I keep even the cough syrup under lock and key.”
“Where were Roberto and Anya when this was going on?” D.D.’s turn.
“Standing in the doorways of their rooms, watching.”
“Just watching?”
Mother Del stared at her. “Wouldn’t you?”