The Lifeguards(28)
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A PAIR OF SIZE six black pants and a white shirt were folded in the backseat; the victim had likely been a waitress or worked behind a hostess station or bar. After forensics gave him the go-ahead, Salvatore went through her belongings: a calculus textbook, makeup case with earrings, lip gloss, travel toothbrush, a cellphone with a password they would soon be able to bypass, a paperback copy of Carrie by Stephen King, and a pink towel.
He texted his boss: ALMOST THERE.
Jacquie had driven a Toyota. She’d worn black and white clothes to waitress at Vespaio on South Congress, paying her way through graduate school at the University of Texas. This car—though it was a different color than Jacquie’s, smelled different, didn’t belong to her, he knew that—made Salvatore woozy. He had the bizarre, déjà-vu-esque sense that he was trying to solve Jacquie’s disappearance by going through the meager remains in this car. The painful hope that he could still find her, somewhere, somehow, made him feel both fabulous and sick. Was he going to throw up again?
He did not throw up.
Salvatore stepped out of the car into the hot Austin afternoon. The 7-Eleven where the victim had parked her car was a few blocks from the greenbelt entrance that led to the spot where she’d been found. What the hell was she doing here? Why had she gone down to the greenbelt at night?
He saw a car park across the lot, and his colleague, Tina Silver, climbed out. Salvatore preferred to work alone but was glad to see Tina, who was smart as hell and often considered angles that hadn’t occurred to Salvatore. Tina was a blond woman in her late forties, a mother and grandmother who relied utterly on her husband, a librarian, who took care of all the cooking, cleaning, and childcare. The Silvers hosted a big Thanksgiving potluck every year, emailing an open invitation, Tina glowing as guests complimented her husband’s famous sweet potato pie. Salvatore and Jacquie had spent every Thanksgiving with Tina and her family, and Salvatore planned to bring the kids in the fall.
Tina saw Salvatore and approached. “This the victim’s car?” she said, when she reached him.
“Nothing concrete yet, but I’d bet on it.”
“We have a name?” asked Tina.
“No wallet. Got a phone, but there’s a password.”
Tina took a deep breath, put her hands on her hips. “Katrina found semen in the body,” she said. “No obvious signs of rape, but our Jane Doe definitely had intercourse the night she died.”
“OK,” said Salvatore.
“Water in her lungs, found on land, semen…you ready to call this a homicide?”
Salvatore nodded. “This is a murder investigation. Get the victim’s phone unlocked, and get me her home address from the plates.”
“I’m on it,” said Tina.
“Salvatore?” It was one of the techs; Salvatore turned. “There’s, uh…there’s a photo in the glove box.”
Tina and Salvatore rushed toward the passenger-side door. The tech held up a Polaroid print. The old-fashioned Polaroids were all the rage; Salvatore had given one to Allie “from Santa” the year before.
“It’s just some kids,” said Tina.
Salvatore stared at the photo. In the picture, three handsome teenage boys stood in the sunshine, their arms around each other’s shoulders. One was blond, one with black hair, and one with hair the color of strawberries. They were tanned and smiling, wearing City of Austin lifeguard uniforms.
“Any idea who they are?” asked Tina.
“No,” he said, squinting. They looked a lot like Salvatore and his friends, back when he was a carefree teenager. All three boys grinned, as if the world were a kind place, holding only joy in store for them. But Salvatore had met plenty of handsome teenagers who’d committed crimes.
He thought of the woman who had hung up on him earlier, then forced him to leave a message. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the photo. He had a feeling that one of these happy kids would turn out to be Charlie Bailey, address 1308 Oak Glen.
-21-
Whitney
WHITNEY WAS A TERRIBLE cook, hated every step from making a grocery list to garnishing plates. And although she could afford someone to help, or at least order in once in a while, she made herself do everything. Cooking and serving was what a wife and mother was supposed to do, so goddamn it, she wasn’t about to shirk her responsibilities.
Whitney understood that what drove her was internal, a voice that tore her apart and critiqued her every move. She imagined everyone was judging her constantly (and let’s be honest, many were) but understood that the unkindest commentator resided in her brain.
Whitney refilled her wineglass, continued to chop. The menu included grilled chicken—she even grilled, for God’s sake: was Jules the only neighborhood dad who didn’t man his own barbecue? He was a husband who could assemble a charcuterie platter with ease, but propane and tongs confounded him. On the side: orzo with pistachios, roasted red peppers, and feta. She would eat only the protein; Roma would concoct some borderline anorexic plate (or just eat garbanzo beans from a bowl—had she seen this on some “pro-ana” TikTok video?); Xavier would eat heartily and compliment her, hugging her and thanking her a bit overzealously, as if he knew how much she relied on his appreciation; and Jules would chew and nod distractedly, expecting nothing less than the usual gourmet meal at 6:30 sharp.