At exactly eleven-ten, he pulls the Pathfinder up to the curb in front of the address Matt has given him. He leans over and looks out through the passenger-side window at the two-story building. A hand-painted sign screwed to the gray, asbestos-shingle siding reads, “Twice Round Secondhand Shoppe,” and immediately next to it are two doors. One is for the business on the first floor, and the other, he guesses, leads upstairs to Mrs. Miller’s apartment. He flips down the drivers-side visor, exposing the placard that reads “POLICE,” then exits the vehicle, making sure to lock it. Not the nicest neighborhood, he thinks, as he walks up the cracked sidewalk to the front of the building. He peers through the grimy picture window of the secondhand shop, and notes that there appear to be only two people in the establishment. One is a young woman, probably under thirty, and the other an elderly gentleman, who, judging by his appearance is desperately in need of some better clothing—even second hand.
Bobcat rings the doorbell. After waiting several minutes, he rings again. Almost immediately, the door is opened partially by a middle-aged woman. Her well-worn but pleasant face fills the opening, the size of which is limited by a heavy chain attached to the door. “Yes?” she says. She appears unduly cautious, and Bobcat wonders if he has the right person.
“Mrs. Miller? Annette Miller?”
“Yes,” replies the woman. “That’s me. Can I help you?”
“Yes ma’am,” says Bobcat, extracting his ID from his pocket and holding it up where the woman can see it. “I’m Patrolman Walker from the Roscoe Police Department.” A relieved smile crosses the woman’s face, and she quickly undoes the chain, opening the door fully to admit Bob. She’s dressed in what Bob’s mother would have referred to as a “house coat.” Bob just thinks of it as what it is, a robe. “I’m sorry,” she says. “But, you never know who’s going to show up in this neighborhood.” Glancing back at Bob, she adds, “Actually, I was expecting someone older,” she says. “I believe I spoke to your chief?”
“Yes, ma’am. That would be Matt Davis. Unfortunately, he had a busy schedule today, and he asked me to come by for the pictures. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” she replies, as she leads him up a steep flight of stairs to a door at the head of the landing leading into her apartment. As he enters the small rental unit, Bob is stunned by the condition of the place. It is not what he had expected. Instead of being dirty and disheveled, it is immaculate. Colorful curtains grace the windows, and potted plants abound. Then, it hits him. Where’s the old man?
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” asks Mrs. Miller. “Or some tea? I keep forgetting that lots of men drink tea these days. Are you a tea drinker, officer?” She appears nervous.
“No thank you, ma’am. Uh, I was wondering where Mr. Miller might be? I understand he and your daughter didn’t get along very well. I thought perhaps I might speak with him. You know, maybe—”
“Howie’s not here anymore,” she says, her voice growing cold. “We split up—right after Rhonda took off.” She shifts her weight from one leg to another, staring at the floor, and not making eye contact.
“Oh, but he’s still in the area; isn’t he?” says Bob. “I mean, in case we need to speak to him.” A frown creases the woman’s face, but gives way almost immediately to a wry smile. “Actually, he’s in Attica – you know; the prison? He’s doing five years for armed robbery.”
“You don’t say?”
“You might say we were forced apart—which suited me fine,” she says, sitting down on the sofa. “I just wish it had happened before Rhonda left.” Immediately, the frown returns, accompanied by a tear that runs down one cheek. Pretty soon, more tears follow, and before long she is openly weeping. “I’m sorry,” she says, in between sobs, “but, I can’t help it. She was my baby. I should have never married him. I’ll never forgive myself. If anything’s happened—”
“I’m sure nothing’s happened to your daughter,” says Bob, doing his best to re-assure the woman. “Besides, you did the right thing by calling us.” He hands the woman a handkerchief. “Here, take this,” he says. Annette Miller looks up at him, her face streaked with mascara. “Thank you,” she says. “I just couldn’t stand it anymore—not knowing. I’ve got to find her.” There’s a touch of desperation in the woman’s voice, and Bobcat wishes he had something he could say that would ease her fears. But, he doesn’t. Instead, he asks, “Would it be possible for me to take a look at your daughter’s room?”
