“I know miniature golf sounds lame,” David continued. “But at a movie you just sit, and the golf thing, it's so lame that it can be fun, and you get a chance to talk, get to know each other. But, you have to promise to let me cheat, ‘cause I'm lousy.”
From someone else…it might have been almost, well, cute. But honestly, David Kirby? I think not. Now I was doing the throat clearing. “David, that's, like, really sweet, you know? But, I'm pretty tied up for a while. I'll have to get back to you.”
I remembered to flash him my totally famous Cass McBride dimpled grin/head tilt. It was October, a week until Homecoming, and those ballots were already cast. I would be the first junior Homecoming Queen ever.
But being the first junior Prom Queen this coming spring was going to be a lot harder and I had to keep the charm thing going. Every vote counted.
I twinked away as David was narfing something about, “Thanks, I'll wait to hear from you.”
The bell rang and we all sat, slouched or sprawled, in our desks. Our teacher's a coach. Translation: We read a chapter, answer the questions at the end, and have a test on Fridays. If the chapter is short, Coach shows a movie while we nap. Today we read and copied answers from each other while Coach drew basketball plays. And I swear David made calf eyes at me the whole class. I wrote the note to Erica and stashed it in the desk.
After the escape-bell rang, I sailed up the aisle but noticed David moving at the back of the room toward my desk. I stopped. Shit, he must have watched me squirrel the note away.
“Forgot something,” I said as I tried to push my way against the toward-the-door tramplers. Then I saw David slide the note into his pocket.
One Prom Queen vote lost for damn sure, I thought.
I never thought that a few careless words scrawled on a piece of paper could put two people in graves.
Ben stood on the porch with his partner and Officers Ford and Oakley. “Roger and Tyrell, you are assigned to my detail. Tyrell, I want you to protect the scene. Keep McBride under your thumb until Crime Scene gets here. He can call his lawyer and that's it. I'm sending the polygraph guy here unless somebody squawks.
“Phone crew will set up for a ransom call. They'll take over the babysitting and you can join Roger.”
He turned to Roger. “You head to the station, later Ford will join you. I'll get a couple of other officers on it. You'll be in charge of the group. Do interviews. Concentrate on the school. Friends, teachers, counselors.
“It's Saturday—that's going to slow it down. Call the principal and counselors first and arrange for the kids to come to the school for the interviews. Make ‘em more comfortable. Interview close friends, boyfriends, names you get from the father, at their homes, talk to their parents too. Bring her best girlfriend and current boyfriend to the station. If anybody finds a diary, a journal, a what-do-you-call-’em—” He snapped his fingers at Scott then turned his palm up in question.
“Blog,” Scott answered. “On her computer. A Web site.”
“Right, one of those. Get the techs on her computer. Anybody finds something like that—I want to know yesterday.”
Ben checked his watch. Frowned.
“I'll get Adam checking phone records and the father's finances. Scott, use that snazzy little cell phone and get us on a flight to Louisiana. You've got your first Amber and we're at least twelve hours into the first forty-eight.”
“You guys gonna let me tell the story the way I need to tell it now?”
The big cop sat down across from me. He didn't say anything, but he led me with his silence. The puppy cop leaned in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest. Oooooh. Bad cop. Fine by me. My headache was a little better. I relaxed into the chair. I was here to talk.
“I don't think Cass McBride was aware I existed until I told her my name. But I knew her.
“It was August. The heat was brutal even with the school's central air blowing full tilt. Just about everybody was in the usual first-day dress code: baggy shorts, tees, flip-flops. Looking like we crawled out of bed and were ready for the beach. And then I saw her.”
I elbowed Chris Monahan. “Who the hell is that?
”
Chris grinned and made a cross out of his index fingers like he was warding off a vampire. “Cass McBride. New freshman, but you don't have a chance. You're on the baseball team, but you're not
captain
of the baseball team. Out of your league. She's so far out of your league, she's even out of mine.
”
I don't know how a freshman walked that razor edge. Confidence without arrogance. Just one look at her and I knew there was nothing but internal calm and quiet. There must be quiet in her home. Peace all the time. She wore it on her like a personal air-conditioning system.
