Sunset Beach(24)

“I couldn’t believe it. Back then, we didn’t have computers. All our work was typed or handwritten. The interviews, the evidence logs, the detective’s notes, all of that, years and years of investigative work, was in that file. And it’s gone just as sure as Colleen Hicks is gone.”



Drue looked down at the dusty black binder sitting on the floor beside her. Was this the missing file?





10


“Drue?” Wendy stood beside her cubicle, looking uncharacteristically frazzled. Her Hermès scarf was haphazardly knotted around her shoulders and her eyeliner was smudged. “I need you out in reception. Right now.”

Drue finished the referral form she’d been working on. “Why?”

“Because I’m your supervisor and I asked you to, that’s why,” Wendy snapped, turning on her heel. “And bring your headset.”

Drue gave a martyr’s sigh and trailed Wendy out to the reception area.

“You’re covering reception today. It shouldn’t be that busy. Brice is OOO, so he doesn’t have any appointments until this afternoon.”

“OOO?”

“Out of office,” Wendy said.

“So, where’s Geoff?”

“He called in sick. Impacted wisdom tooth.”

“Why me?” Drue asked. “Why not Jonah? Or Ben? Or Marianne or one of the other paralegals? Or the girls in accounting?”

“Because I asked you,” Wendy said. “The others are busy.” For the first time she stopped to take in Drue’s outfit, which today consisted of her usual skinny jeans and a navy-blue-and-white-striped T-shirt.

“Don’t you own any dresses? Or something that even vaguely resembles what a grown woman wears in a professional setting?” Wendy asked.

“I’ve got a dress I wear for funerals,” Drue said defensively. “And why do you care what I wear? I never interact with any of our clients in person. I’m stuck in the bullpen all day. So I wear what’s comfortable. Is that a problem for you?”

Wendy rolled her eyes. “I just think you should take a little more pride in your appearance. You’re a cute girl, Drue, or you would be if you’d ever put on some makeup and fix your hair.”

Drue sat at the reception desk. “I’m not auditioning for The Bachelorette, you know. And since I’ve never heard you take issue with anything the guys wear to work, I consider your remarks about my personal appearance to be sexual discrimination. Possibly harassment too.”

“Whatever. Just sit here, okay? You can still take whatever calls are routed to you, and use Geoff’s desktop. If we get any walkins, just run through the intake forms, same as you do on the Justice Line. Sign for any package deliveries. Got it?”

“I guess.”

“You can call me if there’s anything urgent, but things should be fairly quiet,” Wendy said.



* * *



The morning was largely a bust. The Justice Line was humming, but none of the calls yielded a single signed-up case. Drue sighed. The week was shaping up to be a big fat zero. She ate lunch at her desk: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, carrot sticks and a bag of green grapes.

The office door chimed softly and a burly African-American woman marched directly up to the reception desk. She was dressed in mauve-colored cotton scrubs. Her graying hair was cut close to the scalp. A young girl of eight or nine peeped out from behind her bulk. She wore pink eyeglasses held together with what looked like a paper clip, pink shorts and a T-shirt that featured a sequined pastel porpoise.

“I’m here to see Brice Campbell,” she announced in an overly loud voice.

Drue gave the visitor her best smile. “I’m afraid Mr. Campbell is in court this morning.”

“Yeah, uh-huh,” the woman said, wagging a finger in Drue’s face. “That’s what that woman on the phone been telling me for weeks now. He’s all the time in court. I have called and left messages, and nobody ever calls me back. So I’m here right now, and I’m not leaving until I see that man.” She planted her feet on the plush carpet and crossed meaty arms over her bosom. The little girl gripped the fabric of the woman’s pants tightly in one hand, and twirled one of the dozen pink-rubber-banded cornrows that cascaded to her shoulders.

“Uh, okay.” Drue picked up a pen. “Could you tell me your name and what case this is in reference to?”

“My name is Yvonne Howington. H-O-W-I-N-G-T-O-N. You got that? What this is in reference to is how my baby girl, Jazmin Mayes, ended up dead and stuffed in a laundry cart at the Gulf Vista Resort. This is in reference to how, thanks to Brice Campbell, ain’t nobody ever been arrested for killing my baby girl. Been nearly two years now. It’s in reference to how he messed up and let those hotel people get away with paying me hardly anything. That’s what this is in reference to.”

She looked down at the child and gently removed her hand from her hair. “Stop that fiddling now, Aliyah. You gonna mess up that pretty hairdo.”

Yvonne Howington gestured at the child. “Aliyah, she’s got asthma. Needs two different inhalers and two different kinds of pills. You know what one of those inhalers costs? A hundred and fifty dollars. And if she gets a cold, or an ear infection, which she does all the time, that’s another visit to the emergency room, and antibiotics and I don’t know what all.”