Fragile (22 page)

“So what I’m asking now is, Does anyone have any information on where Charlene might have gone? New York City is a big place; police there have been notified. But the chance of an officer randomly spotting her is unlikely. So what do we know about places she might have frequented, who she might know, where she might be staying? And don’t think you’re protecting her by keeping secrets. Charlene could be in very big trouble.”

He looked out at the crowd. Maggie watched Britney reluctantly rise.

She turned around to look apologetically at Ricky, then said to Henry, “She said she had a boyfriend in the city. All I know about him is that he plays guitar and his name is Steve.”

Maggie looked at Ricky, but he was staring blankly ahead. Elizabeth reached over Maggie and gave Rick a comforting pat on his thigh, but he didn’t seem to notice. That anger at Charlene started to simmer again.

“Do you know anything about him? A phone number, e-mail? Is anyone his friend on Facebook?” Henry asked.

Britney shook her head. “No one knows him. No one’s met him. Honestly, we all thought she was making him up.”

“Who were those Facebook friends of yours, the ones you and Charlene had in common?” Maggie whispered to her son.

“Who?” he asked. Just like Elizabeth, stalling with obtuse questions.

“The older ones from New York, Rick,” she said, failing to mask her annoyance. “You know who I’m talking about.”

He shrugged. “They’re just people we met. The guy who owns the studio, Markus, said he’d help us record our demo tape. We met him at a club.”

“Does he know you’re only seventeen?”

Another defensive shrug, the gesture of choice among teenage males. “I don’t know.”

“Have you been in touch with them since she disappeared?”

“What do you think?” he snapped. Then, more gently, “Of course. No one’s seen her.”

“And these were not the people she claimed to know, the ones who could get her into the music business?”

“No. I told you. I never met those people. Or the other guy she was supposedly seeing.”

“You know about him?”

“We had an open relationship.”

“Oh. Great. That’s great.”

Maggie noticed Henry was looking at them, raised her hand in apology.

“Do you have anything to share, Rick? You were closest to Charlene,” Henry said.

Ricky stood up. “I don’t believe Charlene left that message on Facebook, the one about being ‘large and in charge.’ She would never use language like that; it’s not her voice or her tone. I think she was making things up about who she knew in New York, her supposed other boyfriend.”

“So where do you think she is, Rick?” asked Henry. Everyone had turned to look at Maggie’s son. He stood strong with head and gaze straight at Henry. He was tall and proud, so like Jones, composed, not allowing himself to be overcome with the emotion she knew brewed within him.
I’m not a child
, he’d said to her the other night. He was right.

“I don’t know. I’ve talked to the people we both knew in New York, and no one’s seen her. She hasn’t been in touch with anyone, including me, since early yesterday evening, and I think that’s suspicious. Because if there’s one thing Charlene needs, it’s an audience.”

“But that’s assuming the Facebook message didn’t in fact come from Charlene. If she did send it, then she’s being true to form,” said Henry. “Someone would need her log-in and password to send it from her account.”

“Lots of people know that. I do. Her friends might.”

“I think it sounds just like her.” Britney was standing now, looking at Ricky. “She’s doing what she always does, making a show.”

Ricky shook his head. “You don’t understand her.”

“No, Rick,” said Britney softly. “It’s you who doesn’t understand.
She uses people. She used you; she’ll use whoever she went to be with in New York.”

The air went electric with an awkward tension. Maggie heard someone laugh, but when she looked around, she couldn’t see who it was.

“I thought you were her friend,” said Ricky. He looked more sad than angry. Maggie heard a little catch in his voice.

“I
am
her friend,” said Britney. She started to tear up, dug her hands into the front pocket of her pink Hollows High sweatshirt. “I see her for who she is and care about her anyway.”

Denise stood up and put a bolstering arm around her daughter. Maggie resisted the urge to do the same for Ricky; he wouldn’t want that. Didn’t need it.

Ricky looked away from Britney and back at Henry.

“I think something bad happened last night. Something more than a fight with her mother. Charlene fought with her mother constantly; they never got along. It wouldn’t be a reason for her to run away, not like this.”

“Like what?” Henry said. “What do you think might have happened?”