No sheen of sweat above her lip. And no beach casual for Cass McBride. She wore a white skirt. Short enough to show a lot of tanned leg, but long enough to force imagination into play. It moved with her, swung, flirty-like, and her tee was silky, with a vest on top. All white. Layers of clothes and she was fresh and unrumpled.
All those layers of cool. Down so deep. My cool had a shallow root system. I wanted what she had. If I couldn't have it…why should she?
“Maybe this can explain Cass McBride,” I said. “That first day, she carried a bright pink purse and she had buckled her watch to the strap. By noon, I'll bet fifty girls—not just wannabes, but some of the Senior-Rule-the-School girls—had their watches buckled to the straps of their purses. By the next day, it was an epidemic.”
The cop was tapping the table, drumming with his fingers. “I know it sounds like I picked her out, but I didn't. David did that himself. I guess I'm trying to show you why he would.”
And why hadn't I known David would pick Cass? Could I have stopped it right there?
I didn't even tell Erica about the note. She's weird about stuff like that. If I told Erica, she would get that look. Her oh-you-can't-take-the-kitty-to-the-pound look.
She asked me once why, if I was Miss Everything, did I have to be so mean sometimes?
Because, Erica, if you're sitting still, the others are catching up. That's why. You have to keep the force field operating. Keep the other guys short and you'll always be tall. Whatever.
So why out myself to Erica? I doubted David had many friends, so he wouldn't tell anyone. No harm, no foul.
Until the next day.
“Cass, did you hear?
”
“Hear what?
”
“David Kirby ? Do you know him?
”
I got interested in the contents of my locker. “David Kirby?” I waited for what else Erica would say. Had he called her? Taken out an ad? Read my note over the radio ?
She eased up close. “He killed himself,” she whispered.
My heart didn't skip a beat. It skipped then stalled. My breath did too.
“What?
”
“I know, it's horrible. My mom got the call early.
”
Erica's mother is a medical examiner, which moved this from rumor to reality.
“Cass, he hung himself. From a big tree on his front lawn. He pinned a note on his body. Not on his shirt. On his body.” She whispered the last part as if it were shameful.
I licked my lips. They were dry, but my mouth suddenly filled with saliva, signaling that I needed to pray to the porcelain goddess. Now.
I dropped my books and dashed for the bathroom. I didn't make it to a stall but I at least caught the sink. Scattering Becka, Meg, and Leslie as they lipsticked and mascaraed.
“EWWWWW!
”
“Gross!
”
“Cass, that's an eight-hundred dollar purse!
”
I retched again, and then ran water into the mess and moved to another sink to wash my face.
“Sorry, sorry.” I flapped my hands. “Tell me I missed jour purse, Becka.
”
Becka inspected her turquoise leather trophy. “Looks like I grabbed it just in time.
”
“Thank god,” I said. I grabbed a wad of towels and mopped my mouth. “I'd hate to have to pay you for that thing.
”
“Knocked up or hung over?” This from a nobody in heavy eye makeup and baseball-sized earrings. She leaned against a stall and smoked a home-rolled. I ignored her.
Erica appeared at my elbow, toting my books. “Cass, are you okay?
”
“Stomach's been wonky,” I said. “And hearing that shit about a note pinned to…” I stopped and shut my eyes. “I got a visual, you know?
”
I braced both hands on the counter and hung my head. “I think that Kirby guy is, well, was in my history class.
”
The bathroom went stone silent.
“Was?” Becka asked. “What do you mean?
”
And the place went beehive. Voices buzzed in a knot. Questions and answers fell all over each other. I gave Erica a nod and we edged out.
“He was in your history class?
”
“Yeah, I'm pretty sure. He's one of those you never notice, though.
”
Erica nodded. “His brother graduated two years ago. Cute.
”
“Kyle Kirby is David Kirby's brother?
”
Erica nodded. “Hard to believe, isn't it? Nothing alike.
”
I wondered what kind of parents could have produced two such different sons.
The answer to that question could kill me now.
“This place is seriously in the swamp,” Scott said.
Ben strode along the plank walk to the café/coffeehouse/boat rental/bait shop where Leatha McBride worked for her brother-in-law.
