(Moon 2) - Edge of the Moon

by Rebecca York

  "Yes." Jack put away his credentials, then pulled the folder from under his arm, opened it, and showed her the forms. "I have the report right here. So can we talk?"

  This time she nodded and stepped back to let him into a vestibule. He followed her through a second doorway, then up a flight of steps, watching the unconscious sway of her hips in faded jeans.

  He was accustomed to making assumptions about people based on their personal spaces. Seconds after stepping into her apartment, he was thinking that Kathryn Reynolds was a study in contradictions.

  In one corner of the room was an antique desk with a computer under a set of mahogany wall shelves. Catty-corner to the desk area were more shelves piled with neatly labeled folders and plastic boxes. The office atmosphere was broken by all manner of whimsical objects that adorned the work area. He saw ceramic cats, a papier-mâché rooster, at least ten fancy glass paperweights, a white unicorn. On her computer screen was an underwater scene with swimming fish and coral. When the computer made a belching, bubbling noise like a toilet flushing, she crossed the room and cranked the sound down.

  He turned to hide his grin and saw that the opposite side of the room showed even more of her personality.

  Intrigued, he walked closer. She had a flowered humpback sofa, several overstuffed chairs, and a coffee table that looked like it might have started life as a packing case. A ceramic pitcher of dried flowers shared the marble top of a low chest with several Mexican carved and painted animals. A Victorian whatnot held paperback books and antique toys. The pictures on the walls reflected the same eclectic mix.

  Looking from the decor to her tense face, he strove to put her at ease. Or perhaps he just wanted her to know he wasn't a total ignoramus when it came to culture.

  "You're a fan of Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema?" he asked, peering at a picture of some very handsome young men and women dressed in classical Greek outfits relaxing around a circular marble structure.

  "You like his work?"

  He laughed. "Actually, yes. I once caught a burglary case where a whole bunch of his prints were stolen. I started off rolling my eyes at his stuff, but he grows on you."

  "Yes. He was out of style for years. But I always did like his combination of realism and romanticism."

  He nodded, not sure exactly what she meant, and thinking it was time to get back to business.

  He cleared his throat. "So when did you first notice that Heather DeYoung was missing?"

  She walked toward one of the easy chairs, picked up a paisley pillow, and clutched it to her middle as she sat down. "It kind of crept up on me. Two days ago I realized she hadn't come home since Sunday night."

  "She was missing for five days before you reported it?"

  Her fingers clamped on the pillow. "You're making it sound like an accusation."

  "I didn't mean to. I'm just trying to get the full picture," he said, still watching her reactions, thinking that facts were never the whole story.

  "Sometimes she stays away for several days. It suddenly dawned on me that I hadn't seen her in a while."

  "Okay," he answered, noting her discomfort. He still didn't know if it was because of her friend or because of him.

  For a split second he thought about what had happened when she'd opened the door. Should he say something to clear the air? Or to find out if she'd experienced the same thing that he had?

  The latter would be his primary motive, he silently admitted. A very unprofessional motive.

  Usually he had an excellent sense of what questions to ask a witness or a suspect. Today he fumbled for the right approach.

  "Let's see. Ms. DeYoung works for the Montgomery County school system as a substitute teacher. That pays enough to support her?"

  "She says it does."

  "But she could have some other source of income?"

  "I don't know."

  He set finances aside for the moment. He had other ways of poking into the woman's fiscal solvency. Instead, he quickly switched topics. "So Ms. DeYoung is unreliable?"

  She tipped her head to one side. "Where did you get that impression?"

  "It isn't unusual for her to take off for several days—on a whim?" He waited for her to answer the question.

  "Yes, but she pays her rent on time. She doesn't give me any problems."

  "What kind of problems are you referring to?"

  "She doesn't play loud music. She doesn't have wild parties. She doesn't wake me up at two in the morning if the toilet's stopped up. She gets out a plunger."

