Two Days Gone (Ryan DeMarco Mystery #1)(50)
She went into the bathroom and locked the door and turned the hot water on so that it gushed and splashed and steamed into the tub.
When he drove home that night, he played a Paul Winter CD filled with songs that had no lyrics, no voices, no heartfelt, useless words.
Thirty-Five
Morning brought the kind of clarity that only a chill November morning can. At a few minutes after eight, DeMarco stood sipping coffee on his front porch, using the bite of the air to wash the heaviness from his eyes. The grass in his yard shone neon green in the new sun and sparkled with frozen dew. Shadows from the slender poplars around the perimeter striped the grass. Everything looked clean and new to him in the morning and he hoped the illusion would last. He was determined not to beat himself up anymore over his weaknesses; he needed to stop sapping his energy and concentration with regret. A woman and her three children had been slaughtered and the primary subject was still at large, a man DeMarco knew and had liked. It was DeMarco’s responsibility to bring the suspect in, not to determine his guilt or innocence. He did not want to let another day pass without making some progress on the case.
With enough caffeine and sunshine, maybe he could have a productive day.
When he first entered his office that morning at the barracks along Route 208, he stood for a while at the window behind his desk. Across the road, the digital sign outside Citizen’s Bank registered a temperature of thirty-seven degrees. Behind and on both sides of the bank, a cornfield of stubbled stalks continued in shades of khaki and sage to the distant woods. Those woods, he knew, continued northward all the way to Lake Wilhelm, broken only by a few villages and asphalt roads and the ceaselessly rumbling four lanes of interstate highway.
“You’re out there somewhere,” he said. “You’re cold and you’re hungry, and as far as I know, you’re completely out of your mind. But you’re out there. And I’m coming to get you. I’ll find you, my friend.”
He turned then and sat at his desk and pulled from his shirt pocket the slip of paper Bonnie had given him the night before. He had already passed the first name, Tracy Butler, on to Trooper Carmichael. The other name, Danni Reynolds, would keep him busy for the next two hours.
He ran the name through a couple of databases on known criminals. No priors, no hits. He checked the Department of Motor Vehicles, both Pennsylvania and Ohio. No vehicle registered in the name of Danni Reynolds. He did a background check through the court records. He called the Registrar of Deeds at three county courthouses for a listing of any property held in the name of Danni Reynolds. He keyed in the name on Google, Classmates.com, Facebook, EmailFinder.com, People Finder, Zabasearch, ThePublicRecords.com. He tried four different zip codes on Whitepages.com. No address available for a Danni Reynolds. No Danni Reynolds. No Danielle Reynolds. No Danna, Danique, or Danica Reynolds.
As a last resort, he ran the name through the cell phone registry. No hits on either Danni or Danielle or any of the other variations, but there were seventeen listings for D. Reynolds. Only four—two D. Reynolds, a D. J. Reynolds, and a D. L. Reynolds—were within fifty miles of Whispers.
He used the office landline and blocked the number. The first call was answered by a deep male voice. DeMarco said, “Is this D. J. Reynolds?”
“Who’s this?”
“I’m a friend of Danni’s, Mr. Reynolds. Would you happen to know where I could reach her?”
“Hell, I don’t even know who Danni is, pal.”
The number for D. L. Reynolds connected to the voice mail for a landscaping business. The call to the first D. Reynolds was answered by the recorded greeting of what sounded like a teenage girl. “Hi, guys! I can’t take your call right now. Leave me a message!”
DeMarco circled that number on his notepad and dialed the last. This call was answered by another female voice but older, tired. “Hello?”
“Hi, Ms. Reynolds. My name is Bob Leland. I’m with the County Census Bureau and we’re doing an update of our records in anticipation of the next census. Could you just confirm for me that I am speaking with Danielle or Danni Reynolds?”
“Sorry. My name is Darlene.”
“Well, that’s a good name too. Yep, there you are, three names below Danielle. And you are residing at the same address as provided during the last census?”
“Unfortunately I am,” she said.
“Okay, thank you very much, that’s all I needed to know. Unless…any chance you would know the address for a Danni or Danielle Reynolds? I’m having a heck of a time tracking her down.”
“Sorry. Nobody I know.”
“Well, thank you anyway. Have a beautiful day.”
Next DeMarco did a reverse lookup of the number he had circled. Thirty seconds later, he had what he needed. D. Reynolds, 14 East Pearl Street, Apartment 2C, Albion, Pennsylvania. She lived fewer than fifteen miles from the strip club. “You’re my girl,” he said aloud.
It was 10:09 a.m. If he left now, he could be in Albion around eleven. “A good time,” he told himself. A stripper who worked until two or three in the morning would probably still be in bed, but not so soundly asleep that a phone call wouldn’t rouse her. She would be groggy, not thinking straight, might blurt out a few words he could use.
He stuffed the notepad into his jacket pocket, then walked down the hall to Carmichael’s desk. “You get me anything?”