Chapter 7: Lovely Beast: Chapter 7

“This might be a bad idea,” Sara says as she stares out the window of the car at the rundown rancher across the street. “Where’d you get this address, anyway?”

“Unlike you, I talk to people,” I say and kill the engine.

“I talk to people too.”

“No, you glare at them like you’re waiting for them to shut up.”

“I’m charming.” She turns and jabs a finger at me. “People like me.”

“People are terrified of you, but don’t worry, my frigid princess. I can do the talking.”

“Absolutely not.” She sits up straight. “This isn’t some street interrogation. We’re here on official business, which means we follow the law, got it?”

“Street interrogation?” I shake my head. “You really don’t get out much.”

“Don’t start that.” She pushes the door open and steps onto the street. “You coming?”

I follow her to the end of the driveway. We pause for a second and look around. The neighborhood is a rundown working-class place on the edge of the city with more weeds than grass and lots of chain-link fences. It’s a place I recognize, even if there aren’t many like it in Philadelphia. I know the kind of people that live in these houses, people existing paycheck to paycheck, always one mistake or bad turn away from total disaster. I know them because I’ve been them, because I grew up with them. It’s something Sara will never understand.

“Seriously, let me talk our way inside. Once we’re sitting down, you can go in on the lawyer bullshit, but let me get it started.”

“I don’t know why you’re so convinced that you can do this better than me.”

“Because—look at you.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

I run a hand through my hair and turn away, looking at the rundown rancher and the beat-up sedan in the driveway. “You look like your clothes are worth more than that car. No, don’t get me wrong, you look gorgeous. I can’t keep my eyes off you when you’re wearing those tight skirts.”

“Stop it,” she says through her teeth.

“You scream money. You look like a fucking lawyer, and yeah, I know, that’s the point, but that’s not a good thing out here.”

“Why are you so convinced that I’m rich?”

I glance back at her. “Tell me you’re not.”

“I’m not rich.”

“You ever miss an electricity payment? You ever have to choose between paying your phone bill or canceling cable for a month? You ever put back a loaf of bread because you couldn’t afford it?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t know.” I walk slowly up the drive toward the front door. “I’m not playing some fucking pity party. I have plenty of money now. But when I was growing up, I had to make those decisions. I had to struggle, and life kicked my fucking ass day and night. You don’t know what that’s like.”

She says nothing as I step up to the door. I try the bell, but nothing happens. I give it a second before I knock on the door, pounding a few times before stepping back.

“I do know what it’s like to struggle,” she says softly as a dog starts barking inside. “You think my life’s been easy because I had money growing up, but you’re wrong about that.”

I look back at her and stare into her hard eyes, and she glares back at me daring me to question her. Instead, I only shake my head. “Tell me about it sometime.”

“Shut the fuck up!” someone inside shouts. It’s an older woman’s voice, rough from smoking. “Stop barking, you stupid fucking—” The door yanks open and she looks out at me with a cigarette dangling between her lips. Dark hair going gray and frizzy, dark red dress, pale skin lined with age. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it.”

She starts to slam the door but I talk fast. “We’re not selling anything. I fucking hate door-to-door salespeople. Scum of the fucking earth.”

That makes her pause. Her eyes narrow. “You political? I don’t vote.”

“No politics. My name’s Angelo and this is my associate, Sara. We’re here to talk to you about your job. You’re Sheila Vasquez?”

She gives me a long look and takes a drag. “What’s a nice-looking boy like you want to talk to me about that stupid motel for?”

“I’ve just got a few questions, that’s all. If it’s a total waste of your time, I’ll mow your lawn for a week, how’s that sound?”

She barks a rough laugh. “You’ve got a deal, but only if you do it without a shirt on. Gets hot out there, you know.”

“Deal.”

“Come in then, watch the dog, he’s a real piece of shit. Back off, Burger! Back off!” She pulls open the door, and Sara looks at me like I’m absolutely insane, but I don’t feel bad about lying to this toughened piece of shoe leather. She’s probably done worse.

Her place is cluttered but surprisingly neat. The dog’s a little white thing, yappy and obnoxious, and it jumps at my legs until I let it sniff my hand and scratch its ear. Sara shies away from it like she’s afraid it’s going to bite her, which is hilarious because the thing’s got a jaw about the size of a mouse. Sheila leads us into the living room and gestures at the couch.

“Sit down, you want anything? Water, iced tea?”

“We’re fine, thanks.” I perch on the edge of the cushion with Sara by my side. Pictures of Sheila’s family line the walls alongside basic art prints from Kohl’s or Home Goods or someplace like that. It smells like old tobacco, and the walls are stained a faint yellow from years and years of cigarettes. The dog runs in little circles and ends up leaping onto Sheila’s lap as she settles into an armchair and puffs out smoke.

“All right, you got me sitting. What do you want to ask me about the Two Lane for?”

