Pretty Girls Dancing(20)

“The chats were pretty innocuous. We’re unable to get the content of the text messages, just the dates and times when they occurred. There were no phone calls, and although kids seem to favor Snapchat and Instagram over Facebook these days, there’s no indication that they were communicating through those sites.” Mark could tell from Brian’s expression that the import of those facts wasn’t lost on the man. But Shannon’s brow furrowed.

“I know Whitney has Snapchat because once in a while she shows me a picture she . . .” Comprehension dawned, and she looked stricken. “That’s why, isn’t it? He never called . . . he avoided sites that regularly used pictures because . . . he isn’t Patrick Allen at all.” Her words ended on a sob, and she buried her face in her hands.

“We’re investigating that possibility.” Mark noted how long it took Brian DeVries to move from his chair, go to his wife, and put his arm around her. Something about the act seemed awkward. Not for the first time, Mark wondered what they’d discover down the road about the couple’s marriage.

He didn’t like this aspect of the investigation. The most delicate balancing act of his job was to show empathy for the hell they were going through even before he could discount them as suspects. But statistics didn’t lie, and a significant percentage of crimes against juveniles were committed by the parents. So one of the things he wasn’t telling the DeVrieses was the number of hours he and Craw were spending corroborating their statements. Looking into their backgrounds. Their financials. Their relationship.

Inwardly, he squirmed at the thought. Scratch the surface, and many marriages would show flaws and weaknesses. Even his own.

Especially his own.

Pushing aside the thought, he continued. “That’s why I asked again about a boyfriend. Do you recall Whitney ever mentioning a new friend? Hinting that she was communicating with someone different?”

“She wouldn’t do that. Tell us, I mean.” Brian’s voice was flat. “She’s fourteen. She isn’t allowed to date for another two years. She knows that’s nonnegotiable with us. And if I had heard there was a boy she was talking to, she would have had to answer a lot of questions. Part of having a cop for a father.”

“Maybe she mentioned something to your son.”

“Ryan?” Shannon raised her head, wiping away tears. “Doubtful. He’s a thorn in her side most of the time . . . totally normal sibling dynamics,” she hastened to add. “If he suspected anything, he’d have taunted her, probably at the top of his lungs. Believe me, I’d have heard about it.”

“I’d still like to talk to him.”

“He’s napping.” And from the tone of Brian’s voice, the kid would be undisturbed this evening. “Ryan is still a bit under the weather, and as you can imagine, he’s pretty worked up about his sister. He isn’t sleeping well at night.”

Mark nodded. “Another time, then. When he’s feeling better.”

“Have you traced the devices that the communications to Whitney were coming from?” Brian asked.

“He knew how to hide his tracks online. There are a number of ways he could have hacked the boy’s Facebook account. A phishing scam. Sending him a link to click on. He probably used a VPN so his IP address couldn’t be traced.” All this was supposition. It all boiled down to the fact that there’d be no leads from the offender’s computer. “His phone was a burner.”

DeVries uttered an ugly oath and looked away, his throat working. He obviously grasped the significance of that detail. Disposable phones came without contracts. Without identified users. There were legitimate reasons to buy them. But they were difficult to trace, and that fact would appeal to someone with something to hide.

Mark continued. “We got the phone number for the burner from your daughter’s cell records. We’ve discovered the network provider of the offender’s phone, and obtained a dump of all the transmissions to and from that number. It was used only to communicate with Whitney. We’ve installed a trap in the system. If he uses the phone again, we’ll get the time and tower location.” Mark looked at Shannon. “Your neighbor called the tip line yesterday. The lady who lives to the left of you?”

“Cyb Gladstone,” Brian muttered. His fingers flexed on the arm of the chair. Relaxed.

“We spoke to her before, of course, but she thinks she remembers hearing a garage door being raised the night Whitney disappeared. Do you recall hearing anything like that?”

“No.” Her voice certain. “We would have heard if it had been ours. Our bedroom is nearest to the garage. The last time we called Ask a Nurse about Ryan’s fever was, what . . . two fifteen or so.” Mark knew this was true. Shannon had phoned into the hospital’s question line at 12:21 a.m. and Brian at 2:14 a.m. Those facts in their statement had already been verified with the hospital’s call logs.

“By four, we were both dead to the world,” Brian continued. “Ryan’s fever broke around three, and his bed was soaked. We changed him, and he crawled into bed with us. That was the only sleep we got that night after he finally conked out for good.”

“Cyb’s a sweetheart, but I don’t know how reliable she is,” Shannon said doubtfully. “Last summer she swore she heard a gunshot in front of her house. It was just the garbage collectors clanging around. She takes a lot of medication . . .” Her voice drifted off, but her meaning was clear.