“Not at all.”
“So what do you do when you’re back in Baltimore?”
She glanced up, a half smile tugging the edge of her lips. “Nice conversation shifter.”
“I like to think I’m smooth. What do you do?”
“Before my aunt died, I hung out with her. I have friends. We drive to the harbor or hang out. Regular stuff.”
KC arrived with their drinks and set them on the table. He looked as if he wanted to stay and talk but a glance from Rick sent him back to the bar.
Jenna laughed. “That look sent poor KC scurrying away. You must be one scary dude.” She sipped her beer savoring the flavor as it cooled her dried throat.
His smile did little to soften the intensity that she guessed grew exponentially the deeper it went. “KC is a good guy. But he’ll stand here for an hour talking.”
She traced the rim of her cup. “Any leads on the Lost Girl?”
“Not yet.” Rick sighed. “There was no report filed on a child of her description during a twenty-five-year time frame.” He shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “You and the Lost Girl are about the same age.”
“I thought about that.”
“We’ve dates when the pond was drained and the burial site accessible. But no hits.”
“Ever thought the killer worked for the parks system? Hell of a long shot to just stumble onto the drained lake.”
“I checked with the head of maintenance. Each time they drain the pond, it’s announced in the media. But you’re right about a possible job connection. We’ve got the parks system compiling a list of employee names.”
“And the blanket?”
“Georgia went over every square inch of it. Found a couple of hairs, a bloodstain, and two other stains. DNA on the hair and blood and she thinks the other stains were food.”
“High- or low-end blanket?”
“High. But not so special that it would only have been exclusive. Dozens of stores could have sold it.”
“It just might come down to my sketch.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
KC was grateful to focus on food rather than emotions. The pizza crust was crisp and the sauce and cheese blended perfectly. She savored every bite. Rick, like her, also concentrated on his food. He was a cop, after all, and ate when he could. Cops never knew when they’d be called into the field or for how long. Eat when you can. When their meal was done, Jenna pushed her plate away and dug two rumpled twenties from her pocket. “This one’s on me.”
He balled his napkin and held it in his fist. “You get the next one. I got this one.”
She crushed the bills in her fist, ready to toss them on the table. “A next time? Who’s to say there’ll be another time?”
He placed the crumpled napkin by his plate. “You’re on Georgia’s radar. She’s yet to land her first cold case for this team she’s assembling in her mind and I suspect she won’t let you go so easily.”
Jenna laughed. “I liked helping her. But my paying job is in Baltimore.”
He ignored the Baltimore mention. “She’ll have more cases for you. She’s a woman on a mission.”
“Georgia wants to find all the missing. Wants to bring them home.” Jenna traced the rim of her cup. “That’s not always possible.”
“Don’t tell her.”
“I did a lot of reading on Nashville. Dug through the newspaper on microfilm for the last twenty-five years.”
“So you know about Georgia?”
“Yeah. I can relate to her. We’ve both lost mothers.” She stopped short of saying they’d both been murdered.
His jaw tightened. “She doesn’t talk about it. She’s pretending it never happened.”
A sad smile tipped the edge of her lips. “She hasn’t forgotten. It’s still there. She just can’t deal. Yet. It took me twenty-five years until I ran into a trigger that set me off.”
He picked up the paper that had covered the straw and folded it over and over until it was a small box. “The girl in the closet.”
“Yes.”
“So what’s your plan?”
A shrug. “I go back to my life in Baltimore and live happily ever after.” That had been the tentative plan when she left Baltimore but, now, going back didn’t feel exactly right, as if somehow this journey had already changed her. Smiling, she gathered up her supplies. “I better get home. It’s been a long day.”
He moved to slide out of the booth. “Let me walk you to your Jeep.”
“I’m fine. Parked out back. KC is always nice enough to let me use his extra reserved spot.”
Rick glanced toward the former cop who stood behind the bar and laughed with customers. “Good.”
“Take care, Detective.”
“Until next time.”
She laughed, not sure if she was glad to be leaving or glad this wasn’t the end of the road for them.
Rick was finishing one of KC’s strong coffees when his cell rang. A glance at the number told him it was the main desk at police headquarters. He answered on the third ring. “Morgan.”
“Detective, we’ve a call from a woman who says she recognizes the sketch of the Lost Girl you showed on television.”
He was still, skeptical, and hopeful. The false leads had been frustrating, but it only took one good one to close a case.
“Who is she?”
“Says her name is Ester Higgins and she lives in the Hillsboro area. She says the girl looks like her granddaughter.”
He pulled a pen and notebook from his breast pocket. “Did she leave a number?”
She supplied the number. “I’ve also notified Detective Jake Bishop and he’s en route.”
Rick checked his watch. “I can be there in fifteen.”
“He said sooner, rather than later.”
Annoyance snapped. “Sure.”
He downed the last of his coffee in one swallow, tossed money on the table to cover the tab, and headed to his car. As a patrol officer, he’d learned the streets of Nashville well. Seems he’d traveled just about every dark alley and back street in the area.
He arrived in the Hillsboro area twelve minutes after the call and easily found the one-story cinder-block home. Its white paint had faded to gray and large sections were peeling. The path to the front steps was cracked and infested with weeds and the shutter to the right of the front door was broken and dangling from a hinge. The house wasn’t bad but needed a hell of a lot of work. Most of the houses on the block had been refurbished with new paint, siding, and landscaping. But this house remained a holdout.
The neighborhood might be up and coming, but whoever owned this house was one of the holdouts from the old guard. They could have sold, but were just too old or poor to move.
Bishop’s car pulled up behind his and it gave him a measure of satisfaction to know the cop trailed him. He got out, his face sullen. He studied the house as he locked his car and absently checked his gun on his belt.
Rick waited until his partner joined him and the two made the short walk to the front door. “You get any more det
ails from dispatch?”
“No.” He angled his neck from side to side as if fingers of tension had tightened around the tendons. “Just a name and she claims to be the grandmother.”
“Let’s see.” Rick knocked.
At first, the only sound from the house was the hum of the television and, then, as Rick raised his hand to knock again, he heard the slow shuffle of footsteps followed by the scraps of a chain lock.
The door opened a fraction and then wider. An old woman with graying hair tied in a bun peered out at them with dark gray eyes. “What do you want?”
“I’m Detective Rick Morgan and this is my partner, Jake Bishop. You called about a sketch on television.”
The eyes sharpened. The scent of mothballs and some kind of microwaved dish swirled around her. “I just called an hour ago.”
“We’re following up on all leads.”
She lingered a moment longer and then opened the screened door. “Come on inside.”
Both officers glanced at each other. Neither was sure if this would be the lead that cracked the case or was just another wild-goose chase. The house was dimly lit and the strong scent of mothballs lingered in the air. The walls were jammed full of pictures, most of which appeared to be of a young girl. Judging by the age and time, that girl would have been in her late forties or fifties now.
Ester guided them into a small living room where a large television blared the latest Kardashian reality show. She sat in an easy chair, well worn and flanked by a table piled high with magazines and dishes. She nodded toward a long sofa covered in plastic and indicated the two sit as she reached for a remote and muted the sound.
Rick glanced at the pictures on the wall looking for an image of the Lost Girl, but saw none.
“Can I get you boys a soda?” the woman offered.
“No, ma’am,” Rick said. “You said you recognized the image on the television.”
The lines around her mouth deepened as she smoothed deeply veined hands over her brittle hips. “I watch TV a lot now that I’m retired. I’d still be working at the plant but I’m too old and not fast enough anymore.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Impatience nipped, but he resolved to take this slow.