Fear Nothing (Detective D.D. Warren #7) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,68
of one’s family did to a man?
“How old were you when your cousin died?” she asked.
He shot her a glance. “You mean was murdered? Fourteen. I was fourteen.”
“Same age as Shana Day.”
“Are you asking if I knew her? Because of course I knew her. I lived in the same neighborhood as Donnie. That’s how it was back then in Southie. Families, even extended families, lived close. Grew up together. Took care of one another.”
Sgarzi’s tone was intentionally flat, but D.D. still caught a faint trace of emotion. Nostalgia. Regret. Back in the day when he’d felt secure in his place in the world. His family, his neighborhood, his world.
“You hang out with Shana?” Phil asked evenly.
“Nah. She was trouble. Everyone knew that. And not the good kind of trouble, either, you know, a reputation worthy of street cred. Shana . . . She was freaky scary. Like a dog gone bad. Kids . . . Most of us who had any sense stayed clear.”
“Except Donnie.”
Sgarzi grimaced, shrugged. “Donnie was . . . different. He liked books, science, math. Hell, if he’d survived, he probably would’ve become another Bill Gates and my mother wouldn’t have any worries now. But a twelve-year-old geek in Southie? The other kids were hard on him. If I heard of things, or if I was around, I made them knock it off. He was my cousin, you know. I tried to take care of him. But he didn’t fit in. And Shana may be freaky, but she was clever. Even back then . . .” Sgarzi shook his head. “My cousin never stood a chance.”
“You follow the trial?” Phil asked.
“Nah, my parents wouldn’t let me. I got my news the way the rest of the neighborhood did, by listening to gossip. Besides, this was a long time ago. Not like today, where there’s twenty-four-hour cable and constant media blitzes. The local news followed the case, of course, particularly when the DA announced he was trying Shana as an adult. But her defense didn’t put up much of a fight. Whole thing was over and done with pretty quick. Then everyone went back to their everyday lives. Except for my aunt and uncle, of course.”
“And you?” D.D. asked curiously. “Thirty years later, still writing letters to your cousin’s killer? Stirring the pot?”
“Still?” asked Sgarzi in clear bewilderment. “Who says still? Letters I sent three months ago were the first time I’ve initiated contact. I mean, Donnie was a good kid, but so was I. Hell, I had bigger plans than spending my life as a murdered boy’s cousin. I got out of the neighborhood. Went to NYU, majored in communications, became a reporter. I’m no schmuck.”
“And yet, here you are . . . ,” Phil prodded.
“I returned to look out for my mom,” Sgarzi replied sharply. “Or didn’t Dr. Glen tell you that part? My mom’s dying of cancer. She needs hospice, a home health aide, someone more capable than her journalist son. Which costs money. And given how financially lucrative it is to be a writer these days, I don’t have a whole lot. Then it occurred to me, digital reporters might not make much money, but some of these true-crime books . . . I mean, we’re talking six-figure, seven-figure advances. I’m capable of doing the work. I just need the right material. You know, such as an exclusive interview with a notorious female killer. Now, you tell me, is that too much to ask? Thirty years later, maybe Shana might even like a chance to make amends. Course, given how she’s never replied to a single letter, I’m gonna guess not.”
“So you went after her sister?”
“Sure. That’s what reporters do. One source says no, find another source that’ll say yes. I need a yes. My mom needs a yes.”
“When was your mother diagnosed with cancer?” D.D. asked.
“Six months ago.”
“And you sent the first letter to Shana . . .”
“Three months ago, give or take.”
“And the first woman was killed by the Rose Killer,” she filled in, “what, six, seven weeks ago?”
Sgarzi stiffened. His hands had fisted unconsciously by his sides. His eyes narrowed warily. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, here you are, ostensibly trying to sell a book that features a thirty-year-old case very few people—no disrespect to your family—even remember, and all of a sudden, a fresh string of murders occur with ties to your book subject. Interesting, if you ask me. Might even say convenient.”