The woman composes herself and stands up. “Well, I guess that would be okay,” she replies. “I mean, if you think that might help.”
“Absolutely!” says Bob. “Sometimes, there might be a diary or maybe a notepad with somebody’s name in it – like a boyfriend or girlfriend—”
“How about her computer?” Her voice grows excited. “She was on it constantly. You know how girls are; Facebook, My Space, all those chat rooms and stuff. Would that help?”
“It might,” says Bob. “I’d just kinda like to look around—if you don’t mind, that is?”
“Oh,” replies the woman. “I get it. Sure. How about that cup of coffee? Do you take anything in it?”
“Just a couple of sugars would be fine,” replies Bob. “And thanks. I shouldn’t be very long.”
“Take your time,” she says, pointing down the hall. “It’s the room on the right. I’ll have your coffee ready in a minute.”
Bobcat enters the room, and closes the door behind him. This is more like it, he thinks, upon surveying the chaotic space before him. What a mess. Then, it occurs to him why. She probably hasn’t touched a thing since the kid left. He dons a pair of latex gloves, and carefully (out of special respect for the mother’s feelings) begins to explore every corner of the room, starting with the clothes closet. Mostly, there are pairs of jeans and sweatshirts, and a few baseball caps, including one from the Hard Rock Cafe. Not much to go on there, he thinks.
Next, Bob moves to the computer desk. It’s a cheap one, he notes, the kind Wal-Mart sells that requires assembly. Probably the only thing old Howie ever did for the kid, he thinks, was put this desk together. Everything else he did, thinks Bob, he probably did to her. On top of the desk, sits a weathered monitor. Post-it notes adorn the sides – mostly song lyrics, phone numbers, and underlined expressions – and, on top, sits a small, green plastic troll. He picks it up and examines it. The name “Howie” is written on its chest, and Bob guesses the girl used it as a kind of Voodoo doll, judging by the numerous holes poked into its surface. Nice. He thinks of pocketing it, but decides not to. “Too obvious,” he mutters, restoring it to its original position.
Rifling through the computer desk’s solitary drawer, he finds nothing of interest. The same is true for the two drawers in the night table—no diary, nothing. A small hairbrush in the top drawer offers the best chance for a good sample of the girl’s DNA, so Bob takes a plastic evidence bag from his jacket pocket and drops the brush into it, slipping the bag back into his pocket. A noise behind him causes him to turn around just in time to see Mrs. Miller enter the room, carrying a steaming hot mug of coffee. “Sorry it took so long,” she says, handing him the mug. Her face filled with hope, she asks, “Anything?”
Bobcat frowns. “Not really. I had hoped there might be a diary, but either she didn’t keep one or she took it with her.” Mrs. Miller’s expression changes to one of disappointment. “I imagine you’ve contacted all of her girlfriends,” says Bob. “How about a boyfriend?”
Mrs. Miller shakes her head. “No boyfriend,” she replies, adding, “Howie was very strict with her.”
Bob sips the coffee, feeling a growing need to leave the poor woman with some sense of hope. “Oh,” he says. “The pictures. I was supposed to pick up some pictures. I almost forgot. Do you have them?” She nods, yes. “Great!” he says. “That’s probably our best shot. Once we can get those photos circulating around, it’ll probably be no time at all before we find your daughter.”
They move to the living
room, where Mrs. Miller has several photographs of her daughter in a manila folder, which she gives him, saying, “Do you really think there’s a chance?”
“Oh, absolutely,” replies Bob, unconvincingly. “We’ll let you know right away.”
Neither he nor Mrs. Miller believes what he is saying. But, at least, reasons Bob, he’s done his part.
