All the Dark Places(35)

“Hey, Rita. Nice dress.”

“Gee, thanks, Doug. I almost look as fashionable as you do.” He stands like a GQ model in his dark tailored suit, holding a cup of coffee. Doug’s big on appearances, as though his favorite part of the job is trying to look like some suave movie detective. He starts to walk with me as I make my way down the hall.

“Heard you’ve got a homicide cooking,” he says.

“It looks that way.”

He comes to a stop at his office door, sips his coffee. “Why does everything interesting happen when I’m not here?”

“Next time we’ll be sure to schedule a murder for after you get back from vacation.”

He smirks as though we’re in on some big joke. It sticks in his craw that the chief gives me the most high-profile cases. That I’ve got fifteen years of experience on Schmitt doesn’t seem to faze him.

“Well, good luck with that,” he says, and darts inside his office.

As I power up my computer, Chase peers in.

“Lauren said they’ve released Mrs. Bradley’s phone.”

“Good. Anything pertinent?”

“Nope.” Chase clears his throat. “I can run it by her place if you want me to. I was going to head out anyway. I’m supposed to be off.”

“Right.” I’d forgotten. “You don’t mind?”

His gaze shifts to the window. “No problem. It’s on my way.”

I put my hand on my hip. “Maybe we should wait, you know? The funeral just ended.”

“She seemed anxious to have it back. It might make her feel better.”

“Yeah. I guess. Okay, go for it.” When Chase leaves, I send a picture of the necklace to Mrs. Bradley’s number with a message asking if she knows who it belongs to.

Lauren walks in holding her laptop. “I might have something, Rita!” She drops down on the chair facing me. Lauren doesn’t usually get too excited, so her exuberance has my full attention.

“What?”

“Okay.” She sets her computer on the edge of my desk. She needs two hands to relate her story, I guess. “On a hunch, I’ve been searching for missing persons with the initials A.R.”

“And?”

She takes a big breath. “Annalise Robb. Twenty-four years old. Disappeared from a bar last summer. She and her boyfriend got into a fight, and she stormed out. Her mom filed the report the next day when she hadn’t returned.”

“No leads since then?”

“I couldn’t find anything. The sheriff on the case is a Tom Skinner. I’ll forward his number to you so you can give him a call.”

“Why do you think the necklace belongs to her? Could be a lot of A.R.’s out there who lost a necklace.”

“Because there might be a connection to Dr. Bradley.”

I look up from my computer screen. “How’s that?”

“She disappeared in Mountclair, New Hampshire.”

“Huh. Thanks, Lauren. I’ll give him a call then.”

She grabs her laptop and bounces on her way. I look back through my notes, just to be sure. Sometimes those innocuous questions bear fruit. That’s why I ask them despite people’s impatience. I grab my reading glasses and skim down the page, stop where I’ve sketched a little house, and find what I’m looking for. The Bradleys’ mountain home is definitely in a little town called Mountclair. Holy shit. I dial Sheriff Skinner’s number.

After I speak with a woman, my call is transferred to the sheriff. He answers, voice gruff.

“Hello, Sheriff. This is Detective Rita Myers with Graybridge PD down here in Massachusetts. How are you?”

“All right, Detective. What can I do for you?”

“We’re investigating a homicide and found a woman’s necklace at the scene, and we’re wondering if it might be connected to a case of yours.”

“And why’s that?”

“The necklace has the initials A.R. on it, and we’ve discovered that you’ve got a missing woman with those initials.” I stretch my legs under my desk.

“What’s this necklace look like?”

“Hold on. I’ll send you a picture.” I wait for the technical stuff to happen. Listen to the sheriff breathing on the other end. He’s either a husky guy or has asthma, by the sound of it.

After a minute, he clears his throat. “Where’d you say you found this necklace?”

“In the home office of our vic. Here in Graybridge. Forty-year-old local psychologist.”

He draws another labored breath, covers a cough. “How in hell did it get there?” he mumbles to himself.

“Well, that’s what we’d like to know. But there is a connection. The vic owns a vacation home up there in Mountclair. What can you tell me about your missing woman?”

The line goes silent. “Wait a minute,” he says at last, and I hear the clicking of what sounds like computer keys.

Certainly, he knows the details by heart. How many missing women does he have in that little place? As if reading my mind, he says, “I just sent you a file, but this is the gist of it. Annalise Robb was drinking with her boyfriend at the Mountclair Tavern on July Fourth. She and he got into an argument about one a.m., and she said she’d walk home. We have a bar full of witnesses who attested to that. It was busy, being the Fourth. Anyway, the boyfriend, Lyle Peabody, drank another beer, then left. After that, nobody saw her. Well, somebody saw her, but we just don’t know who.”