“I don’t know,” Ricky said, seeming deflated. Maggie turned around to look at Jones, hoping he would step forward to support their son. But he was gone from where he’d stood by the door. She knew that he had a job to do, that something important had called him away. But she felt angry and disappointed anyway.

“I may have seen her. The missing girl.”

“May have?”

“It was dark. I’d had some wine.”

“Where and when was this?”

“Last night around eleven thirty. I was at my—,” he said, stumbling over the word. “At my girlfriend’s house on Persimmon Way. Well, she’s not really my girlfriend. We just started seeing each other. But, um, anyway … she was asleep and I went to the kitchen to get some water, went out on the veranda to drink it.”

“It was cold last night.”

“Yes, it was.”

“So why go out to the veranda?”

Charlie cleared his throat. “You know, just to get some air.”

“And?”

“I saw her—this girl with pink and black hair—standing on the sidewalk, talking to someone in an old car.”

“What kind of car?”

Charlie shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not good with things like that. It was green, big. Like a muscle car, but I couldn’t tell you the make or model.”

“Okay.”

“Then she got in and the car pulled away.”

“She got in of her own free will?”

“It appeared that way. She didn’t seem afraid or upset. Maybe a little sad. But she opened the door and climbed inside. I never saw the driver. I mean, he—or she—never got out of the car.”

The detective was writing things down on his pad. Charlie felt an uncomfortable dryness in his throat, a slight shake to his hand. He felt guilty, edgy, as though he’d done something wrong and was trying to hide it. He always felt that way when cops were around, like they were looking at him, seeing a secret guilt he couldn’t acknowledge himself. Maybe it was because of Lily.

Now, at the police station, with Wanda sitting in the waiting area reading a paperback novel, he could feel a sheen of sweat on his brow. He wanted to wipe it away, but he didn’t want to call attention to the fact that he was sweating in the first place. He kept talking.

“I heard about the disappearance late today at a client’s house. I didn’t know about it before then.”

“A client?”

“I work for a pest removal company.”

Charlie waited for some show of disgust, but the detective just nodded his head. The guy was slightly overweight, slightly balding. But there was something virile and intimidating about him, something in the set of his brow, in his cool, level gaze. His shirtsleeves were rolled up
to reveal muscular forearms covered with dark hair. The leather shoulder holster made him look beefy and strong. Charlie felt small and boyish in comparison, weak somehow.

“I’m not sure it was her, actually. But my girlfriend thought I should say something, just in case.”

The detective was still writing. What was he writing? Charlie knew he hadn’t said enough for all that writing. He looked around the room; it wasn’t how he envisioned a police station. He thought there would be big oak desks facing each other, some kind of chalkboard with a list of open cases, old rotary phones, a cell for holding criminals, flickering fluorescents. But it looked like the inside of any modern office building, with cubicles, fax machine, watercooler. The detective’s desk was faux wood and metal; a brand-new computer gleamed on its surface. Even so, he was writing on a notepad balanced on his crossed leg. A southpaw, pushing his hooked hand awkwardly across the page. His broad shoulders partially obscured a riot of crayon drawings tacked to the walls: a city scene, a stick figure in hat and badge standing next to what looked like a squad car, a family of four with enormous heads lined up beside a tiny house.

Charlie felt the urge to tell the detective about Lily, but he knew that was a stupid idea. It was irrelevant, ancient history. Bringing it up would just seem weird.

“Did you see what she was wearing, Mr. Strout?”

Charlie thought about this. He shook his head. “I want to say she was dressed in black? But I can’t be sure about that. Like I said, it was dark and I was on the veranda; there’s some landscaping that kept me from seeing clearly.”

Again, the slow nod. Charlie waited for the detective to turn those hard eyes on him. But when he finally looked up from his notepad, his gaze was polite, easy. Beside him was a picture of himself, a pretty woman, and two children, all grinning wildly.

“Can you remember anything else, Mr. Strout?”

Charlie shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

The detective slid a business card across the desk.
CHUCK FERRIGNO, DETECTIVE
. There were several numbers—an office phone, fax, and mobile line. There was also an e-mail: [email protected].