  He nodded, thinking about what she was saying and what she was leaving out. "Does she have any bad habits? Drugs, alcohol? Something that could get her into trouble."

  "No," she said, but could have sounded more sure.

  "But?"

  Reynolds swallowed. "I don't like to make judgments. And I don't like to talk about people."

  "I understand. But if it will help us find Heather, I'd appreciate your insights."

  She hesitated, then answered. "Okay, I don't like her boyfriend."

  "Because?"

  "He takes advantage. She loves him, but he doesn't love her."

  "How do you mean, 'takes advantage'?"

  "He's borrowed money from her." She stopped, played with the fringe of the pillow. "I wouldn't tell you this if it weren't important. He told her he'd stop dating her if she didn't have an abortion last year, but she was the one who had to pay for it."

  The guy sounded like a real winner, but Jack still didn't know whether or not Reynolds was exaggerating her assessment. "She discussed all that with you?"

  "Yes. We've gotten to be good friends."

  "What's his name?"

  "Gary Swinton."

  "Could she be at his house?"

  "His apartment," she corrected. "I thought of that. I called and left a couple of messages on his answering machine."

  "Do you have a phone number for him, an address?"

  "In my Rolodex." She stood, set the pillow down on the chair, and crossed to the desk, where she flipped through cards, then gave him the requested information.

  "What about a work address?"

  She thought about that. "I know he works at Circuit City. The one in Bethesda. I think he's in small electronics—because he got a good deal for her on a floor model tabletop stereo. But I don't have the address."

  "I know where it is. Can you give me a description? Some way I'll recognize him?"

  Her hand skimmed across the desk, settled over a footlong clear plastic rod with colored liquid and shiny stars and moons inside. When she tipped it on end, the liquid and the glitter began to flow up and down the tube.

  She stared at the bobbing glitter, her brow wrinkling. "He's about thirty years old. Blond hair. Light eyes. They're set close together. His hair is usually just one beat too long—maybe to hide his bald spot. He's average height. Not too heavy. He's got a small scar on the left side of his chin. I guess that would be the most identifying mark."

  "Okay. That's great," he said, writing it down. "You're good at detail."

  "My art background."

  "Yeah."

  She was still playing with the plastic tube. He watched the swirl of colors. "What's that?"

  She gave a small, embarrassed laugh. "A magic wand."

  "Where did you get it?"

  "Don't tell me you need one."

  "Sometimes I'd like to have one. But I was thinking my daughter would like it."

  "Oh, you're married."

  "I was…" He let the sentence trail off. Probably she thought he was divorced, and he didn't want her thinking that he couldn't make a marriage work. Then he reminded himself that it didn't matter what she thought about him. He was interviewing her about a missing person—that was all.

  "Oh," she said again, twirling the plastic rod in her hand.

  His eyes were drawn to the bits of glitter and the swirling blue liquid. For a moment they both watched the shifting motion inside the beveled plastic.

  "What would yo
u do with a magic wand if you had one?" she asked.

  "Solve Stone Who Done Its."

  "What's a Stone Who Done It?"

  "A case where there are no solid suspects and no leads."

  "Um."

  He watched her lips form the syllable, then roused himself from his study of her—a very unprofessional study. "Would it be possible for me to see Ms. DeYoung's apartment?"

  She hesitated. "I'd feel like you were invading her privacy."

  "Maybe I'd see something that would give me a clue."

  "I went down there before I filed the missing person report. I didn't see anything."

  "You're not a trained police detective."

  She thought that over, then gave a small nod. After putting down the wand, she opened a desk drawer and extracted a key with a pink ribbon threaded through the key chain hole.

  She went back down the stairs to the vestibule.

  "Did you have the house converted into a duplex?" he asked, already knowing the answer, since he could tell that the work was more than twenty years old.

  "No. Grandma O'Shea did it after my grandfather died. She didn't need such a big place, and she needed the income."

  "So how did you end up with the property?"

