Read Online Forbidden Fruit by Erica Spindler - Free Book Online

lifeless form it carried.
    Santos made it past the barricade before the officer caught him and held him back. Santos fought him; freed himself. He reached the stretcher; he ripped away the sheet.
    The cops grabbed him from behind and dragged him back. But not before he saw the blood, not before he saw the victim’s face, frozen into a twisted mask of death.
    His mother’s face. His mother’s blood.
    A cry of pain sawed through the night, shattering it. His cry, Santos realized, clutching his middle. His mother. Dead. Murdered.
    His stomach heaved. He doubled over and puked on the baby-faced officer’s shiny black shoes.

7
    S antos sat in the N.O.P.D. Homicide Division’s waiting area, staring at the scarred linoleum floor beneath his feet. Shock and grief warred inside him, creating a kind of aching numbness, a pain so great he could no longer feel.
    His mother was dead. Brutally murdered seven days ago. Stabbed sixteen times—in her chest and throat, her abdomen and back, in places too vile to be printed in the newspaper.
    He bit down on the sound of grief that rushed to his lips, bit down so hard his teeth and jaw ached. The linoleum swam before his eyes. He fought off the tears, although in the last week he had learned that fighting the visible signs of his grief neither conquered nor lessened the pain.
    Around him a sort of controlled chaos reigned. Officers came and went, a variety of perps in tow; family members of both victims and criminals milled about the waiting area; and lawyers, like sharks smelling blood, seemed to be everywhere at once. The noise level stayed at a dull, busy roar, punctuated by the occasional wail of anger or grief. Above it all, the desk sergeant’s booming voice drilled directions, be it to civilians or fellow officers. Any moment, Santos expected to hear him shout, “Okay kid, Detective Patterson will see you now.”
    Santos had been through this before. He and Patterson were becoming big friends. Right. Santos flexed his fingers, the urge to hit someone or something—preferably Patterson’s arrogant mug—barreling through him.
    From both the Times Picayune and the State’s Item, he had learned the details of the murder. They had described where and how Lucia Santos had been stabbed. They had detailed the events of the last night of her life—she had gone to work at Club 69, where she danced nights; she had picked up a john, who had come home with her; she had been killed after intercourse. They had found a half-eaten apple beside the bed.
    They had called her a prostitute. They had speculated that she had been killed by the john.
    After Santos had read the story, he’d thrown up. Then he had gotten angry. Something about the tiny articles—less than three paragraphs each—had had an “Oh, well,” quality to them. “Just another dead hooker. Who gives a shit?”
    He had called the papers, called the reporters who had written that. His mother was not a prostitute, he had told the man. She was an exotic dancer. She’d been his mother. He had loved her.
    â€œSorry for your loss, kid,” they had both said. “But I write ’em as I see ’em.”
    The police hadn’t been any better. He had called. At first they had been kind, if condescending. They had patiently explained how the system worked. They had nothing new; they were doing their best. They had even questioned him; they had checked out his alibi. Then they had blown him off, same as they would a pesky insect.
    Don’t call us, they had all but said. We’ll call you.
    Santos would be damned if he would let them do that to him; he sure as hell wouldn’t allow them to do that to his mother. Just because they thought she was nothing but another dead hooker.
    He had called them every day—at least once. He had stopped by the station. Now, after a week of taking his calls and visits, they were less kind, less patient. No