going to walk him?” She passed her father a questioning look. He had far more free time than she did. Ivory tower perks.
“I am, of course.” He gave her an impish smile. “Unless you want to take a turn. Now and then. Be some company for you. Take him to work.”
“I don’t think so. He’s not a service animal, and he’s too small to be a protector. On a good day, I could tuck him under my arm.”
Excusing herself, she went upstairs. On the bedroom wall were pictures of Bruna at sunset on the beach, her noble head posed in profile like Nefertiti’s. Then Nikon, a puppy gazing up from the green leaves of a salal bush, his floppy ears a comical beret. In his handsome youthful vigor, leaping over a log with a determined look in his eyes. She’d always remember those shepherd eyes, deep and sober, penetrating and wise, retaining that connection even when old bones creaked and flaccid muscles flagged. Not foxy like this young man’s but full of purpose, asking, “What serious matter will we attend to today, mistress?” Not what can I pull, tug or chase to please myself? It’s all about ME. No wonder border collies didn’t appear in the ranks of guide dogs and other selfless creatures. They were too frivolous to be soulmates. Though she admired the sleek coat, white shirt and ruff with matching paws, handsome is as handsome does. Shogun reminded her of Jeff Pasquin, a shallow pretty boy in youthful plumage. She didn’t trust either one.
Six
At ten the next rainy morning, Lindsey Benish appeared at the station with her mother in tow. The girl wore hip-hugger jeans exposing a flat belly with a red jewel in the navel. Her skin was clear and luminous, but her eyes were heavy with mascara and glittery eyeshadow. The liner-defined lipstick was charcoal. She wore blue plastic clogs, an island touch. Ann had provided them with coffee and a soda, and they perched like two hawks, their noses a genetic road map. Mrs. B had seventy pounds on her daughter and wore a bright, floral-print dress. Holly was sure she’d seen her at the Village Market, loaded up like a pack mule with chips, popcorn, soda and a bale of frozen chimichangas.
“You’re early. Thanks for coming,” Holly said, offering a stand for their umbrellas, ushering them into her office and hustling another chair from the lunchroom. She felt like a stage manager operating under an absent but demanding director. Whitehouse was overdue, perhaps due to the rain. He’d burned her ears over the phone when he’d called her back to discuss the new meth development. Obviously he preferred the case dead and buried, flawed or not.
“Are you going to interview my daughter?” Mrs. B asked. Lindsey took a lurid graphic novel from her backpack and began flipping pages as she popped dark brown gum. The air filled with chocolate. Her eyes fat slits, Mrs. B gave her daughter an elbow.
Holly managed an official smile. Had the crystal meth issue not arisen, she might have handled the girl alone. Whitehouse had been furious about having to reschedule his appointments. “Inspector Whitehouse should be here any minute. He’s coming from the city.” That in itself sounded impressive.
While she was checking a list of questions, she heard a car roar up and a door slam. A few mutters from the main office, and Whitehouse came into the room. He wore a drenched beige raincoat spattered with mud. Puddles seeped from his shoes, and his pants were soaked to his knees. When he took off his hat, droplets fell from his dishevelled hair to his nose and down his jutting chin. “Flooding at Gillespie. I had to push a stalled cab. How does anybody commute from this no-man’s land?”
“We all just got here anyway,” Holly said. Maybe Chipper had some spare pants in his locker. Then again...she rather enjoyed Whitehouse’s predicament.
With a shake of his head, he left, presumably for the bathroom. Five minutes later, he took his seat at the head of the interview table. Clearly he was unused to looking the least bit unkempt.
Holly composed herself and practiced a neutral look. Whitehouse was her leader, like it or not, and she needed to fall in behind him. There were no I’s in TEAM, a platitude flourishing for good reason. So far she felt merely TAME, but she needed to toe the same line everyone did. Even her father had jumped through many hoops getting tenure. Suck it back or set up your own private-eye business like Boone had.
Introductions made, Whitehouse sifted a few papers and levelled his icy grey eyes at Lindsey. She presumed he’d read the statements, including Chipper’s short interview. He wasted no time. “Where were you the night that Angie went missing?”
Lindsey turned another comic page. Whitehouse repeated himself. “Lindsey. Are you hard of hearing, girl?”
Her swollen feet crossed in cruel sandals, Mrs. B shifted in her chair, waves of a cloying vanilla perfume wafting across the room. She nudged her daughter. “Put that down.”
“Where was I?” She sipped from the soda and wrinkled her nose at the bubbles.
”The whole night. Don’t play coy. You’re wasting our time.”
Whitehouse raised his voice another notch. Holly could read the anger in his eyes as a gauge neared the red zone.
“I don’t see why I have to talk to anyone again. Been there, done that.”
“We’re not designing T-shirts here. Something new has come up. You’ll find out on a need-to-know basis.”
Holly approved the joke but not the jargon. This vacuous girl seemed a perfect match for Jeff. Babe and the Ox.
His face purpling and his breathing speeding up, Whitehouse added an ominous touch to his timbre, nailing each word. “So get to the point. A girl is dead. We’re no longer sure it was an accident.”
Lindsey sat up straight, the cogs of her brain finally turning. “So like you think she was...murdered? Get out.”
A black storm cloud crossed his features. Whitehouse remained rigid, but Mrs. B flapped a placating hand and assumed an apologetic tone. “She says that all the time. It’s just silly slang. No offense. Sometimes she says ‘shut up’, if you can imagine. Same thing. Kids. Go figure.”
Whitehouse gave the mother a withering stare. She folded her chubby arms defensively and watched her daughter. Was Whitehouse married? He wore no ring, and he did not seem able to handle women except to bully them.
Cornered, Lindsey explained that she had sat around the campfire with the gang. Then she’d gone to bed around eleven. Jeff came to her tent...at this point she had the wisdom to look a bit flustered in front of her mother...and spent the night.
Her mother tried to cross a leg and failed, so she sat up, mustering her dignity. “Lindsey’s old enough to know the facts of life. She’s on the pill and always insists on con...oh I hate that word...I mean protection. What can a mother do these days? Mine always said, ‘Forewarned is forearmed’.”
“Did Jeff tell you about us?” Lindsey’s beady eyes narrowed, and she stuck out her pointed chin.
“You’re a bright girl. What do you think?”
“Well, he was there. I’m not saying he was himself, though.” She tugged on an earlobe. A tell, Holly thought. But what was the message?
“Explain that,” Whitehouse asked.
She gave an annoying, tittering kind of laugh. “He was wasted. He passed out before...anything happened.”
Her