  "My parents got divorced. Dad took off for parts unknown. Mom and I moved into the downstairs apartment. I was just starting college when she got a pulmonary embolism. She died."

  "I'm sorry."

  "It could have been worse. Grandma O'Shea and I were always close, and I moved in with her."

  "She died, too?"

  "In her sleep. Five years ago. A heart attack. She was ninety-two and able to take care of herself until the end. I guess that's the way to live—and the way to go."

  "Yes," he answered, wondering what his own chances were of dying in bed.

  They were still standing in the hallway. "I took the upstairs flat and rented out this one," she said, unlocking the door. She stepped into an apartment that was similar to her own in layout. But the similarity ended there.

  Her abode had been quirky but orderly. DeYoung was—to put it politely—a slob. There were stacks of mail, newspapers, and other paper on every flat surface, including the floor. When he walked farther into the room and looked toward the kitchen, he saw dirty dishes in the sink and on the counter.

  "You say she didn't give you any trouble. It looks like you're going to have to blast this place out when she moves."

  "Okay, she's not so neat. But she's a good person. She likes children and animals."

  "Mm hmm," he said, thinking it was probably lucky she didn't have custody of either.

  He scanned the apartment. To his practiced eye, the owner had stepped out and intended to come back.

  He started with the answering machine, pressed the rewind button and listened to the messages. There were several—two from Ms. Reynolds, both asking DeYoung to call.

  And a message from the boyfriend, Swinton, two days ago. Which proved nothing. If he'd done something to her, he might have left the message to establish his innocence.

  The rest of the messages were at least four days old. One was apparently from the office that handled substitute teachers, asking if she was available to take a biology class at Wootton High School on Monday. Another was from her mother with some chatty news about various friends and relatives.

  "Did she go to work on Monday?" Jack asked.

  "I don't know."

  He nodded, then strode down the hall to the bedroom and opened the closet. The hanging rack was full of blouses and jackets, packed so tightly together that they had to come out wrinkled.

  "I'd ask if you thought anything was missing, but I imagine it's hard to tell," he said over his shoulder.

  "I looked in her storage closet. Her suitcases are there."

  "Did you check her dresser drawers?"

  She swiped back a lock of fiery hair. "I opened some, yes. But I felt like a sneak, so I gave it up."

  He opened a drawer and found sweaters in a messy pile. Reaching underneath, he discovered nothing hidden. The next drawer held panty hose and nothing else. The third was a mass of women's underpants and bras. This time, when he slid his hand underneath, he felt several magazines and a book. When he pulled them out, he saw that they were pornography—S and M oriented. One magazine cover showed an almost naked woman chained to a crossbar. A man was standing over her with a whip. The other magazines were similar. And the book looked like a dominance and submission how-to manual. He made a snorting sound. It seemed that a routine case had just gotten more interesting.

  Before he lost the chance to catch Reynold's unvarnished reaction, he glanced up. She was standing stock-still, staring at the literature as if he'd pulled a box of rattlesnakes out of the drawer.

  CHAPTER THREE

  « ^ »

  KATHRYN MANAGED TO draw in a breath.

  She felt Detective Thornton's gaze on her.

  "You said you and Ms. DeYoung are friends. Did you know she was interested in… unusual… sexual practices?" he asked.

  "No!"

  He continued to stare at her like he didn't believe her, like he thought maybe she and Heather were into some kind of dirty little games together. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, resisting the impulse to flee the room. "Honestly, I wouldn't have thought…" Her voice trailed off.

  "Do you mind if I take this stuff?" he asked, waggling the book and magazines in his hand. "And a piece of her clothing."

  "Do what you want!" Turning, she fled the room, fled from the apartment and up the stairs. It was several moments before she realized that Detective Thornton had followed her. He'd put the magazines into a paper grocery bag, which he must have found in Heather's kitchen. She assumed there was also a piece of Heather's clothing in there.

