The Second Girl(37)

I look everywhere I would normally look, including areas of the carpet that look like they may have been pulled up. After squeezing all her stuffed animals, I go through the drawers, including, admittedly, the drawer containing her underwear, which is something I’m not comfortable with but had to be done. I dig through the closet, her clothing, boxes, and even shoes. I move to the bookcase and go through all the books, hoping to find photographs or pieces of papers with notes or phone numbers.

Nothing.

I find a high school yearbook for last year. She would have been a freshman. I search the pages and find her picture. She looks a lot younger. I guess these are the years they grow quickly. I search through the M’s and see Amanda’s photo.

I tear off a piece of paper from my notepad and mark the page with it, then I set the yearbook on my notepad.

I go to the desk, search through the few papers she has, and then the drawers.

Nothing.

The last thing I do is go through the laptop.

I check the icons for anything that might indicate an account for email or social media, but don’t find anything.

I click the icon for Google hoping I will find something useful on the bookmarks bar or in the browsing history.

It’s another dead end.

I’m not surprised, though. If I wanted to hide something from my parents, the laptop they gave me would be the last thing I’d use.

So much for that secret hiding spot and that smoking gun of a diary I was hoping to find.

I walk downstairs with the yearbook, find Mrs. Gregory sitting on the sofa. She sees me and stands.

“It took a little longer than I thought,” I tell her.

“Please, have a seat.”

“That’s all right. I’m meeting with one of your daughter’s friends from the list you gave me. I don’t want to be late.”

“The police already did that. I know my husband gave you the list for your investigation, but can’t you just compare notes with the detectives here, speed things up?”

“It doesn’t really work that way, and even if it did, I’d still want to talk to her friends. By the way, I couldn’t find anything having to do with social media on her laptop. Was she on Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat or anything like that?”

“Certainly not Snapchat. And she wasn’t allowed to use social media on the laptop because that was for schoolwork. We did allow her to have Facebook on the iPhone, but she never used it. I guess it’s become more of a grown-up thing.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not the social media type.” I smile.

She forces a smile in return.

“You said you have a son.”

“Yes. He’s in school. The school bus will be dropping him off at the corner soon.”

“Oh, school. I was wondering why he wasn’t here.”

I pull the yearbook from under my notepad. “Can I borrow this for a day or two?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be going, then.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

She walks me to the door, but before she opens it to let me out she says, “I know I keep saying thank you, but I really do mean it.”

“And I appreciate hearing it.”

The first thing I do when I get to my car is take a pill container out of my briefcase, but not the container with the blow. I need a couple of Valiums.

I chase them down with a swig of Jameson, out of a flask I carry in an inner pocket of my suit. The Valiums will take a bit of the edge off my desire for coke. Klonopin is good for that too, but doesn’t last as long. Since that big score, I’ve been using more than I normally do.

I’ll have to find some good grapefruit on the way home.





Thirty-one



Carrie Deighton lives in the same community, just a few blocks away. The home is of similar design, but there’s not much attention paid to the landscaping. Carrie’s mother opens the door. I introduce myself. At her request, I show my identification, and then she invites me in.

Carrie is in the kitchen, sitting on a barstool at a tall breakfast table. She closes a book she’s been reading.

Her mother offers me a barstool across from Carrie, and then sits next to her. I’d like to tell the mother I’d rather talk to her daughter alone, but I have a good feeling she’d say no, and that would diminish my credibility with her daughter. It is going to limit my line of questioning to something less personal, but I gotta go with what I got. I’m sure she hangs with certain boys. I’m equally sure she won’t share that kind of information when her mother is sitting next to her. It is definitely a handicap having a parent around when you need to conduct an interview.

Shit, I wasn’t even offered coffee, so what does that tell you?

“I appreciate you meeting with me, Carrie.”

“No problem,” she says.

I take out my notepad, flip to a new page.

“How long have you and Miriam been friends?”

“Since middle school.”

“Fifth grade,” the mother steps in.

“That’s a long time. In kid years, anyway.”

They don’t even crack a smile.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

She looks at her mother. “I told the other officers this. Why do I have to answer the same questions?”