Читать книгу Because Of A Girl - Janice Kay Johnson - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

ANDREA LEE WORKED at The Beauty Boutique, which along with haircuts and perms offered waxing, sugaring—he didn’t even let himself speculate about that one—and manicures and pedicures. He stepped inside cautiously, seeing only women. Every single head turned. A sharp, chemical smell overwhelmed Jack’s sinuses.

A middle-aged woman who had been folding tiny pieces of aluminum foil into a customer’s hair left her to step behind the small front counter. Lifting her gaze from his badge, she smiled tentatively. “May I help you?”

She seemed a little old to be Sabra’s mother, but he couldn’t be sure. Nobody he saw resembled Sabra, judging from the most recent school photo.

“I’m looking for Andrea Lee,” he said. “I understand she works here.”

“Oh!” She pressed a hand to her bosom. “We’ve all been so terrified, wondering what possibly could have happened to Sabra. Andrea was so brave to come to work today.”

“She’s here, then?” He studied the half-dozen women either cutting hair or working on someone’s fingernails. He was pretty sure every one of them was eavesdropping.

“Yes, let me get her.” His informant went rushing to the back, where a curtain blocked the view of a supply or break room. A moment later, a second woman emerged, short and blonde like Sabra.

Any pretense of a waistline had disappeared, and he could tell by the time she was ten feet away that the blond hair wasn’t natural—or, at least, wasn’t natural anymore. Blue eyes welled with tears, tracking mascara down her cheeks. A whiff of cigarette smoke accompanied her.

“At last!” she cried. “I thought the police were pretending Sabra didn’t have a mother.”

Oh, damn. She’d managed more high drama in one sentence than a dozen teenagers had in the several hours he’d been at the high school. Jack hadn’t gone out for theater in high school or college, and he didn’t like being dragged into a scene staged for the benefit of an enraptured audience.

“Mrs. Lee, can we step outside to talk about your daughter’s disappearance? Or is there somewhere private we can speak?”

“All of my coworkers know about Sabra. I’ve been so shattered.” The woman who had gone back to foiling hair had tears in her eyes now.

Mrs. Lee finally led him through the shop, eight pairs of eyes following them, and behind the curtain to what was, indeed, a cramped break room with a small refrigerator, a microwave and a couple of reasonably comfortable chairs.

Private it wasn’t, but Jack supposed it didn’t matter.

“Emily is such a nice girl,” Mrs. Lee burst out. “I thought her mother was trustworthy.”

Despite his own reservations concerning Ms. Harper, that irritated him. This woman had tossed her own kid out. Meg had taken her in.

He couldn’t resist saying, “I assume you visited the home where your daughter was living, to be sure it was suitable?”

“Well, of course I’ve met Emily’s mother,” she said sharply. “I was grateful when she offered to give us time to cool off, but now she’s lost my daughter.” She snatched up a napkin to pat at her cheeks.

“She didn’t say whether the two of you have been in counseling.”

Sabra’s mother gazed woefully at him. “Oh, what difference does it make now? I would give anything to go back!”

Jack found it interesting that Meg had said something similar.

He asked questions. Mrs. Lee evaded. It wasn’t her fault her precious daughter had gone MIA. Her woe-is-me shit rapidly became tiresome.

By the time he gave up, Jack had reached only two meaningful conclusions. The first was that, contrary to his suspicions, Ms. Harper had told the truth; Mrs. Lee hadn’t so much as spoken to her daughter since the grand fight, and very likely didn’t have any intentions of doing so in the foreseeable future. Second, Mr. Lee—if he existed at all—was also MIA. “He abandoned us!” she cried, but Jack couldn’t pin down when that was. Mrs. Lee claimed to have no idea where he was and insisted he’d never paid child support. Unfortunately, she had another child at home, a girl who was eleven. Bryony—she carefully spelled it for him—had a different father, who did pay child support, although his wife resented it and he hardly ever spent time with Bryony.

Poor kid.

Jack’s head was throbbing by the time he thanked the woman for her time, promised to keep her informed and left the beauty shop.

