Stolen Daughters (Detective Amanda Steele)

rtainly calm and collected, like nothing unnerved him. Amanda wouldn’t be getting any sleep until he was behind bars, and she was already running on fumes. She and Trent had to take a look at the Pansy Shoppe—especially now that it had come up twice. “Can you tell us what the man looked like?”

“He was wearing a dark sweater with black jeans, and he had brown hair.”

They needed more than a man in black. “Did you see his face?’

“Not enough to make out any of his features. But I assume he had two eyes, a nose, a mouth.” A small chuckle.

Amanda smiled. “How old would you say he was?”

“Hmm. Maybe thirty-something. Your age, possibly younger?” Janet flicked a hand toward Amanda.

“A woman never reveals her age.” Especially with another birthday around the corner. “What was his build like? You said that he lifted the girls into the van. Did he appear strong, muscular?”

“Sure, I guess. He was probably about six feet tall.”

She’d show Janet the picture of their mystery man, but if he turned out to be their killer, a skilled defense attorney would allege that Amanda had fed Janet their suspect. They were best to wait until they could add him to a photo spread. Better yet, an in-person lineup. “What about the girls? Could you describe each of them, please?”

“They were both young. Dressed like hookers, if you ask me. If my daughters ever tried to sneak out like that, I would have sent them back to their rooms for a wardrobe change.”

Justin Cooper had commented on the provocative clothing, though he’d never made the “hooker” comment. Could be a generational thing. “Like hookers, huh? Can you elaborate?”

“Just tight leggings on the one and a low-cut shirt.”

Low-cut shirt… “Did you happen to notice any markings on her chest?”

Janet raised her eyebrows. “Can’t say I was looking.”

“The other one?” Trent asked.

“A short skirt, well above the knees, and a skintight shirt that left little to the imagination. She was big chested, that one. Both had heels taller than they could manage.”

“How old would you say they were?” Amanda twisted her teacup but didn’t lift it for a drink.

“Mid-teens, I would guess, but I could be wrong. It’s so hard to tell people’s ages these days. Or it’s just me.”

“And you never saw any of these people, or the van in this area before?” She thought she’d ask again.

Janet shook her head. “Never. And when I heard about the two girls on the news, I got this horrible feeling it might have been them. Do you think it was?”

“We’re here because of what you saw, but it’s too soon to say.” Amanda was taking the neutral route, but her intuition was screaming, Hell, yes, it was them! “Why didn’t you call the police at the time?”

“By the time I thought to, well, it was too late. They were gone. And I didn’t feel like getting into it with the cops that late at night. I just imagined them grilling me for hours. But if they were the girls on the news, I may never forgive myself.”

Amanda tapped the back of Janet’s hand. “None of us can see the future, Ms. Mills, but thank you for calling the tip line.”

Janet squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and dipped her head. “I hope I’ve been of help.”

“More than you know. Here—” Amanda pulled her card and handed it to Janet “—call me if you remember anything else.”

“I will.”

Amanda and Trent saw themselves out. She stopped at the driver’s-side door, leaning against it and crossing her arms. He stood in front of her, hands on hips.

“I saw a van like that a block away from the second fire,” he said. “The Pansy Shoppe.”

“Yep. Me too.”

“You think someone from there is our killer?”