Five minutes later, Bobcat bids Mrs. Miller goodbye, and starts back for Roscoe. He doesn’t arrive at Fung Chow Chinese Restaurant until one-forty, which, to his dismay is just a bit too late for the buffet. He orders a pint of General Tso’s Chicken to go, and eats it sitting in the Pathfinder, in the parking lot behind the restaurant. As he eats, he studies the pictures of Mrs. Miller’s daughter. Cute kid, he thinks. Before returning to the office, he unwraps his fortune cookie, breaks it in half, and extracts the little white piece of paper. It reads, “Things are not always as they appear. Look more closely, and you will find happiness.”
The words don’t offer much encouragement.
Chapter 48
Olivia, the previous year – day one, early evening
Warren paces nervously back and forth in front of the diner. Come on kid. At last, he sees Olivia exit the door, and cheerfully bounce down the four steps to the parking lot.
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” she asks.
“Not at all. Come on, my pickup’s right over here.” Warren leads her to a weathered, black and silver ’98 Ford Ranger, sporting an ancient aluminum cap affixed to its bed with rusted C-clamps. The truck is equipped with an extra cab, and Warren opens the rear door on the passenger side, saying, “Throw your gear in the back.” Olivia obliges, and then climbs into the front passenger seat. Fifteen minutes later, they pass Liberty, heading toward New York City, with hardly a care in the world.
As he drives eastward, Warren is finding it difficult to concentrate on his driving. Having Olivia so near to him is the kind of temptation that has gotten him into trouble in the past. He grips the steering wheel tighter, turns the music up a bit louder, and does his best to focus on the road ahead. A sign in the distance reads, “Monticello, 3/4 mile ahead.” Warren glances over at Olivia, who is half-asleep in the passenger seat. He thinks about what it would have been like to have someone like her to keep him company during his time in the desert. Maybe when they get to the city, he can talk her into shacking up in a motel for a night or two—before he drops her off at the Y. Yeah. Why not? Might be fun.
Oblivious to Warren’s intentions, Olivia falls deeper asleep, a feeling of safety permitting her to finally relax.
Chapter 49
Approximately nine months earlier
Red Buckner has always loved the life of a cop. Even now, more than a year into retirement, he still can’t get enough of “the life.” After dropping Olivia off at the diner, he heads over to East Branch to check on the accident he heard reported earlier on the police scanner. As he pulls off Route 17, and glides down the exit ramp, he sees what all the fuss is about. Up ahead is a large truck, apparently hauling slate from a nearby quarry, that has tipped over on its side. Large slabs of the heavy rock are strewn about, and the cab of the vehicle is badly damaged. Luckily, the truck has fallen on the passenger side, leaving the driver dazed, but relatively unscathed. There’s an EMS vehicle and several police cruisers from nearby towns surrounding the overturned vehicle, and a fire truck from the volunteer station over in Peakville. Red pulls his ancient cruiser over onto the shoulder, behind one of the other patrol cars.
At this point, rather than being an emergency situation, the whole affair has taken on a circus-like atmosphere, with numerous policemen and EMS workers crowded around the scene, munching on donuts and drinking coffee. It’s just the kind of activity that Red misses most. He hops out of his car and joins the others. Before long, it’s one big happy family—all except for the driver of the truck, who sits on the side of the road talking into his cell phone, probably with his wife.
Before long, a wrecker shows up, followed by a small crane, loaded on the back of a flatbed trailer. Red watches intently as the crane is unloaded, and the crew struggles to right the overturned vehicle. For a moment, Red’s mind wanders, and he pictures the young girl he dropped off at the diner, the image still clear in his memory. She was a cute little thing, he thinks. Kind of spunky, and not unlike someone else he knew a long time ago. He speculates where the girl might be at this moment.
East Branch is a tiny dot on the map (not even shown on some), but it holds special memory for Red. As the truck, carrying the slate, is finally righted, he watches as it is slowly winched onto the wrecker, and he permits his mind to wander back to a time when he was young, when things were simple and uncomplicated.
It’s 1963, and Dwight “Red” Buckner is eighteen, and in love. The object of his affections is a pretty, blond-haired girl from his church, a bit plain, but someone who is filled with the freshness and enthusiasm that only the very young – and very innocent – possess. She is only thirteen-years old – much too young for Red at his age – but she is everything the young man desires.