He sat behind the wheel of his SUV, doing battle with an inexplicable desire to return to the Harpers’ house. If Meg—no, he should stick to Ms. Harper—had learned anything new, she’d have called him. She had his number.

Home, he told himself. A beer, a Mariners game and a frozen pizza added up to the smart choice.

* * *

TUESDAY MORNING, MEG tensed when the doorbell rang. She could not believe that jerk Rivera had called Child Protective Services on her. No discussion with her about his concerns, no warning. He’d just done it.

As mad as she’d been and still was, it was nerve-racking to have a social worker standing on her doorstep, intent on assessing whether Meg had abused or neglected Sabra.

But she made herself take a deep breath and summon her anger. This was insulting. It was also a huge waste of resources. Instead of trying to blame her for some unstated sin, everyone should be looking for Sabra.

Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door. A middle-aged woman who reminded Meg of a favorite art teacher in high school looked back at her.

“Ms. Harper? I’m Kathryn Berry. Please, call me Kathryn. And thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

As if she had any more of a choice than she had when either of the two police officers had appeared on her doorstep in the last week. Meg managed a polite smile and let the social worker in.

Leading the way, she said, “Would you care for tea or coffee?”

“Oh!” Kathryn darted into the living room to stare at the shepherd rug. “This is amazing. Where did you...” Her voice trailed off as she spotted the pillows. “Oh, my. These are wonderful. Did you make them?”

This might be an attempt to disarm her, but Meg didn’t think so. Her walls started to crumble.

“Yes, that’s what I do for a living. I design and hook wool rugs, pillow covers, wall hangings. I also sell and occasionally license the patterns and am working on a book that teaches technique and has some new patterns.”

“Where do you sell?” She looked chagrined. “I suppose we should get business over before I drool on your rug.”

Meg laughed. “Tea or coffee?”

The social worker chose tea, and she wandered after Meg to the kitchen, pausing only briefly to peek in the former dining room, now Meg’s studio. In the kitchen, she set her briefcase on the table. “This house has such charm.”

Either she was laying it on thick or she and Meg could be friends. In case of the former, Meg reminded herself to be wary.

Once she’d poured the tea, they sat down, facing each other across the table. Kathryn Berry had her wavy, gray-streaked hair cut short. She wore little if any makeup and didn’t seem to care about crow’s feet. She opened her briefcase and removed a pair of reading glasses, a notepad and pen. “I’m still low-tech,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“I’m so low-tech,” Meg admitted. “My daughter embarrasses me on a regular basis.”

“A five-year-old could embarrass me.” Kathryn smiled apologetically. “Okay, tell me about your daughter first.”

Meg did, relieved because, despite the recent outbreak of hormone-driven sullenness, Emily came across as successful. The social worker jotted down notes: daughter in honors English, stage-managed the high school’s fall musical, had a 4.0 GPA so far. Of course, none of that said anything about Emily’s real character, the qualities like kindness and generosity that Meg valued most.

But she heard herself continue talking. “Not a grain of artistic ability that I can see. Oddly enough, that’s Sabra’s strength. Her art teacher raved to me, and I had to agree that what she showed me was head and shoulders beyond what any of her peers are doing.”

She explained that Sabra and Emily had known each other since fifth grade, but had grown closer in middle school and become best friends the previous year. The past year, Meg had gotten an earful about Sabra’s tempestuous relationship with her mother.

“They’re both over the top emotionally. You know? Although at Sabra’s age, it’s a little hard to know whether she has a fiery personality or is just an average teenager. Plus, of course, there’s the pregnancy hormones.”

“And the very fact she is pregnant, which must alter how other kids perceive her.”

“Yes.”

Meg explained to this woman, as she had to Detective Moore, that she’d initially taken Sabra in on an emergency basis, not expecting her stay to extend the way it had.

