Missing You(82)

The girl’s steps became more like dance movements. As Kat got closer, she could see that Melinda—why not call her that in her mind?—was wearing white earbuds. The cord dangled past her waist, doing its own little dance.

Melinda turned suddenly and met Kat’s eye. Kat looked for a resemblance, an echo of Jeff, but even if she did see one, that could simply be her imagination.

The girl stopped and stared.

Kat tried to play it cool. “Uh, excuse me,” Kat called out. “How do I get to the lighthouse?”

The girl kept a safe distance. “You just get back on Montauk Highway. Keep driving until the end. You can’t miss it.”

Kat smiled. “Thanks.”

“Nice car.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not mine. It’s my boyfriend’s.”

“He must be rich.”

“I guess so.”

The girl started walking away. Kat wasn’t sure what to do here. She didn’t want to lose this lead, but cruising alongside the girl was getting creepy. The girl picked up speed. Up ahead, a school bus made the turn. The girl started to hurry toward it.

Now or never, Kat thought.

“You’re Ron Kochman’s girl, Melinda, right?”

The girl’s face lost color. Something close to panic filled her eyes. She nearly sprinted away now, jumping on the bus without so much as a wave good-bye. The bus door closed and whisked her away.

Well, well, Kat thought.

The bus disappeared down the road. Kat turned the Ferrari around so it faced the Kochman home again. She had clearly spooked the kid. If that meant anything—if she had spooked the girl because she had something to hide or if the girl’s reaction had something to do with a weird woman quasi-stalking her—it was hard to say.

Kat waited, wondering if someone else was going to emerge from the house. She took it a step further, moving the car and parking it directly in front of the Kochman home. She waited a few more minutes.

Nothing.

The hell with waiting.

She got out of the car and headed straight up the walk. She hit the doorbell once and knocked firmly for good measure. There was beaded glass on either side of the door. Kat couldn’t make anything out through it, but she could see movement.

Someone had passed by the door.

She knocked hard again and, with an internal shoulder shrug of why not, called out, “This is Detective Donovan from the New York Police Department. Could you please open the door?”

Footsteps.

Kat backed off and braced herself. She absentmindedly smoothed out her shirt and even—God, help her—patted down her hair. She saw the knob turn and the door opened.

It wasn’t Jeff.

A man Kat would estimate to be around seventy years old peered down at her. “Who are you?’

“Detective Donovan, NYPD.”

“Let me see some identification.”

Kat reached into her pocket and pulled out her badge. She flipped it open. That was usually enough, but the old man reached out and took hold of it. He examined it closely. Kat waited. He squinted and kept examining it. Kat half expected him to break out one of those jeweler’s magnifying glasses. Finally, he handed it back to her and gave her the full-on stink-eye.

“What do you want?”

He wore a brown flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, Wrangler jeans, and brown soft-toe work boots. He was good-looking in a weathered way, the kind of guy you imagined had spent the majority of his life working outdoors and it agreed with him. His hands were gnarly. His forearms were the kind of sinewy you get from life, not a gym.

“May I ask your name, sir?” Kat said.

“You knocked on my door, remember?”

“I do. And I’ve given you my name. I’d very much appreciate it if you’d extend me the same courtesy.”

“Appreciate my ass,” he said.

“I would, really,” Kat said, “but those jeans are a little baggy.”

His mouth twitched. “You messing with me?”

“Not as much as you’re messing with me,” Kat said.

“My name ain’t important,” he snapped. “What do you want?”

There was no reason to play around with this guy. “I’m looking for Ron Kochman,” she said.

The question didn’t seem to faze him.

“I don’t have to answer your questions,” he said.

Kat swallowed. Her voice sounded as though it were coming from someone else. “I don’t mean him any harm.”

“If that’s true,” the old man said, “then maybe you should be leaving well enough alone.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“No, Detective Donovan, I don’t think you do.”

His eyes pinned her down, and for a moment, it felt as though he knew who she was. “Where is he?”

“He’s not here. That’s all you need to know.”

“Then I’ll come back.”

“There’s nothing left for you here.”

She tried to speak, but no words came out. Finally: “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m going to close my door now. If you don’t leave, I’m going to call Jim Gamble. He’s the chief of police here. I don’t think he’ll like some NYPD cop hassling one of his residents.”