Page 45 of Don't Say a Word
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I really didn’t think anyone cared but me.”
“Angie, you need to be very careful,” I said.
“I know,” she said in a dismissive tone.
“I’m serious. Lena is dead and we don’t know who killed her or why. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Angie stared at me. “I said I’ll be careful.”
I didn’t know Angie well enough to know if she was being straight with me or not.
“If you find yourself in trouble or you’re worried that someone is following you or, I don’t know, looking at you funny, trust your instincts. And if you’re suspicious of anyone, call me. I don’t live far from here, I’ll come. And don’t start asking questions. Until we know why Lena Clark was killed, keep a low profile.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Let me take you to school. Even the way I drive, you’re going to be late.”
I was pleased she didn’t argue.
Chapter Fourteen
Margo Angelhart
After dropping Angie off, I headed to the Cactus Stop where Elijah used to work, just to get a feel of the place. I could have called Manny Ramos and had him smooth the way, but I wanted to observe staff without the weight of corporate HQ hanging over them.
My phone rang; it was my mom. I sent her to voicemail, then texted that I was working. I didn’t want to talk to her until I had more information. Besides, she’d tell me to reach out to the cops about Lena Clark before they found me, and I didn’t plan to do that.
The Hatcher location of the Cactus Stop was smaller than the Stop closer to my house, on the short end of an L-shaped strip mall. I didn’t know what I would find, but since Elijah had worked Friday afternoon—and no one claimed to have seen him after he left—this was the best place to start. Since the police hadn’t recovered Elijah’s backpack or cell phone, I reasoned that he might have left the items at work.
I sat in my car for a few minutes to get the feel of the place. While most of the Cactus Stops were open until midnight, this location closed at 10:00 p.m. It wasn’t a well-traveled section ofHatcher and was located in one of the sketchier neighborhoods. Advertisements papered the windows, which were both dirty and covered with security bars. The front walk however was clean with no trash on the ground.
Teens went in and out. Either cutting school or running late. Maybe, like my senior year, they didn’t have a first-period class. An old guy went in, then came back out with a pack of smokes that he’d already opened and lit as soon as he cleared the door. Two lean guys in mechanics overalls entered, then a young teen, then a minute later a weary mother with two young kids walking close to her legs while she pushed a stroller.
After five minutes I entered. The interior itself was clean-ish. Not as tidy as the store closer to my house, but not as crappy as other locations. Anything that was easily grabbed, in demand, or cost more than ten bucks was behind the counter in locked glass cabinets. Only one person appeared to be working. Angled mirrors along the top of the walls allowed him to have a clear view of everyone in the store and what they were doing.
The mechanics were at the counter buying energy drinks, cigarettes and premade sandwiches. They spoke Spanish to the clerk, which I understood, but they weren’t talking about anything important.
I walked over to the drinks along the far wall as if deciding what I wanted. The shelves were all stocked with the traditional overpriced snacks and necessities.
I grabbed a water bottle and then went to the chip aisle.
The mom and kids were now at the counter. They had a gallon of milk, cereal, and several cans. She used her EBT card—Arizona electronic benefits. That really sucked. She could get so much more for the money if she went to a real grocery store, but maybe she didn’t have a car.
The teen who came in before her was loitering in the corner on his phone, but the clerk didn’t seem to pay him much attention. I thought he was acting suspicious. I went to the counter with water and Doritos.
“Hey,” I said. The clerk had a badge. Tony, Assistant Manager.
“Hey,” he repeated and rang up my items. I paid cash, then handed him my business card. “I’m a PI hired by Elijah Martinez’s family.” I sounded important and formal, hoping the authority in my voice prompted him to spill anything he might know. “Did you work here two Fridays ago when Elijah was working?”
He stared at my card, blinked several times. “What?”
“According to the police report, Elijah worked here Friday from four in the afternoon until eight. I’d like to talk to whoever was on shift with him that night.”
“Why?”
Was he intentionally acting dense?
“I’m retracing Elijah’s steps,” I said clearly. “He worked here Friday, correct?”