  His eyes stayed fixed on her, and she made an effort to calm down, although her pulse was pounding.

  "Why are you so upset?" he asked.

  "I'm not."

  He continued to stare at her, letting that obvious lie hang in the air between them.

  She sighed. It was none of his business, yet she felt compelled to say, "Apparently my… my father was interested in that kind of stuff. That's why my mom divorced him."

  It was his turn to say "Oh."

  She focused on the fish swimming across her computer monitor, thinking that her parents' screwed-up relationship was none of this man's business. Mom was dead. Her father was, too, for all she knew. What had happened between him and Mom was a long time ago, so long ago that Kathryn had locked the knowledge in some deep, hidden corner of her mind. Maybe she'd actually forgotten about it.

  Then the door to the memories had blasted open—when she'd seen the "literature" from the bottom of Heather's underwear drawer. She remembered her mother standing in the bedroom, holding a magazine that looked remarkably similar to the one Thornton had found. She remembered the mixture of anger and sadness on her mother's face.

  A few months later, Mom had moved them out of the house and into Grandma's. And she and Mom had never talked about why they'd cleared out. It had stayed buried—a family secret that had finally sunk into the swamp of bad memories.

  Until a few minutes ago when Thornton had pulled those magazines from the drawer.

  Lord, did other families have similar stuff they didn't talk about? Probably, she told herself. Maybe even Jack Thornton. His marriage had ended. There must have been reasons.

  Well, that was none of her business, she thought as she watched a sea horse bob up and disappear again, aware that Thornton was watching her, hoping that she'd divulge something he could sink his teeth into. But there wasn't anything—at least with regard to Heather. And she wasn't going to share more about her background than she'd already blurted out.

  "Do you have any additional questions for me?" she asked, hearing the hard edge in her voice. She wanted Jack Thornton out of her apartment.

  He cleared his throat. "Do you have a picture of Ms. DeYoung? And could you
give me the phone number of her next of kin?"

  Next of kin. In case Heather was dead. "Her mother is Margaret DeYoung. She lives in Philadelphia." Once again she opened her Rolodex and found the number.

  "Are they on good terms?"

  "She doesn't see her often. But I think they get along."

  "Would she go there if she were in trouble?"

  "Maybe."

  "Okay. Thanks. If you can just give me a picture, I'll get out of your hair."

  In fact, she was easily able to accommodate the detective. A couple of weeks ago, she and Heather had been out in the yard enjoying the azaleas, and they'd decided that the bright masses of flowers would make a nice backdrop for some pictures. She'd gone back inside for her camera, then ordered double prints when she had the roll processed. Shuffling through the shots, she handed one to Thornton.

  "Thanks. I appreciate it," he said, slipping it into the folder with the missing person report.

  Now that he was leaving, she was able to raise her eyes to his and asked the question that had been gathering in her mind. "Do you think you're going to find her? I mean—find her alive."

  "I hope so."

  "But you're not counting on it."

  "We've barely gotten into the investigation. I should ask, is there anyone besides the boyfriend that you think might want to do her harm?"

  "I didn't exactly put it that way!"

  "Noted." He stared at her, making it impossible for her not to speak.

  She took a calming breath before answering. "Okay, there is one other thing I should tell you. Some things have happened around here. Vandalism, I guess you'd call it."

  "Such as what?"

  "Little things. Trash from my trash cans spread around the driveway. Some black spray paint on the white lattice at the bottom of the porch. Stuff like that."

  "Did you report it to the police?"

  "It didn't seem worth it."

  "So—are you having a fight with any of the neighbors?"

  "Not that I know of. I don't know if it has to do with me—or Heather."

  "Thanks for telling me," he said, but she had the feeling he was reproaching her for holding back until the last minute. She swallowed. "Okay, there's one more thing—since you're asking. There was a workman in a white van hanging around the neighborhood last week. I never found out what he was doing. But he gave me a… creepy feeling."