Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(30)

D.D. slowed. She didn’t recognize the voice, but could deduce from the level of anguish she was most likely talking to Stacey Summers’s father. Given the beating Boston PD had taken in yesterday’s news cycle—rumored suspect in college student’s kidnapping found dead, Boston police refusing to discuss circumstances—she shouldn’t be surprised. And yet still . . .

“Sir? With whom am I speaking?”

“Colin Summers. Who the hell do you think?”

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask the question. As I’m sure you’ve learned by now, the press isn’t above resorting to tricks to get inside information.”

An angry sigh on the other end of the receiver, the sound of a man trying very hard to pull himself together. D.D. used the moment to set down her messenger bag, then pull out her chair and take a seat at her desk.

“Is it true?” Colin Summers whispered at last.

“At this time, we have no evidence linking Devon Goulding to your daughter’s disappearance.”

“Stop. That’s cop-speak for bullshit. This is my daughter we’re talking about. Please just give me the truth.”

“Sir, I personally attended the crime scene. We’ve spent the better part of twenty-four hours tearing apart the Gouldings’ house. I am telling you the truth: We’ve found nothing to link him to your daughter.”

“But in the news . . . They said he was a big guy. They said he matched the picture in the video . . .”

“That’s true.”

“And he was a bartender. That could be the connection. Stacey was last seen at Birches downtown. He could’ve worked there.”

“We checked. Devon Goulding has no employment history with Birches.”

“But what if Stacey met him at the bar where he did work? Maybe he spotted her there. And he . . . liked her. That’s how these things sometimes work, right? He took one look at her and she became his target.”

D.D. hesitated. Talking to grieving family members was her least favorite part of the job. It was tempting to answer all their questions. To soothe and to explain. But the truth was, her primary obligation wasn’t to Colin Summers or his wife. It was to Stacey. And working a case was as much about safeguarding key details as it was about discovering new ones. She couldn’t risk telling Mr. Summers everything they knew about Devon Goulding. There’d been too many other occasions where the grieving father had shared valuable information with his wife or best friend, who inevitably shared it with another person, then another, until the next thing the police knew, everything they couldn’t afford known about their ongoing investigation was now fodder for the evening news.

Most family members would tell you they’d do anything to help find their loved one. Unfortunately, for their sakes, what the investigating officer genuinely needed from them was restraint.

D.D. said: “Did Stacey ever frequent Tonic bar?”

“I don’t know. She wasn’t a big drinker, or a big partier. But . . . she was social,” he conceded. “If her friends wanted to go, she’d follow along.”

D.D. nodded. That was consistent with what they’d established up to this point. Yesterday afternoon, Phil had personally visited Devon Goulding’s place of employment, Tonic, with a picture of Stacey Summers. Several bartenders recognized her from the news coverage of her case, but none could place her in the establishment. Of course, that didn’t rule out Devon Goulding having crossed paths with her at a different time or at a different bar. Boston offered up a robust scene for the college crowd. The choices were endless.

Not to mention, given Goulding’s abduction of Flora Dane, they couldn’t argue that blondes weren’t to his taste.

“Do you know Florence Dane?” she asked abruptly.

There was silence on the other end of the phone line. Silence that definitely went on several beats too long.

“Why do you ask?” Colin Summers spoke up at last.

“Has she been to your house? Has she met with you?”

“We met with her mother.”

“What?”

“When your child disappears . . . There’s a program. Through the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Another parent, someone who’s been there, calls to offer support. Rosa Dane was appointed as our mentor. Within the first twenty-four hours, she called, then stayed on the phone with my wife while she cried.”

“Have you personally met with her?”

“She’s been to our house a couple of times. She’s been very helpful, Sergeant. After what she went through . . . she understands. She listens and she helps. Which is more than we can say for the rest of you.”

D.D. winced at the man’s bitterness, reminded herself again it was nothing personal. The family wanted answers. They wanted their daughter back. But to date the detectives could only provide more questions at best, and fresh suspicions at worst.

“And her daughter, Florence?” D.D. pressed again.

“I’m familiar with her case,” Colin Summers said, which was, in fact, no answer at all.

“She accompanied her mother on one of her visits,” D.D. stated.

“No.”

“Reached out via phone, e-mail, Facebook? You know her, don’t you, Mr. Summers? You’ve spoken to her personally about your daughter.”