“She’s proved a lot harder to deal with than I expected,” she confessed, making a face. “Right now, I’m voting for fiery.” Relieved by Kathryn’s laugh, she said, “I’ve just lately started to worry about what the next step should be for her. I can’t set everything aside to take care of her baby so she can stay in school.” And yet essentially abandoning Sabra the way her mother had wasn’t an option she could live with, either. “I suppose I would have called DSHS soon to ask for advice,” she said reluctantly, given a built-in wariness about institutions with more rules than heart.

Kathryn, she thought, had heart and might be willing to let some rules slide.

“Do you think Sabra imagined that she could stay long term?”

Meg shook her head immediately. “No. That’s been another worry. She acted as if she had a plan. She just wouldn’t say what it was. She told both Emily and me that she might get married, but she’s been adamant in not saying who the father of her baby is.”

“Hmm.”

“Have you spoken to Detective Moore who is investigating her disappearance?”

“I wasn’t aware anyone was yet,” Kathryn said, sounding surprised and possibly annoyed at having been kept in the dark. “Is there reason to believe she was abducted?”

“No,” Meg said, a little grimly. “There’s reason to believe she took off on her own.” She explained about the books, and that Emily had come up with a list last night of what she thought was missing, a list that included makeup and some of her favorite clothes. “Her toothbrush is here, but it’s possible she took a new one. Several were in the drawer.”

“Phone?”

“Yes, and her iPod, but she takes those to school on a normal day.”

Kathryn did suggest gently that Meg probably ought to have contacted DSHS if she was unable to persuade Sabra’s mother to sign a written contract. Meg didn’t say that the idea of a contract had never occurred to her. Apparently what she’d thought of as a kindness, being part of a village coming together to care for a child, wasn’t supposed to happen in the real world.

Kathryn asked to see Sabra’s bedroom, which Emily had, under duress, picked up last night. It still wasn’t organized, but at least without Sabra’s clothing strewn everywhere, only Emily’s, the room appeared spacious and airy with the high ceiling and a pair of double-sash windows looking out at the backyard.

They discussed possibilities for when—not if—Sabra returned, both staying completely positive. Kathryn offered her a card so she could call for any reason.

And then, a fanatical light in her eyes, the social worker said, “Now tell me how I can learn to hook rugs.”

* * *

THE DAY WAS completely unreal. Emily couldn’t believe she was supposed to go from class to class and concentrate on lectures, even take a pop quiz in geometry, when none of it was important compared with finding out where Sabra had gone.

Sabra was all anyone could talk about. And it wasn’t just to Emily. As she carried her tray through the cafeteria, snippets of conversation came to her.

“So she left with the guy who knocked her up? What’s the big deal?”

“She just wants attention.” That was a girl’s voice, and Emily knew her. She was being spiteful, because she liked being center stage. “Nobody was interested anymore. I mean, she was pregnant. We all knew that. So she had to do something.”

Emily was really tempted to trip and, oh oops, drop her tray on Belle Whitmore’s head. The Taco Surprise looked gross anyway. She could get something out of the machine instead.

But she never actually did the stuff she wanted to. Sabra could have done it and made everyone laugh. Emily knew she’d turn bright red, mumble apologies and slink away. She just wanted to blend in, to follow the rules.

So she kept going, finding a seat at a table of kids she knew from Drama Club. They were talking about Sabra, too, but they were almost done with their lunches, so after only a few minutes, she had the table to herself.

Mostly her food got cold in front of her while she tried to think.

She just didn’t understand. Sabra had her phone, so why wasn’t she answering it? Why did calls go straight to voice mail? They were friends. It hurt that she wouldn’t at least take Emily’s calls. Or even just text her. And explain.

Emily stared into space. Why hadn’t she tried harder to find out who the guy was? She so shouldn’t have covered for Sabra to meet some guy without knowing his name. But since Emily had helped her, why would Sabra have taken off like this without warning her?

And something she wondered but hadn’t heard anyone else say was, shouldn’t he be missing, too? If Sabra had taken off, her boyfriend must have, too. Right? If he went to school, or had a job, wouldn’t people notice he was gone? So why wasn’t someone saying?

