Page 42 of Don’t Say a Word (Angelhart Investigations #2)

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 early fifties, 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.

“I couldn’t kick her out of the house,” Mrs. Osterman said.

“I couldn’t condemn her to a life on the streets, knowing what happens to girls who are addicts and homeless.

Here, she had food, a bed. Eventually, I had to change the locks because she stole from me, but I told her she could live in the room behind the garage.

She cleaned it out, made it into a nice little space.

I told her I would pay for rehab, but she never went through with it.

The last few months of her life were difficult for both of us. ”

Mrs. Osterman wasn’t looking at me, but at the water bottle in her hand. I couldn’t imagine the pain of watching your child slowly kill herself and not being able to stop it.

“Three years ago a coach at Sun Valley High School was arrested for running a drug distribution network using kids at the school,” I said.

“Yes, I remember it well. I wondered if Megan had been working for him, because it was that year—her junior year—that she started acting different. Before, she had good grades, good hygiene, friends. But sometime early in her junior year, that all changed. I confronted her, she denied it, then ran away. For a week I didn’t know where she was.

Then she came home and apologized and said she hadn’t worked for him, but she knew people who did. ”

“Did you believe her?”

“Yes. The way she said it, one of her friends was in serious trouble with the police after everything came out, and it scared Megan. She was clean for a while, but then she started smoking pot again and spiraled from there. The marijuana she was getting was tainted with other drugs—that’s how I think she became addicted. ”

“What I’m looking for is anyone who worked for Coach Bradford three years ago, and who might be running a similar operation now, especially if they have a connection to the school.”

“I don’t think I can help you,” she said sadly. “The last few months of Megan’s life... she didn’t talk to me much.”

“Who were her closest friends in high school?”

“Before she started using drugs, it was Christina O’Reilly.

They were friends forever. Christina is outspoken and extroverted and fun.

I loved having her over because she would bring Megan out of her shell—Megan had always been very introverted.

I think—Megan never said—that Christina expanded her friend group.

She never excluded Megan, but Megan excluded herself. ”

“Do you know where Christina is now?”

“College. I haven’t seen or talked to her since high school graduation.

When Megan started using, Christina was outspoken and blunt with her.

I thought the honesty would help Megan turn away from hurting herself, but Megan shut Christina out.

I asked Christina to keep trying, but she said she was done.

Which, I suppose, is partly why I went in the opposite direction.

Megan knew I disapproved, but I didn’t constantly criticize her. Maybe I should have,” she added sadly.

“Did Christina live nearby?”

“Yes, right across the street from Sunnyslope Middle School. I don’t remember the number, but it’s the only two-story house on the block. She’s the oldest of five kids.”

“And after Megan started using? Anyone she hung out with regularly?”

“She dated someone for a while, Scott—I don’t remember his last name.”

“Jimenez?” I prompted.

“That sounds right. I didn’t like him, and I didn’t like how he would stay all night in her room, even after I told her I wouldn’t allow it. He went to prison because of what he did for Coach Bradford. I don’t know how this helps.”

“Have you seen him since he was released?” I asked. Tess hadn’t yet been able to track him down.

“No,” she said.

“Have you emptied Megan’s room?”

Mrs. Osterman shook her head. “I’ve only been in there to air it out, clean up some. I found drugs there, called the police. They came to retrieve them.”

“Do you remember who?”

“I don’t. He said he was in the Drug Enforcement Bureau, and he would first test, then destroy the drugs. He seemed very kind, but he pitied me. He probably sees this all the time.”

“Would you mind if I looked through Megan’s things?”

“What do you hope to find? It’s not going to bring Megan back. It’s not going to bring your friend Elijah back.”

“It won’t bring anyone back, but it helps.

I think there’s another organized drug operation that may be centered at the school.

” Or, the Cactus Stop, but I didn’t say that.

Maybe both. I wouldn’t even have thought about the school except for Lena Clark’s murder and Bradford.

“There might be evidence in Megan’s room.

Names, her supplier, what she did in the days and weeks leading up to her overdose.

The police aren’t investigating, but if I can find some evidence, I’ll pass it on and they may be able to stop these people. ”

“All right,” she said. “I guess I just feel that no matter what we do, it’s not enough.”

“Maybe one piece doesn’t seem important, but when we put them all together? That makes a difference.”

I believed it, though it probably wasn’t much consolation to Mrs. Osterman—or Alina Martinez.

I convinced Mrs. Osterman to let me go through Megan’s room alone. First, because I could see she was upset with the reminders and memories of Megan’s last few years, and second, because the room was very small.

I stood at the door, surveying the room, which had once been a storage space behind the carport.

A tiny bathroom tucked behind a pocket door was cramped with a toilet, sink, and a barely functional shower.

Despite its size, it was clean and organized—whether because of Megan or Mrs. Osterman, I couldn’t tell.