Are you scared yet, p.6
Are You Scared Yet?, page 6
She rubbed the knot on the back of her neck, watching through the glass of her tiny office as people passed back and forth like puny, mindless ants. What she needed was a drink. A little relaxation tonight after work.
She glanced at the telephone. Contemplated her choices.
After a moment, she dialed.
It rang four times before he answered.
"I was getting ready to hang up," she said with annoyance.
"I had a client. He was just leaving."
"You want to get together tonight?" She wrapped the phone cord around her finger, turning her chair so that her back was to the glass wall of the newsroom. "After?"
"I... I don't know," he hemmed.
Marty was tempted to hang up. To tell him to go fuck himself. Trouble was, she wanted to fuck him. "I'll wear your favorite heels," she cooed into the phone. She slid one long, tanned leg out for her own scrutiny. "I've got fishnet stockings in my car."
"I... I shouldn't," he said.
"Of course you shouldn't," she snapped. But then she changed her tone, practically purring. "But that's why you will... See you tonight." She hung up before he could answer.
He would be there. She knew he would. He always was.
* * *
Friday night, Rob pulled into the parking lot just after nine. He took the time to park on the far side of the building where his truck couldn't be seen from the road. Not that his parents usually went this way, but they had gone over to the beach for dinner. He didn't want to take any chances getting caught. Not that they would do anything. It was just a hassle he didn't want to deal with tonight. A long lecture on the hazards of drinking. Drinking and driving. The importance of an athlete staying in shape, even though Rob wasn't swimming competitively right now.
He grabbed his wallet off the dash as he climbed out of the red Isuzu pickup. Shoving it into the front pocket of his cargo shorts, he entered the dumpy bar through a side door where there was a single long cooler of beer and wine. He pushed his wrap-around sunglasses back on his head so he could see.
The Pit was mostly a bar, but this side, an old storeroom, served as a package store. Standing in front of the glass door, Rob pretended to decide what he wanted as his gaze strayed to the counter. If the cashier tonight was the little brown man, he was in luck. He never asked for ID. If it was his skinny-ass wife, Rob was in trouble. He might as well walk away now and not risk her being on the rag and calling the police on him.
Behind Rob, the outside door opened. Another patron. He scooted down a little in front of the cooler. There wasn't a lot of room because of the cardboard cases of beer stacked in the aisle. He glanced sideways to see an attractive woman in a short skirt, tank top, and very high heels peering into the glass door beside him.
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
She smiled.
He looked back at the Buds in front of him and grinned to himself. She liked him. She was old. Had to be at least thirty. But she was hot. She was definitely hot.
He looked at her again.
She smiled. "Long day," she said.
"Yeah." He thrust one hand into his pocket.
"Hot night for June." She opened the cooler and pulled out a six pack of Coronas.
Rob liked bottled Corona a hell of a lot more than Bud in a can, but most of his pay check from his summer job went into his college account. Even with the partial scholarship, it wasn't cheap, going to St. E's, living in the dorm. And his parents had his brother and sister to put through college, too. They provided plenty to pay for college, but he was expected to contribute.
He opened the door in front of him, savoring the chill of the metal handle and the feel of the cold air that tumbled out of the cooler. He loved that feel. That first rush of cold air. It was like that blast of cold water when he dove into a pool.
"Headed to a party?" she asked. She'd let the door swing shut. She had her beer, but made no move to go to the counter. She was hanging back because she wanted to talk to him. Obviously, she thought he was hot, too.
"Yeah, maybe." He lowered his wrap-around surfer sunglasses, a smooth move he knew, and stared at her through the dark lenses. What the hell, he thought. You're only nineteen and this well hung once. "You want to come?"
She smiled, never taking her eyes off him. She wore a lot of make-up, but she had nice lips. Red. Wet.
"I don't know," she said, smiling almost shyly. "Not sure if that's such a good idea, but... you want to party?"
"Like... alone?" It was all he could do not to stammer.
"Close door," the owner barked from the counter. "Let cold out. Beer get hot."