Sara speaks up before I can. “How long have you been working there, Ms. Vasquez?”

“Call me Sheila.” She squints at Sara. “Been working at the Two Lane for about five years now, maybe a little more. Hard to keep track.” She clears her throat. “Are you two with someone or something like that?”

“I work for Klein and Houndson, and Angelo here is my assistant,” Sara says.

“Lawyer, huh.” Sheila takes a drag. “And you’ve got an assistant that looks like this? You must be expensive.”

“Very.” Sara leans forward. “Sheila, do you know why we’re here?”

“I can take a few guesses. You finally looking into all the shady shit happening at the Two Lane? The fucking hookers and the drugs?”

“No, not the hookers and the drugs,” Sara says. “The dead bodies.”

Sheila wilts slightly. She leans further back into her chair and takes two quick puffs. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“You were working that day, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but I don’t know anything.”

“The maintenance man said he heard fighting and shouting.”

“Roger’s got better ears than me.”

“Where were you when the incident happened?”

“Don’t remember. Like I said, I don’t know anything.” She sucks down her cigarette and shifts forward. The little dog burrows into her lap as she strokes his back with rough fingers. “If that’s all you wanted then sorry I wasted your time, but it’s better if you both left.”

“Sheila,” I say before Sara can dig us deeper into a hole. “We’re not cops. You know that, right?”

“I know she’s a lawyer. I don’t know what are. Never seen a law assistant or whatever with so many tattoos.”

I laugh, unable to help it. Sheila’s clever. “You’re not wrong about that.”

“So what are you then, huh?”

Angelo wipes invisible dirt from his sleeve. “Let’s say I have a vested interest in this case. What can you tell us?”

She sighs and shakes her head slowly, cigarette dangling between her lips again as she tosses the dog gently onto the floor. Burger whines and walks in circles but settles at the chair’s side.

“I remember the guys showed up in a van. They checked in, got a key, and headed upstairs. That was early in the morning right around when my shift started at five. They went in that room and never came out for the rest of the day, and I didn’t see anyone come or go. Then they were dead and everyone was freaking out. And you know who’s got to clean that room? Go ahead, take a fucking guess.”

“You’re sure you didn’t see or hear anything?” Sara asks.

“I’m positive.” Sheila finishes her cigarette and stubs it out in a half-full ashtray on the coffee table. “And that’s all I’ve got to say.”

“Thanks for your time.” I stand up and slip a card from my pocket. “This has my personal cell on it. You want to talk, you remember something, or if you really want to watch me mow your lawn without a shirt, you call me.”

“Just might do that,” she says, taking it and slipping it into her pocket.

“Have a nice day, Sheila.” I head out. Sara hesitates like she wants to say more, but she gathers her things and follows. Once we’re outside and the door’s firmly shut behind us, the lock thumping shut with a loud slam, I want over to the driveway and pause there in the sunshine.

“What the hell was all that?” Sara whispers, glaring at me. “You just ran out of there before she said anything. We barely asked her any questions.”

“She wasn’t going to talk.”

“But you don’t know that.”

“She already said too much.” I take her arm and pull her against me. She yelps in surprise. “They showed up . You heard that. Around five in the morning. Which means they’d been in that room for hours before Nicolas showed up and anything could’ve happened in that time.”

“Great,” she says with a sigh. “Doesn’t seem all that helpful, you know.”

“It’s a step in the right direction.” I tug her along and we head down to the end of the driveway. “Sheila will get in touch again. I have faith.”

“Unfortunately, your faith doesn’t reassure me. If we could just—” Before she can finish, a big black truck parked nearby pulls out from the curb and starts driving. It peels out, going fast, and burns down the street and away from us. I watch it go, a strange sinking feeling in my stomach.

“Strange,” I say.

Sara gently extracts her arm from my grip. “Very,” she agrees.

“What are the chances that truck just happened to take off the second we leave that house?”

“Slimmer than I like.”

I grunt in reply and stare down after the truck.

I can’t say who was driving that thing for sure, but an ugly feeling is lodged in my chest. I keep thinking someone’s watching us, someone that knows the truth of what happened to those cartel guys, and I keep waiting for them to make their move. I can’t say that was it—but I also can’t say it wasn’t.

“Let’s go before they decide to come back,” I say and head to the car.

“Take me to the office, please,” Sara says. “I have more work to do.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Alone.” She sinks into the passenger side seat.

I smile at her through the window then glance back at the house.

Sheila knows something. I can feel it in my bones. That woman saw or heard something but she’s too afraid to say anything about it, and hell, I can’t blame her. Whoever killed five well-armed cartel members isn’t the kind of person you want to mess around with.

But that means she’s in danger, and I don’t know how to keep her safe.

Sara’s my priority. As much as I want to help everyone, I have to accept my limitations and hope that whoever did those cartel guys in won’t go around murdering witnesses just to keep them silent.

Which might be wishful thinking.