She half laughed. “Fairly ironic,” she said over the patter of the rain hitting the roof of the porch as they walked up the steps.
The phone was ringing as they walked back inside and Hudson let the answering machine pick up.
“This is Detective McNally,” a deep male voice said. “I’d still like that face-to-face meeting with you, Walker. Call me back.” He finished by leaving his number.
“Guess there’s no way out of it,” Hudson said, frowning as he stared at the phone.
“Maybe he has more information.”
“More likely he wants some.” But Hudson returned the call, catching McNally and agreeing to meet the detective the next day at a diner a couple of miles from the police station.
“An informal meeting, whatever the hell that means,” he said, reaching into the fridge for another beer. “Want to come with me?”
“Hell, no. But I’m sure my name’s on that list somewhere, too, so…”
“Then it’s a date,” he said.
She laughed as she exchanged his jacket for her coat in the front hallway. “You, me, and Detective McNally.”
“I’m sure it’ll be a blast.”
Chapter Thirteen
“How long does it take to draw a picture?” Gretchen kvetched as she and Mac drove to the Dandelion Diner, where they were to meet Hudson Walker. McNally was behind the wheel, squinting against sunlight that bounced off the wet pavement. “Facial reconstruction on a computer can’t be that hard. It’s just a matter of dimension, measurement of the bones, right? I mean, if that’s your area of expertise, why the hell does it take so long? Who are these techs anyway?”
Mac grunted, passing an RV that was edging into his lane. He halfway agreed with his partner but hated being subjected to her monologue. It was as if the woman couldn’t keep an idea inside her head. Once formed, it ran right past her lips and there was no stopping it. She had no governor. She just spewed.
And it was a pain in the ass.
“If we knew those bones were your little girlfriend, then we could take this investigation to the next level. And waiting for the damn DNA results is Chinese water torture. Unless you’re sleeping with one of the lab techs, nobody gives a shit about a rush order. Even then it’s fifty-fifty.”
“You know from experience?” Mac asked mildly as he stopped for a red light and the RV, driven by an older woman in a trucker’s cap, pulled alongside.
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell. Your complacency scares me, McNally. When did that happen?”
Twenty years ago, he thought. And it wasn’t complacency. It was cautiousness and diligence and awareness. But there was no way he was going to convince Gretchen she might not be employing her best investigative skills. She had all the answers already. No use in him wasting his breath.
As the light turned green and some idiot in a Ford Focus ran the light, crossing in front of him, he hit the brakes. Gretchen swore. “For the love of Christ, we oughtta pull that moron over!”
“The traffic guys’ll get him,” he said, gunning it to get in front of the RV, then whipping the cruiser into the gravel lot of the diner.
Inside, the Dandelion was painted bright yellow and the booths were covered in green plastic. Mac slid into one and Gretchen sat down opposite him as a waitress offered coffee, turned over the cups already on the table, and filled them each with a stream of steaming liquid. “I’ll give ya a minute,” she said around a wad of gum. “Specials are written on the board.” She indicated a chalkboard hung near the counter, then wandered off to a table of four men in their sixties.
Mac stared through the window to the outside lot.
“What do you ask them—these ‘friends’ of Jessie Brentwood’s?” she queried sarcastically as she picked up a plastic-encased menu and scanned it. “What kind of investigation is this? I should probably know.”
He felt irritation flare and tamped it back down. “Don’t piss me off.”
“What? I can’t ask questions?”
“You know the drill. Don’t act like you’re an idiot.”
“You’re a piece of shit, McNally. You act like the Lone Ranger. No, worse, you wouldn’t even trust Tonto. You seem to think that this case is yours and no one else’s.”
It has been. For twenty years.
He didn’t have time for this. It was annoying as hell to be saddled with her. But it won’t be for long, he reminded himself. His partner would get restless and move on. With that thought in mind, he decided to be more conciliatory. “We just talk. About what was up twenty years ago. Cover the same ground. See if anything else pops up, something they might have forgotten they’re supposed to keep secret.”
“Like they’re part of a conspiracy? All in it together.”
“Not quite.”
“And this guy is one of the ones you call the ‘Preppy Pricks.’”
Mac nodded. As men they didn’t seem as privileged or entitled as they’d been as teenagers, but he wasn’t able to completely forget their behavior when they were younger.
“Do you write off this meal?” Gretchen asked, flipping the menu over. “The department doesn’t pay for it.” She gave him a look and he realized she was asking. As if anyone would give him special treatment.
“The department doesn’t pay for much.”
It was her turn to grunt an assent.
Mac watched a blue Jetta pull in and park. Seconds later a woman climbed from the driver’s side. Mac felt his gut tighten, but he showed no emotion. Rebecca Ryan, now Sutcliff. He recognized her instantly and remembered his last conversation with her as if it were that morning.
“I didn’t talk to her before she left,” Becca had said to him, seated on the front steps of the high school. She’d been nervous talking to a cop, her hands clasped in front of her, almost as if she’d been praying, her book bag on the step beside her, and she’d glanced into the parking lot. Her hair had been long and a light enough brown to appear almost blond, her eyes hazel and wide. It was her profile that reminded him of Jessie Brentwood, whom he’d only seen pictures of, though full on, Becca’s face was rounder, appearing more innocent whereas Jessie appeared to have secrets filling her head, a wicked little smile teasing her lips, her eyes a shade of green and gold that reminded him of a restless ocean.
He’d quizzed her up and down, backward and forward about Jessie, but Becca Ryan had known little, basically nothing. She’d run with Jessie’s crowd and that was it.
“I didn’t ask her to come here,” he said now, his gaze following Becca’s entrance into the diner.
“She’s one of ’em?” Gretchen asked, her head swiveling with interest.
“Yeah. Rebecca
