waited until Mrs. Bates spoke.
“I don’t know what I could possibly tell you that I didn’t already tell the police the first time around,” she said.
“If you’re ready,” Marge said. “I’d like you to recount what happened the day of Lindsey’s disappearance.”
Mrs. Bates peered into her lap and Marge took advantage of the opportunity to slip out her notepad.
“It was a Saturday,” she began. “I can’t believe that she’s actually …”
She paused to catch her breath, then asked imploringly.
“It is possible they made a mistake? After all, how could they make such an important decision based on teeth?”
“They seem to be sure—”
“But it’s only teeth!”
“I wish I could tell you differently, Mrs. Bates,” Marge said, quietly. “If I had any doubts, I wouldn’t be here. But we seem to be quite certain that we found your daughter. I’m so sorry. It must be so hard to accept that.”
“I hope you’ll never know.” Mrs. Bates dropped her head in her hands and sobbed. Marge offered her a Kleenex and she blew her nose. Then she tried again.
“As I started to say, it was a Saturday …” She started crying again.
Marge put down her pad. “Maybe we came too soon for you to do this. It’s not because we’re callous. It’s just that every second we let slip by is less time for us to do our job and more time for your daughter’s murderer to get away. But if this is too hard on you, we can come back tomorrow.”
Mrs. Bates dried her tears and shook her head no. “I’m all right.”
“Sure?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Bates said. “What was I saying?”
“It was Saturday,” Marge answered, taking up her pad.
“Yes, Saturday,” Mrs. Gates repeated. “Lindsey said she was going to the Galleria to shop, to look for a blouse … she’d just started driving and the mall was close to home …” She threw up her hands. “What else can I tell you? That was the last anyone ever heard of her … until now.”
“Do you know if she was planning to meet someone?” Marge asked.
Mrs. Bates’s face turned livid.
“The original detective asked me the same question. Don’t police ever read each other’s reports?”
“I like to be thorough,” Marge explained.
The woman sank back into her chair. “I’m terribly sorry for my behavior—”
“No, don’t apologize. You’re doing fine.”
“As far as I know,” Mrs. Bates said, “she wasn’t going to meet anyone. I can give you a list of all of her friends and you can ask them if Lindsey called them.”
“Thank you. That would be helpful.” She continued. “Do you know the stores your daughter routinely shopped at?”
“Bullocks, Broadway, May Company, Robinson’s. She like Contempo, although I always thought they were a little on the high side.”
“Did she follow a certain routine when she shopped? Park in the same place? Comb the stores in the same pattern?”
“Not that I know of. Her friends could tell you better than I can.” Her facial expression became wistful. “We used to shop together years ago, but you know kids … They like to be with their friends … Lindsey loved my taste in clothes. People often mistook us for sisters.”
Marge couldn’t see it. But the woman had probably aged ten years since her daughter’s disappearance. She consulted the notes Decker had prepared for her.
“Lindsey has a younger sister, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Were they close?”
“Yes,” she answered, with a defensive note to her voice. “We’re a very close family.”
“And she’s at school now?”
“Yes. Erin’s at school.” As if she were reassuring herself.
“I’d like to talk to her, also.”
The woman’s eyes darkened.
“Why? Do you think the girls were keeping secrets from me?”
“It’s routine, I assure you, Mrs. Bates.”
Mrs. Bates bit her lip.
“If you think it’s necessary.”
Marge nodded.
“The girls are … were very different,” Mrs. Bates mumbled.
“In what way?”
“I’m … I was closer to Lindsey. We shared more interests. She was the sweetest thing on two feet, Detective. And beautiful inside and out.”
“And Erin?” Marge prompted.
“Erin’s more of an individual. But she’s a good girl also.”
“I’m sure she is,” Marge said. “The Glendale police interviewed Lindsey’s friends. She seemed to have had a lot of them.”
“What can I tell you, Detective? She was very popular.”
“Did you know most of her friends?”
“Yes. Our home was their hangout.” Again eyes welled up with tears. “I miss the noise.”
“Did Lindsey have a boyfriend?”
She shook her head. “Her father and I discouraged her from getting too involved with anyone special. A sixteen-year-old girl doesn’t need an immature boy breathing down her neck, monopolizing her attention. That’s how kids get into trouble.”
The irony wasn’t evident to her, and Marge talked quickly to keep it that way.
“But she dated?”
“She went out in groups with her friends. We knew all her friends, Detective. They’re nice kids.”
“What kind of student was she?”
“She didn’t have a head for academics, but she passed her classes.” She sighed. “We had tutors, but we decided against college for her … her charm was her kindness and beauty. You’ve seen her picture. A lovelier girl never existed.”
Marge agreed with her.
“She