Rob uncurled his fingers, letting the door close. He wondered if he was dreaming. He could still feel the cold air from the cooler on his face. The door made that sucking sound as the rubber vacuum gasket sealed.
"You like Corona?" the woman asked him.
She'd taken a step closer to him. He could smell her perfume.
"Yeah. Sure," he managed.
She stepped back, opened the door and grabbed another six pack. "My treat." She looked right at him and there was no mistaking that hungry look in her eyes. That horny look.
"Meet you at your car?" she whispered.
Chapter 5
"Sorry to call you in on a Saturday, Swift." The shift commander approached Delilah in the narrow hallway of the stationhouse. He was wearing the same uniform as every other officer on the force, he used the same dry cleaner everyone else used, but Johnson's creases always seemed sharper to Delilah. The gray fabric of his summer trousers a little crisper.
"Kline is on vacation and Thomas called from the ER. Apparently he may have broken his arm trying to surf." The fifty-something-year-old with his buzz cut and no-nonsense demeanor made a face of disdain. "Chief's the one who said to call you in. Said you wouldn't be doing anything, anyway."
She frowned, wondering what Snowden was doing in on a Saturday afternoon. But she knew the answer. Paperwork. He didn't have any more of a personal life than she did. "I'll have you know, Johnson, I had a busy and stimulating afternoon planned. I was going to rearrange my underwear drawer while I watched NASCAR."
He passed her a manila file folder and raised both hands as he went by her. "I ain't touchin' that with a ten-foot pole. They're in Interview One."
Interview One was the only interview room in the tiny station. Stephen Kill police officers interrogated victims, criminals, and witnesses alike in the stark, eight-by-ten room. Fortunately, they had few interviews of any nature to conduct. With the exception of the murders that had taken place the summer before, Stephen Kill had always been a quiet, law-abiding town. The force mostly issued traffic citations, settled the occasional domestic dispute, and visited schools, churches, and volunteer organizations, educating the public on various safety issues.
When Delilah had made detective, she'd been thrilled, but the truth was, these last few months, she'd been missing patrol. With few cases in need of any investigation beyond who took down Mr. Capadona's "No Hunting" signs again, she was forced to run many of the education classes. Delilah was quickly learning that she just wasn't cut out for talking to senior citizen groups about the 911 system in the state or teaching CPR to Girl Scouts. Not her idea of serious cop work.
Delilah opened the manila file. Johnson had told her on the phone that it was a missing person report, but hadn't given any further information. Rob Crane, age nineteen. Missing twelve to eighteen hours. She knocked on the door and turned the fancy stainless steel knob that could be locked from the outside with a state-of-the-art passkey that hung in the break room. The thanks for the four-thousand-dollar "door system" could be given to Mattie McConnell, a local resident who had escaped from this very room and stolen a police car the previous summer.
"Good afternoon," Delilah said, putting on her cop face as she entered. She offered her hand to a tall, slender man with a receding hair line. He was fit, somewhere in his late forties. "I'm Detective Swift."
He shook her hand. "Yes, of course. We've seen you on the news, in the papers. We... we're contributors to Maria's Place. We were at the ribbon cutting Saturday. I'm Robert Crane, and this is my wife, Sandy." He indicated the woman seated at the small interview table.
Delilah shook Sandy Crane's hand; she didn't really remember either of them, but Mrs. Crane's face looked vaguely familiar. Probably bumped into each other in line at the post office or the drug store. She was small, petite framed, about the same age as her husband. Short brown hair, no make-up. She was wearing Bermuda shorts and a rather unfortunate pink and green plaid blouse.
"We apologize for making you come in on a weekend, Detective. I told the officer, it really wasn't necessary."
"I insisted we come," Mrs. Crane said, nervously tucking a lock of graying hair behind her ear. "Something terrible has happened to Rob, I just know it."
"He's nineteen, Sandy." Mr. Crane used a Father Knows Best tone of voice with his wife. "He's out sowing his oats, is all."
