“She put a lot of pressure on my mom to attend every hearing, even though my mom wasn’t in good health. She ordered her to sit where the judge could see her, and cry a lot. Told my mom she’d have to take the stand when it came time for Nestor to be sentenced and lie about what a good son Nestor was and then cry a whole bunch more. Coaching her as if Mom was stupid. As if Mom wasn’t crying all the time, anyway.”

“She put on an aggressive defense.”

“I guess,” she said. “I always felt she was doing it more for herself— to win, you know? If she cared about my mother, she wouldn’t have bossed her around like that. It didn’t matter anyway. Nestor was guilty, they did this plea-bargain thing. Which was okay with me. I didn’t want my mom to have to cry for strangers.”

“Was a man named Drew Daney involved with Nestor’s case?”

“It sounds familiar, but . . .”

“A divinity student and youth worker— ”

“Oh, yeah, him. The church guy,” she said. “A few months before Nestor killed that dealer he got sent to some drug rehab program and the church guy worked there. Did he do something wrong? ’Cause that would surprise me.”

“Why?”

“Him I liked. He seemed real sincere about wanting to help Nestor. Wrote a letter to the judge for Nestor.”

* * *

“Puts everything in place, doesn’t it?” said Milo, driving out of the lot.

“Daney visits Troy in Stockton,” I said. “Uses the opportunity to drop in on Nestor and set Troy up.”

“Meanwhile, Rand’s over in Chino. Think that’s the reason Daney left him alone? No juvey hit man planted there?”

“More likely Rand wasn’t a threat. Until he was.”

He got back on the freeway. “You in the mood to ply your trade?”

“With who?”

“A crazy woman.”

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 38

Sydney Weider opened her front door wearing a soiled white T-shirt with a Surfside Country Club flying dolphin logo over her left breast, gray stretch athletic shorts, and bare feet. Up close, her face was pallid, scored vertically by wrinkles that began at the corners of her eyes and tugged her mouth down. Her legs were white, varicosed, her feet hangnailed and grubby around the ankles.

She opened her mouth in surprise.

Milo said, “Ma’am,” and showed her his badge.

She slapped him hard across the face.

* * *

As he hauled her out to the unmarked, cuffed her, hissing and twisting, a snick sounded from across the street and a woman ran out of a pretty, black-shuttered Colonial.

Same neighbor who’d watched Weider scream at me a few days ago.

“Here we go,” muttered Milo. “Where’s the damned video camera?”

Weider growled and slammed her head into his arm and tried to bite him. He held her at arm’s length. “Open the door, Alex.”