Unfortunately, for Red, she doesn’t even know he exists. But, she will—soon.
Chapter 50
Rhonda, some time the previous fall – still day eleven, late that evening
As Bryce watches, Rhonda slowly sways back and forth to the music with her eyes closed, and her arms wrapped across her chest. Bryce lets his eyes wander up and down her body. Jeez, what a figure. And, so young. Just the way he likes them, he thinks. She appears to be in a state of hypnosis. He slips behind her, crossing his arms over hers, and nuzzling her neck with his lips. She sighs softly, and leans back against him. Yeah. This is more like it, he thinks. “Don’t move a muscle,” he whispers in Rhonda’s ear. “I just want to use the little boy’s room, and I’ll be right back.”
While he’s gone, Rhonda uses the time to correct her makeup, pursing her ample lips as she applies still one more layer of lipstick to their surface. The reflection in the mirror of her newly colored blond hair catches her attention, and she thinks maybe she’ll leave it like that. Yeah. Why not? Then, it’s on to the refrigerator for another beer. She pops the tab, and lifts the can to her lips, quickly draining half its contents. She shouldn’t be drinking so much, she thinks. She feels a bit dizzy. It’s getting harder to maintain her balance. Oh, what the hell. He seems harmless enough, she thinks, so what’s the big deal? At least he’s not rough like Howie was. Through the fog of her intoxication, she hears the toilet flush in the distance, and recalls Bryce’s parting words. She tries to assume the same position she was in when he left her to visit the bathroom, but with her eyes closed, the room seems to spin a bit, and she lurches suddenly, only to be caught by Bryce, who has slipped noiselessly up behind her.
“Miss me?” he whispers in her ear, his arms encircling hers just as before. “Uh huh,” she sighs softly, letting herself go limp. She slips her arms out from beneath Bryce’s, and reaches up behind her to find his face with her hands. She feels the roughness of his unshaven jaw, and shudders when he kisses her fingers, and presses himself harder against her bottom
Just then, the song comes to an end, and the studio is deathly quiet.
“Oh, crap,” cries Rhonda. “The music stopped.”
“Yeah,” replies Bryce. “No more music.”
It’s time.
Chapter 51
One year earlier
Claire Andrews is old for fifty-five years of age. Years of physical and emotional abuse have taken their toll on both her body and her mind. Dressed in a worn housecoat, she watches her man warily, a mixture of conflicting emotions filling her to overflowing. She’s disgusted and ashamed, but at the same time somewhat jealous. This isn’t the first girl he’s brought home, and she probably won’t be the last. As usual, he’s picked her up hitchhiking, and brought her home with the promise of a hot meal and a place to spend the night.
She’s kind of pretty, in a “different” sort of way, thinks C
laire. Of course, she hasn’t got that “Ivory Snow” look that all the others have had. This one is just a bit more “modern.” Besides wearing denim britches, with holes in both knees, and a denim jacket, she’s got black-painted toenails and fingernails, a pierced belly button, and long dyed-black hair, clear down to her butt. But, as if that’s not enough, she also has one of those “god awful” pierced tongues. It’s disgusting, thinks Claire. What is it the young people call it? “Yucky?” Yep, that’s the word – “yucky!” Everybody knows it’s not right putting holes in your body; that’s not at all what a “nice” girl would do. It’s against God’s laws. She probably comes from a trashy family.
The girl has decent manners, however, and she thanks Claire for the meager meal she’s been given. When she’s asked where she comes from, she responds, “Corning. Do you know where Corning is?” Claire tells her she does. Her man, on the other hand, ignores the polite conversation, and concentrates on his dinner. He has things on his mind, and doesn’t wish to be distracted. Besides, he never was much on manners, thinks Claire, except for when they were courting. Then, he was all “Yes ma’am, no ma’am, be happy to, ma’am.” The big phony.
Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 19
