Roger Davis

"I'm sorry, Carrie. It wasn't him. He's just a brutal piece of shit that beats girls. But this was his first night in New Mexico. He was in lockup in Phoenix when the other murders occurred," Luis told Carrie. She was still bruised on her neck and face. She teared up for a moment, but then swallowed. She wanted to see this through. She kissed Luis on the cheek.

"Thanks Luis. I promise I'll be ready for ... debriefing ... soon." Luis smirked.

She stopped by and picked up some things from Nia's apartment and went by to see Keon. He gave her $1,000 bucks and told her to come back when she was ready. He was pretty good for a pimp, Carrie thought. And then she went to that homeless tent, to find her rescuer. He was trying to sleep in the sweltering heat.

"Umm, Sir? Excuse me? You helped me out a few days back. I thought I'd return the favor." The homeless man was in his late 60s, unkempt, his teeth stained, his clothes torn and ragged. His blue eyes were clouded over. He'd been on the street for some time. With a start, Carrie realized she recognized the man.

Back in the day, before he had his own business, her dad worked for a conglomerate. His boss was Roger Davis, a kindly man with a wife and a daughter. But the daughter became sick with leukemia, the wife committed suicide, and wanting to save his daughter, Roger stole from the company. And he went to prison. He'd been homeless ever since.

"Mr. Davis? Roger Davis?" Carrie asked, slack jawed. His eyes glinted a little bit. He hadn't heard his name in some time.

"Who are you?" he said hoarsely.

"Ummm ... Carrie. Carrie Hall."

"Charlie's daughter? You've ... grown." Carrie snorted. That was an understatement.

"Let's get you to my place, Mr. Davis. Get you a shower, a square meal. And then I can reward you properly."