“Huh?”
“It’s Bowie. Like the knife.”
Chapter 4
Sunday, March 9
After a virtually sleepless night, Beth decided not to be deterred by her blustery conversation with Max. He was viewing the situation from the perspective of one who’d already lost his standing.
But Winston Brady hadn’t asked for her resignation. He hadn’t insisted that the Mellin story was ready for airing and for her to leave it alone. Of course he was unaware of her renewed interest in it, but still. Until he specifically forbade her to back off or risk losing her job, she would persist… at least until the afternoon flight to New York.
Having determined that, she brewed a cup of coffee using the sputtering machine in her hotel room and braced herself with a few swallows before calling the Auclair PD.
“Detective Bowie, please.”
A woman with a soft drawl and pleasant manner told her that he hadn’t come in yet. “Can someone else help you?”
“No. I really need to speak with him.” She asked for his cell phone number, but wasn’t surprised when told that it was department policy not to give out personal contact information on personnel.
“But I can have him call you back,” the woman said. “What’s your name, please?”
The first time she’d called two days ago, she had been put through to his desk without supplying her name. She was reluctant to do so now. “That’s all right. I’ll try later.”
Having struck out there, she moved to Plan B, which was to contact Crissy Mellin’s mother, Carla. Although she’d been integral to the story, she’d been loath to appear on Crisis Point. She had argued with the dogged producer that she’d lived the ugly story. Why go on TV and rehash it when it wouldn’t change the ending?
Eventually she had capitulated, but the interview hadn’t gone well. The interviewer’s suavity had had no softening effect on her. She’d been surly, answering every question with as few words as possible. Her bitterness and antipathy toward the police department had come across on camera.
Beth intended not to be as pushy as her cohort had been. She would ask Carla Mellin for only five minutes, during which she hoped empathy would make the woman more agreeable to talking openly about what had happened to her daughter. Beth had nothing to lose by trying.
She checked out of the hotel and went in search of Ms. Mellin. Her address turned out to be a lot in a mobile home park located in a less than desirable part of town. Beth glanced around cautiously as she got out of her car and approached the door.
Her knock was answered by an elderly man dressed only in his undershorts. He seemed as surprised by her as she was by him. He was also perturbed. “Where’s Tuck? Why’d they send you? I want Tuck back.”
After several stops and starts, she learned that a physical therapist came twice a week to strengthen his “gimp knee.” Once she assured him that she wasn’t Tuck’s replacement, she asked how long he’d been living there.
“Goin’ on two years.”
“Did you know the previous resident, Ms. Mellin?”
“No. Place was empty when I rented it.”
He had no idea who Beth might ask about the former tenant or where she’d relocated. “I ain’t got to know none of the neighbors, and I want to keep it that way,” he said. “Now shoo. I gotta get ready for Tuck.” He slammed the door in her face.
With diminishing optimism, she went from door to door. Most of the neighbors either weren’t at home or pretended not to be. Those she did speak to claimed not to know Carla Mellin personally, only by the notoriety her daughter’s disappearance had created. “I felt sorry for her,” one woman said. “Hounded day and night. I don’t blame her a bit for moving away without telling anybody.”
Disheartened, Beth returned to her car but didn’t start it. She sat mulling over what to do next while watching a little girl two lots down, riding a tricycle with wobbly wheels. She went round and round in a never-ending circle, getting nowhere.
She was going in circles and getting nowhere, too. The wasted effort to reach John Bowie. The failed attempt to talk to Carla Mellin. These weren’t omens, they were blatant strikeouts.
Her dejection bone deep, she started the car and asked the navigation system to guide her to the New Orleans airport.
“Bowie!”
John looked up from his computer screen to see Tom Barker threading his way through the Crimes Against Persons unit. When he reached John’s desk, he placed his hands on his hips and regarded John’s battered face with displeasure. “Somebody told me you looked like you’d gone fifteen rounds. What happened?”
“I was carrying an armload of dirty clothes to the washing machine. Didn’t see my dog, stumbled over him, and broke my fall with my face on the edge of the closet door.”
He stopped there. Elaboration could ruin a semi-plausible lie. He knew by the way Barker was rocking back on his heels that he wasn’t buying it, but he went along and asked if John had seen a doctor.
“No need. Looks like hell, but I’m fine. Thanks for your concern, Tom.”
“Yesterday was your day off.”
“Yeah. And?”
“You do laundry on your day off?”
“When my clothes need washing.”
“That’s what wives are for. Maybe you should get you one.”
“Had one. I’d rather do my own laundry.” Enough of this bullshit do-si-do. “Something special you needed me for? Because…” He tilted his head toward his computer screen. “Things got backed up yesterday.”
“No, nothing special.” He gestured toward John’s face. “Try some bruise cream.” He turned away, then came back around in a slow pivot that looked like a choreographed move. “Actually, there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”