The worried mother looked at her husband, then at Delilah. "This isn't like him," she said. "To not come home. To not call."
"Would you like a seat, Mr. Crane?" Delilah indicated the only other vacant chair at the small table.
He shook his head.
Delilah slid into the chair, removing a pen from her jacket pocket. Her position as detective didn't require she wear a uniform, so she generally wore khaki pants, a knit shirt, and a blazer over it to conceal her side arm. It wasn't that she didn't want people to know she carried a gun; it was just that she knew it made people uncomfortable. Especial law-abiding citizens like Mr. and Mrs. Crane.
"When was the last time you saw Robert... Rob," Delilah corrected herself.
"Yesterday after work." Mrs. Crane knotted her hands, pressing them onto the table top. "About five-thirty. I would say it was five-thirty, wouldn't you, Robert?" She didn't give him time to respond. "Rob came in from work. He works part-time for Robert's brother Dave. Landscaping. Well"—she lifted narrow shoulders—"mostly mowing lawns, but he makes good money and he enjoys working for his uncle. Rob asked me about our plans for the evening. I was emptying the dishwasher. I told him we were going out to get something to eat, just his father and I." She half smiled. "It was our anniversary last night. Twenty-one years."
"Congratulations." Delilah took notes on a blank sheet that Johnson had attached to the official missing persons form he had already filled out in square, masculine printing. Information he had probably taken over the phone when the call had come in. "And did Rob say where he was going?"
"No." Again, Mrs. Crane looked at her husband. "He... he didn't say anything to you about where he was going, did he?"
Delilah heard a catch in her voice. It was subtle, but it was definitely there. She turned to Mr. Crane. "So you spoke with Rob last night after he got home from work, as well. Separately from Mrs. Crane?"
He hesitated. "Yes."
Delilah looked back to Mrs. Crane and then down at her notes. "And did your son mention where he was going?"
"No. He did not."
"What time were you expecting him home?"
"Midnight," Mrs. Crane said emphatically. "I know Rob is practically grown, practically a man, but when he's in our house, he follows our rules. We all agreed to that when he was still in high school. Midnight," she repeated.
Delilah flipped the paper over, glancing at the form. "Do you know if your son spoke to his sister or... brother?"
"They weren't home. Josie, she's nine, was spending a night with a friend. Peter had Little League practice and then he was going home with the coach's son. So we could have our anniversary dinner."
Delilah nodded. "And which of you actually saw him last?" She looked up when neither answered.
"Robert, I think." Mrs. Crane nodded.
Delilah waited to see if he would say anything. He didn't. "I see you've already written the names and phone numbers of all of Rob's friends in the area." She glanced at Johnson's form again. "We'll check with them of course, but did you call his friends?"
"I called everyone I could think of. Even his roommate at St. Elizabeth's who lives in Virginia. They aren't that close, but I had to try." Delilah scanned the list of handwritten names and numbers. There were a few girls' names, but mostly boys. "Your son have a girlfriend?"
Mrs. Crane shook her head. "Rob is an excellent student and a swimmer. You probably read the newspaper article about him this week. In the Leader?" Her pride was plain in her voice. "He didn't really have time for a girlfriend."
"Did he date?"
"In high school? Not much. You know, kids don't really date these days. They hang out." She gave a little laugh.
Delilah glanced up at Mr. Crane. "How about you, sir, any knowledge of a girlfriend?"
"Not that Rob doesn't like girls." Mr. Crane gave a macho chuckle. "But nothing serious. As Sandy said, Rob is focused on his schoolwork and his swimming. He's truly a gifted athlete."
"And what about alcohol? Does he drink?"
"He's only nineteen," Mrs. Crane said.
"Not much, you know, sneaks a beer here and there," Mr. Crane offered. "Athletes like Rob are very conscientious about what goes into their bodies."
"And what about drugs?" She tried to sound as non-accusatory as possible, just as she had been trained. "Prescription? Legal? Illegal?"
Mr. Crane frowned, his tone now touchy. "My son doesn't do drugs, Detective."