She could pretend to have cramps today so she could get out of running, which she hated anyway. She’d done it before, and would be sent to the office to help make copies or collate handouts. If she had even a minute to herself, she bet she could find the attendance records in the computer. She’d look especially for a boy who’d been absent for three days now. And then she could maybe do some asking around.

Because, really, despite this voice in the back of her head she didn’t want to hear, some guy at the high school was likeliest, right? There had to be a good reason why Sabra wouldn’t name him. Last night, while Emily was trying to sleep, she’d suddenly thought, What if it was Dominic? Sabra knew Emily had a thing for him, so there was a good reason for her not to say, Um, see, it wasn’t you he was smiling at.

Except... Dominic was here today. She knew that for sure.

Anyway, attendance records gave her a place to start. Emily didn’t know how she’d find out anything about community college students, or any guys who’d already graduated and were working now.

And the other thought she’d had? It was so freaky, she just wanted to forget it.

Her gaze lifted to the big clock on the wall, and she gasped. The cafeteria was practically empty except for the lunch ladies with their hairnets. Metal banged in the kitchen. Emily jumped up and scraped her lunch into the garbage before bussing her tray and rushing to her locker.

* * *

“A FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD girl is smarter than you, huh?”

Mid-afternoon Tuesday, Jack lifted his gaze from his monitor to see that his friend and fellow detective John Troyer had paused by his desk. They were close to the same age and had joined the department within a year of each other. Troy had grown up in Frenchman Lake and decided, after a few years with Seattle PD, to come home. Jack’s choice of Frenchman Lake had been a little more random.

At the moment, Troy’s amusement was apparent. He’d been smart enough not to raise his hand to volunteer for this wild-goose chase.

Jack groaned and leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head and stretching until he heard bones crack. “Looks that way.”

“Good going with the carjacker, by the way.”

He grimaced. “I can’t claim any brilliant detective work. The girlfriend handed the asshole to me as a gift.”

Troy shrugged. “You’d have gotten his fingerprints out of the car anyway. Not a real smart criminal.”

“He didn’t intend to touch anything. I watched the surveillance tape. He was damn careful to push the door open with his shoulder going in. Didn’t pick anything up. Pulled his gun right away. If all had gone as planned, he’d have grabbed up his bag of cash and exited the same way. Too bad for him he lost his cool when his girlfriend decided she didn’t want any part of a holdup.”

Troy’s expression hardened. “Guys like him have shit for impulse control. Or, at least, that’s one excuse for what he did to her.”

They saw a lot of domestic violence, however peaceful the town of Frenchman Lake appeared on the surface. They didn’t often see anything as sustained and cruel as what the scumbag had done to Robin Buckley. “Heard the victim woke up,” Troy mentioned.

“Thank God. The doctors were getting worried. Looks like she’ll be okay. She’s a department secretary at Wakefield, and her husband is a prof. The college president put me on speed dial. I’ll be glad to get him off my back.”

“I know him,” Troy said, a little drily, reminding Jack that Troy had solved a very cold case involving the college, probably earning that same president’s eternal gratitude. And that Troy’s wife, Madison, was the alumni relations director at the college.

Some yelling was taking place a few desks away. Both men glanced that way to be sure they weren’t needed, then tuned out the racket. Jack sighed.

“I’m getting a bad feeling about the missing girl.” He wished he had enough information to bounce ideas off Troy, but the truth was, so far he’d come up empty. “I’ve tried pinging her phone, and it’s dead.”

Troy’s eyebrows shot up. “A teenager?”

That said it all.

Troy stood looking down at him for another thirty seconds or so, then tapped his desk, said, “Let me know if I can do anything,” and walked out. He was probably heading off to interview adults instead of sixteen-year-olds with their own language and a built-in suspicion of authority.

How well Jack remembered. Would he have been straight with some cop who’d come to his high school to ask questions? He honestly didn’t know.

Right now, he went back to his search for the absent Mr. Lee. His identity and location were probably irrelevant—but any competent investigator would want to eliminate him as a player in the girl’s disappearance.