Page 57 of The Birthday Girl
Vega wrinkled his nose at the acrid scent wafting from the break room's overheated coffee pot, mingling with the damp wool hanging from hooks by the door. Raindrops beaded on the shoulders of his jacket as he thumbed through the Lawson file for the third time that morning, the corners dog-eared from constant handling.
“You finally caught a break,” Detective Ramirez said, his shadow falling across Vega’s desk.
The younger officer's shoes squeaked against the linoleum, leaving faint wet tracks as he approached, a manila folder pressed against his chest. “That’s the navigation report on Shanice Carter’s vehicle.”
Vega raised a brow, thumbing the folder open. “Took them long enough.”
“Yeah, well, tech guys were whining about corrupted timestamps. I told them you don’t care how it got here, only what’s inside.”
“Good looking out.” Vega’s eyes scanned the printout.
His eyes tracked the GPS coordinates: a Chevron at 2:17 AM, the Starlight Inn at 3:04. Then his finger froze on an address. He tapped the line twice, disbelief hardening into certainty.
“Do you know whose address this is?”
Ramirez leaned in, squinting at the sheet. “Looks like… Banks.” He tapped the page with his index finger. “Danielle Banks.”
Vega’s jaw tightened, and the paper crinkled in his grip as he stared at the coordinates again. “Of all places Shanice could’ve gone…” His voice trailed off, low and bitter.
Ramirez straightened. “Maybe it was a quick, friendly visit before she left for the motel.”
Vega looked up, his gaze hard. “That doesn’t make sense. Not when Shanice was in fear for her life. That same night Lawson’s finger showed up on her doorstep, and she was told to leave her home for safety reasons.”
Ramirez shifted, his brows knitting. “Then why go to Danielle’s?”
“That’s the question,” Vega muttered. “Shanice wasn’t close to her. If she stopped there, it was for a reason.”
Ramirez rubbed at his chin. “Do you think Shanice was trying to warn her. Maybe Danielle is caught up in the same mess somehow.”
“If that’s the case, she picked the wrong door to knock on.”
Ramirez flipped to another page in the file. “Tech found the baby shower leak. That photo of Lawson bleeding all over his shirt? The one the blogs posted. Guess who the source data traces back to?”
“Danielle,” Vega replied without hesitation, his voice edged with disgust.
“Danielle.” Ramirez nodded.
“Should’ve known.” Vega shook his head. “Looks like we need to pay her a visit.” He shoved his chair back from his desk and stood, tucking the folder under his arm. “Let’s go.”
Ramirez fell in beside him as they cut through the bullpen, officers glancing up from their screens as the pair passed. “You think she will fold?”
“Danielle?” Vega snorted. “I know her kind. That woman could convince Saint Peter she belongs in heaven while holding the devil's pitchfork. She’s had years of practice playing the innocent one. She’ll smile, she’ll stall, and she’ll cry if she has to, but people like her always talk. They can’t help it.”
Ramirez held the door open, rain drumming against the glass beyond. “And if she doesn’t?”
“Then we've got probable cause to dig deeper into her life than she'd ever want us to.”
They stepped out into the downpour, the storm slicking the precinct steps and blurring the city lights into streaks of neon. Ramirez hunched his shoulders against the rain as Vega unlocked the cruiser.
“I bet she won’t see this coming,” Ramirez chortled.
Vega slid behind the wheel and started the engine. “Good. I like catching people off balance. That’s when the truth slips.”
The wipers beat a steady rhythm as they pulled into traffic, both men silent for a stretch, the case file lying open on Vega’s lap, Danielle’s name staring back at him. The cruiser slowed as they turned off the main drag, rain hissing on the hood.
Vega flicked his eyes across the windshield, taking in the neighborhood. Danielle’s block wasn’t crumbling, but it wasn’t thriving either. Rows of brick townhomes leaned against each other, their paint faded and gutters sagging. Lawns were patchy with chain-link fences bent from years of leaning elbows. Porch lights glowed dim behind rust-spotted screens, some flickering, some dead.
“This isn’t the worst block I’ve been on, but not the best either. It’s kinda stuck in the middle.”
