Pretty Girls Dancing(33)
The elevator pinged, and he walked into it as he slipped the cell into his pocket, relief filling him. Turning, he fixed his gaze on the panel, willing the lift to move faster.
And tried not to think about what a son of a bitch he was.
Special Agent Mark Foster
November 6
7:30 p.m.
At Mark’s entrance, Ben Craw looked up from the long table he’d had brought into his motel room and grunted. “I gave up on you hours ago and went out for a bite.”
Setting the pizza box down on the desk tucked in the corner of the room, Mark unzipped his coat and slipped out of it, hanging it on the back of the desk chair. “It took longer than I thought it would to get David Willard to make time for an interview today. But no worries. I’m hungry enough to eat the whole pie myself.” He flipped open the lid of the box and placed a wedge of pizza onto one of the paper plates the restaurant had included. Turning, he strolled back to the table, studying the papers strewn across it as he lifted the piece of pizza to his mouth and bit into it. “Oh, my God.” The explosion of taste had his eyes closing in ecstasy. He took another greedy bite. “This is amazing.”
Craw slid a glance at him. “Get a hold of yourself, Foster.”
Both he and the other agent resided in London, about a half hour from Columbus and an hour and a half away from West Bend. As long as there were active leads to follow in this case, they’d be working it from here. The senior agent had had one of the beds removed from the room to make space for the table. On the wall behind it were notes and graphs relating to the case. The information posted there was evolving by the day. Mark hooked the free folding chair with his foot, pulled it out, and sank into it. “Seriously. I’m having a foodgasm. You know how long it’s been since I’ve had pizza? Kelli’s had me on the healthy eating kick for months. And as a former pizza connoisseur, this rates among the best I’ve ever had.”
The other agent’s look became more assessing. “What is that? Sausage?”
“Three meat, double cheese with mushrooms.” Mark wolfed down the rest of the slice, rose, and went back for more. “You’ll be sorry you didn’t wait.”
“I could eat. Bring me a slice.”
Mark returned with a second plate and handed one to Ben. “You sure? It’s got pepperoni on it. I thought that gave you indigestion.”
“Everything gives me indigestion these days. This case is no exception.”
They ate in silence for several minutes as Mark unabashedly scanned the screen of Craw’s open laptop, which displayed new case details. Craw finished first, belched indelicately, then went for a second slice, unceremoniously dumping another on Mark’s plate when he returned. “So, how was Willard?”
“About what you’d expect.” Polishing off his second piece, Mark turned his attention to the third. “Visibly unhappy to see me and far unhappier by the time we were through.” It was part of the job, but the task had given him no pleasure.
Craw grunted as he set his slice down, half-eaten, and rubbed at his chest.
“Is he alibied this time around?”
According to the Kelsey Willard file, her father had been working late when his wife had called to tell him the girl was missing. “Time will tell.” Mark set his plate down and wiped his fingers with a napkin before he pulled his cell from his pocket. Finding the pictures of the receipts Willard had shown him, he handed the cell to Craw. “He spends a four-day work weekend twice a month on firm business in Columbus.”
The other agent flipped through the photos before handing the phone back. “Gives us a place to start. The hotel shows a check-in time of six o’clock Thursday night and a checkout time of eight a.m. Monday. Columbus is only ninety minutes away, so that doesn’t eliminate him by any means. How’d he seem to you?”
“Tense. Frustrated. Defensive. Sad.” Mark punctuated the words with bites of the pizza. “All in all, about what you’d expect, having the worst trauma of his life brought up again. He’s not eager to have us talk to his wife. Got the feeling she hasn’t recovered from her daughter’s loss.” That sparked another thought, and he peered more closely at the poster he’d constructed and taped to the wall that detailed the connections between the Willard and DeVries disappearances. Even after four days, it was depressingly scanty. “He did say Claire Willard used to attend the same church as Brian DeVries’s mother.”
Craw looked interested. “The grandmother, huh? Brian and Shannon said they didn’t attend any church regularly.”
“Neither does David Willard. But he mentioned that his wife took the girls with her sometimes.”
The other agent nodded. “Gives you something to follow up with the families. I finally got the chance to interview Whitney’s best friend, Macy Odegaard. She knew about the supposed online romance between Whitney and Patrick Allen from the beginning. But I didn’t get much that we didn’t already know. The girl did mention a couple of times that Brian DeVries was pretty strict.” The man lifted a beefy shoulder. “Again, we got that from their communications. But it’s obvious why the victim might have been easily convinced to keep the relationship under wraps.” He reached into the breast pocket of the suit coat he still wore and thumbed a Tums out of its wrapper, popped it into his mouth. “Far more interesting information from the DeVrieses’ financials. Brian DeVries has made an annual cash withdrawal on his credit card in the amount of five thousand dollars for the last three years. Still has nearly that much in the outstanding balance. That happens when you make only the minimum payment. The interest on those advances is outrageous.”