No, Daddy, Don't! Read Free

blacks performed lower on IQ tests. There was Neo-Conservatism balanced above A History of Western Morals, and, under that, a copy of The Art of War by Sun Tzu. What kind of problems had sent Battaglia in search of answers in books like these?
    With guns still drawn, the police covered the areas in front of, behind, and inside the boxes. When they had satisfied themselves that those areas were secure, they turned toward the kitchen. Seconds later, they stopped.
    A speakerphone and a pistol sat on the countertop. On the floor directly beneath them, an older girl lay on her side. Her left arm was tucked under her chin as if she had fallen asleep, and a tiny gold earring glistened in her lobe. A bow held her ponytail in place, and a blue Band-Aid circled her middle finger. Her red shorts were clean, but her white Highland Park hockey T-shirt was splashed with blood. A stylized cartoon hockey player, stenciled in yellow-and-blue plaid on the back of her shirt, wore a determined look with his hockey stick raised high. Two bullet holes marred her back, and she too had suffered that final execution-style shot to the back of her head. The blackened, powder-burned flesh around the wound indicated that the gun had been shoved into her scalp. That bullet had exited through an open starburst gash in her forehead. There was way too much blood on the floor to hope that any life still clung to that little body.
     
     
    Officer Thornton needed a flashlight to look under beds and around darker areas. He left Murray and Rojas at the scene. When he entered the hall outside the loft, he noticed a closed door that wasn’t an entrance to any apartment.
    He jerked open the door and pointed his revolver into the dark interior. It was a janitor’s closet. Even filled with brooms, mops, and other cleaning equipment, it was definitely large enough to hide a man. He made a mental note to check that closet on each floor. Then he hurried to the elevator and rode down to the lobby on his way to get a flashlight from his squad car.
    As he stepped outside on the sidewalk, he almost collided with Mary Jean Pearle. She had been talking on her cell phone. Her face was deathly white and her brown eyes puffy from crying.
    “Are they there?” she asked.
    “Yes, ma’am, they are,” he replied gravely.
    “Are they . . . ?” she asked, unable to utter the unspeakable word.
    “Yes, Ma’am. I’m afraid so.”
    Mary Jean screamed, and collapsed in Officer Dane Thornton’s arms. He grabbed her to keep her from falling. As she sagged against him, he said, “Ma’am, I think you better stay here. You just don’t need to be up there.”
    She visibly gathered her strength so she could stand alone. Sobbing, shoulders slumped, she turned to a pretty, young brunette. Tears also ran down the cheeks of the other woman, who reached out to hug Mary Jean.
    “This is my friend, Melissa Lowder,” Mary Jean told the policeman. “She just got here.”
    “Do you know the little girls?” Thornton asked Melissa. “I mean, could you identify them?”
    Melissa nodded solemnly, then clutched her wadded Kleenex and mopped her eyes.
    “I hate to ask you, but we need to have their identification verified. Why don’t you take Ms. Pearle to the squad car. My officer will stay with her.”
    Melissa nodded and ushered Mary Jean to the waiting car.
     
     
    As her heart pounded, Melissa Lowder accompanied the officer through the lobby and into the elevator.
    Once the door slid shut, Thornton asked, “What do you know about this Battaglia guy?”
    “He’s a CPA. Had his own business until recently, but he still keeps his office. A few months ago, a small oil exploration company hired him as their chief financial officer. That business is downtown.” Then she cautioned, “He’s been a Marine, and he’s still very fit and strong.”
    As the elevator stopped at the fourth floor, Melissa was filled with foreboding. The doors slid open and the two began their way down the long