Page 106 of Don't Say a Word

“Okay. Good. I’m going to do my own recon, but if I need you to set up a meeting with them, could you?”

“Whatever you need, just call.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

Cal tossed his garbage in the trash and walked to his car.

He needed to know what the Angelharts were up to, and whether he should shut them down—or bring them in.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Margo Angelhart

Being a PI means a lot of grunt work. Talking to people who might know something, until you learn they don’t. But the work had to be done because you never knew when you’d find that one piece of information that would lead to the truth, that needle in the haystack.

I didn’t know if my conversation with Eric McMahon’s sister would get me a call back, but it was worth a shot. If I didn’t hear from him and I was still stuck, I’d track him down at work.

After leaving McMahon’s house, I went to talk to the receptionist at the veterinary clinic that fronted the alley where Megan Osterman died. They were pleasant, but only had internal cameras, so that was a dead end. Next, I went to Mrs. Osterman’s house, near where Seventh Avenue dead-ended at North Mountain. The area had few trees and no grass, with small rundown houses—mostly cinder block construction from the 1950s. The yards were either rock or dirt, and even the cacti looked tired. Mrs. Osterman lived on the corner, and an older sedan sat in the carport.

A locked security screen blocked the door, so I rang the bell. A few moments later, a woman answered. She was in her earlyfifties, wore shorts and a tank top, and looked tired. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Mrs. Osterman?”

“Yes,” she responded warily.

“I’m Margo Angelhart, a private investigator. I’m working for a family to find out what happened to their son, who died of a suspicious drug overdose. I think he may have known your daughter.”

“My daughter’s dead.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. Do you have a few minutes to talk to me?”

“I don’t know how I can help.”

“Maybe you can’t, but I have some questions about your daughter and I think if I find the answers, it will help another grieving family. And maybe give you a bit of closure as well.”

“I have closure. I loved Megan, she couldn’t stop the drugs, and she died.”

Her voice cracked, and I felt for her.

“I’m really sorry.”

I waited, and a beat later Mrs. Osterman said, “Fine, come in. I don’t work until five, anyway.”

She unlocked the screen and I entered her small house. The blinds were drawn to keep the house cool and the air was fresh, filled with a strong hint of lemon. Despite the tired exterior, the interior had been thoughtfully updated, featuring sleek wood floors, textured walls, and modern lighting. The living room flowed seamlessly into the dining area and kitchen, giving the space a more expansive feel than it appeared from the outside. The kitchen was bright and airy, mostly white, with a butcher block island at its center and colorful subway tiles adding a touch of character to the walls.

“I love your kitchen,” I said. “I have a little house off fourteenth, built about the same time, and I haven’t figured out how to remodel the kitchen.”

Mrs. Osterman smiled. “It cost a pretty penny, but I love to cook. We’ll sit in there.”

I followed her and sat on one of the counter barstools.

“I don’t want to take up much of your time,” I said, removing a card from my pocket and sliding it over to her. “Especially since you have to go to work in a few hours.”

She waved off my comment. “It’s fine. Tell me what you know about Megan.”

“I am investigating the overdose death of a boy named Elijah Martinez, who went to school with Megan, though he was a few years younger. Did you know him?”

She shook her head. “Megan didn’t bring her friends home—most of them were addicts like her. She was my baby. Maybe I babied her too much.” She shared that Megan was much younger than her two sons, and when her daughter was eight and her boys were out of the house, her husband was killed in a car accident. It was just her and Megan and they were close—until Megan started high school.