"I apologize, but I have a list of questions I'm expected to ask. Please don't take offense." Delilah studied Johnson's form for a moment and then looked to Mrs. Crane. "You said you called all of Rob's friends. Did anyone see him last night after he left your house?"
"Yes. Jamey Pratt. They were friends in high school. He went to Jamey's house after he left home, apparently. Around six-thirty. The boys ordered pizza. Watched a movie. Jamey thought he left around eight thirty or nine o'clock." Mrs. Crane reached out. "His name and number are there on the top. His cell number, too."
"And did Jamey say if Rob told him where he was going when he left his house?"
She shook her head. "He said he didn't know."
Delilah made a small mark next to Jamey Pratt's name. Just because a kid wouldn't tell another kid's parent where his friend was going didn't mean he didn't know. He was the best lead she had.
"And Rob was driving the '97 Red Isuzu pick-up, is that correct?"
"Yes."
Delilah was quiet for a minute, checking to be sure she had all the information she needed. Mr. Crane was probably right, the boy was probably just out "sowing his oats." Sleeping off a drink, most likely. "Well, I think I have what I need for now." Delilah rose, closing the folder. "We'll make some phone calls. Alert our officers on duty to keep a look out for Rob and his truck. We'll find him, Mrs. Crane."
"And... and what should we do now? Should we wait here? We already drove around town looking for him, but maybe—"
"You should go home, Mrs. Crane." Delilah turned to Mr. Crane. "You should both go home and wait there in case Rob shows up or calls. He has a cell phone, right?" She flipped open the folder again.
"Yes. That number is there, too. We tried calling it, of course. I think I filled his mailbox with messages. Rob will have to use all of his minutes checking his messages." Mrs. Crane tried to make a joke, but it was weak. "Maybe... maybe the police can trace any calls he made from it since yesterday?"
"We'll see what we can do. In the meantime,"—Delilah opened the door—"please go home and wait. Someone will call you the minute we know something. And, of course, if you hear from Rob, you need to call us."
Mr. Crane waited for his wife to rise from her chair. "Thank you, Detective."
Delilah offered a half-smile, one she hoped was reassuring, and walked them to the lobby door. She watched them exit the building and then she went back down the hall toward Snowden's office.
She couldn't imagine what it was like for Mr. and Mrs. Crane to have a child missing, even one Rob's age. Even if it was just a matter of a college kid having too much to drink and sacking out at a friend's house. She knew it had to be terrifying. Being parents had to be difficult enough as it was; she didn't honestly know how people got through this kind of stuff.
Delilah knocked on the doorframe and stuck her head through the open doorway. "Call Swift in? She doesn't have a Saturday night date anyway?"
Snowden smiled from behind his desk, but he didn't look up from his computer screen. "That what Johnson said I said?"
"Doesn't matter." She entered the office and stood behind the two leather chairs in front of his desk. "I interviewed the Cranes and sent them home. I'll start making phone calls. Let our patrol know who we're looking for, description of the vehicle he was driving, the usual."
"He's probably sleeping off a drink." Snowden hit the print key on his keyboard and the printer to his left on a small secretary began to hum. He looked up at her. "He'll be home soon enough."
"That's what I was thinking." She tapped the file folder on the back of the chair. "But the parents say he doesn't drink. Doesn't do drugs. No girlfriend."
"Your parents knew you drank when you were nineteen?"
She lifted an eyebrow. "Heck, no! My daddy'd have killed me."
Snowden smiled. "Tillie Calloway would have tortured me before she killed me."
She gave a low whistle. "You really are old, aren't you, Chief?"
He snatched the freshly printed sheets off the printer tray. "You need something else, Detective?"
She smiled, but she didn't respond. The door was open, anyone could walk by. They were always careful at work, no matter what shameless thoughts went through their heads. "I'm going to make these phone calls. See what I can find out."
"Keep me up to date."
"Will do." She walked out of the office, hoping she'd find Rob Crane before dark as they both predicted. That would give her time to get home, change the sheets, and take a shower before Snowden arrived.