“Do you think there's alligators in that water?”
“I would expect so. And water moccasins and a few other things that can kill you.”
“I can understand why the kid didn't want to come here,” Scott said.
“Looks like bait and boats are in the bottom part,” Ben said as they arrived at the building. It was on stilts, the bottom screened in. An outside flight of stairs led to the top story. The smell of coffee and spices wafted out.
Ben and Scott entered the big room, with a scraped wooden floor, and a scattering of tables covered with red-checked oilcloths. Ben produced his badge to the woman that approached.
“I'm Detective Ben Gray and this is Detective Scott Michaels. We'd like to talk to Leatha McBride.” Ben knew he was talking to Cass's mother already. Ted McBride may have boasted that his DNA ruled his daughter's character, but clearly it was Leatha McBride who supplied the girl's looks. She studied Ben's shield and made eye contact with him, glanced at Scott, then gestured to a quiet corner in the little café.
“You don't look surprised to see a detective from Texas,” Ben said.
“I'm assuming Ted is making a demand of some sort,” she said. Ben thought she sounded tired and sad, but not angry. Resigned, maybe. Certainly not antsy.
“I can't imagine what it would be,” she continued.
“Your daughter is missing,” Ben said. “Kidnapped, we think.”
He watched the shock register. But the woman sat mute, her only movement a slight shake in the hand that strayed to her mouth.
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Tell me.”
Ben knew from her urgent whisper what this mother wanted.
“No blood at the scene. No reason to think there's been violence to your daughter. Still in the first forty-eight hours. That's good, but we don't have a suspect and time's doing what time does.”
“You flew here. You think I'm involved.”
“Noncustodial parent—always first interview. Forensics has work to do and officers are doing local interviews.”
“I didn't take her or ask anyone else to do it.” Ben listened.
“There's no reason.” Leatha's hands were trembling. “You haven't met her, but believe me, this is no place Cass would stay.” She spread her fingers on the table, pressing them against the checked cloth and staring down at them. Nails trimmed short. Unpolished.
“Would Ted do this?” Ben asked.
“Is Ted capable of kidnapping his own child for financial gain? Is he that callous?” Leatha looked away. “Certainly. But, you have to understand what Cass represents to Ted and you'd know it's impossible.”
“Tell me more,” Ben said.
She got up and walked to the back of the cafe, returning with three mugs of coffee. “I recommend using cream even if that's not your habit. This is laced with chicory. The Cajun way.” Leatha kept her eyes averted and appeared to be righting for composure as she poured cream into her mug until the dark coffee turned the color of caramel. She spooned in sugar. Four teaspoons. Ben sipped and wondered briefly if the brew could peel paint.
After her coffee ceremony, Leatha seemed to have her thoughts organized and herself in control. She sipped, set her mug down.
“What do you need to know?”
“Start with Ted. He inherit his money?”
“Ted came from nothing. Dirt-poor. What people call trailer trash. Didn't even finish high school. But he scratched and clawed and made money. He sold insurance and vacuum cleaners. And then moved up to copiers. He's sold everything.”
“Where did you come into the picture?”
“He met me along the way. During the insurance phase. I was so right for him then. I was pretty and compliant.” She sipped. “And he took my breath away. He set his sights on me and he was going to win me no matter what. That was heady stuff for a young girl.”
She noted Ben's flinch when he tasted the coffee. Smiling, but without a word, she took Ben's cup and Scott's cup, left the table, and returned with refilled cups. “Sissy coffee. No chicory.”
“Where was this?” Ben asked.
“Lake Charles. Then he got a shot at selling copiers in New Orleans. Big company, big opportunities for growth. We moved. Whenever Ted made enough money in one place, he wanted to move on. Change jobs and reinvent himself.”
“How did that work out for Ted?”
“He made a big pile of money and wanted to move on. This time it was Houston real estate. And he told people that he graduated from LSU and that I had done local modeling. We had Cass. We were the perfect little family. He paid a woman for a crash course in manners. The right fork, the proper introductions, the way to dress. Ted didn't just want to be rich—he wanted the appearance of refinement.”