“I’m going to ask you to think about that vehicle, Mr. Strout. Maybe you know more about cars than you think. If you can remember a make or a model, fantastic. But any other distinguishing marks—a noticeable dent, a bumper sticker. Anything like that might help, as well.”

“Okay,” said Charlie. “I’ll think on it.”

“And call anytime. Even if you remember something and you think it’s insignificant, just call or drop me an e-mail. Let me be the judge.”

“Okay.”

Charlie sat a moment before he realized the interview was over and felt a rush of disappointment as he stood. Had he expected to be offering the clue that would break the case, send the detective running for the door? Maybe. He had been watching a
lot
of crime shows on television.

The detective offered a hand and, maybe sensing Charlie’s hesitation, said, “Is there anything else, Mr. Strout?”

“Uh, no,” said Charlie. “I’ll think on that vehicle.”

“Great.”

Wanda was waiting for him when he pushed through the exit door. It was a quiet night in The Hollows, he guessed. She was the only one sitting in a long row of plastic chairs against the wall.

“How’d it go?” she said, rising.

“Good. He took the information.” He zipped up his jacket.

“See?” she said, looping an arm through his. “I told you it would be fine.”

“You were right,” he told her. He was glad she was there. He felt calmer, more stable, just looking at her. “He wants me to think about the vehicle. I just don’t know much about cars.”

“I do,” said Wanda, with an excited little inhale. “My daddy worked for Ford. He was a clay modeler. He knew
everything
about cars. Maybe I can help?”

He held the door open for her, and they walked out into the cold.
He felt like they’d been together for a hundred years, he was so comfortable, so sure of what he needed to do to make her feel good. Outside, he laced his fingers through hers, noticing her square, perfectly manicured nails, and they walked to his car.

“You don’t mind?” he said. “Talking it through with me?”

“No!” she said, squeezing his hand. “It’ll be like our own mystery to solve.”

He opened the door for her and waited until she slid inside, then closed it gently. He walked around to the driver’s seat, already thinking about what he’d seen last night.

“It was green,” he said, when he’d climbed inside. “Big, you know? A gas guzzler.”

He started the engine. He was suddenly glad he’d sprung for the new Prius a couple of months ago, that he had something nice to drive Wanda around in, not the old Volkswagen he’d beaten into the ground. The Prius wasn’t exactly a manly car. But it looked nice inside, and he thought it said something about him, that he cared about the world enough to sacrifice a little speed, a little of the cool factor he might achieve from the new Charger or maybe a Mustang. He had some money saved, had inherited quite a bit when his grandparents passed on. He could have had a sexier car. But he was glad to have something more sensible for Wanda. He thought that was what she was looking for—safe and sensible.

“Okay,” said Wanda, putting on her seat belt. “Do you remember a hood ornament?”

“Um, no. Well, maybe. Maybe there was something.”

Wanda let go a little gasp. “You know what we should do?”

“What?”

“We’ll go home and get on the computer. Look at pictures of old cars. Maybe that will help.”

Home
. She’d said
home
. Could it happen this fast? You work with someone for more than a year, finally get the guts to ask her out, and the very next night you feel like you’ve loved her forever? And she was using words like
we
and
home
. Maybe they were just that right for each other. And just that lonely.

“That’s a great idea.”

He reached over and put his hand on her thigh. Then she placed her hand on top of his.

“Wanda,” he said, and he was surprised at how thick with passion his voice sounded. He found he couldn’t look at her, kept his eyes on the dash. The flood of emotion, the wash of gratitude he felt just not to be alone right now embarrassed him.

“I know, Charlie,” she said softly, squeezing his hand. “I know.”

He put the car in gear and started to drive. A light snow was starting to fall.

17

B
lood cannot be cleaned. Not totally. The proteins react to heat and certain chemicals, tending to bind. Even if the stain is removed, those proteins might remain, making them easily discoverable with today’s forensic technology. But it generally didn’t take fancy police work or high-tech equipment, just an unyielding gaze. Blood splatter is insidious, hiding in the doorjamb or on the baseboards or where the light switch cover meets the wall, any place stressed and tired eyes might miss. And, in Jones’s limited experience with such things, people in general weren’t that smart, thorough, or calculating. Maybe it was just The Hollows. The five homicides that had occurred on his watch had been predictable and easily solved.