Everything suddenly seemed brighter. This was big. Really big. There weren’t many explanations for how a dead girl’s hair got in someone’s trunk that didn’t involve her head being in there with it. And if the fibers in the car matched that patch, it would at least place Poole in the same woods that Angelina had disappeared in: It would corroborate Faith Saunders’ ID. And it might be enough to charge Poole with murder.
‘Now for the not-so-good news,’ Tatiana replied hesitantly.
Bryan felt his chest tighten and he got ready for the punch that he had a feeling was gonna take his breath away. ‘I knew my high was too good to last. What was that? Ten seconds?’
‘I just got a call from Carl Edmunds over at Riviera Beach PD. They got a girl, the name’s Noelle Langtry, age seventeen, who’s been reported missing. She lives with her mom at Southern Court, a mobile home park. Mom says she went missing three days ago. Teens run away all the time, but what makes this interesting for us is the kid dances at Sugar Daddy’s. Mom says she lied about her age to work there – she’s a high school dropout. Because of her age she might get more attention from the cops and the media than your average missing stripper. Edmunds saw your flag in the system; they routed the call to me.’
‘Three days ago? That was Saturday.’ Three days ago he was sitting outside Poole’s townhouse till eight in the morning. Fuck. ‘Was she working Saturday?’
‘Yeah. Did her shift, got off at one. Never went home. Apparently that’s not too crazy, cause Mom waited two days to report her missing, but no one has heard from her since. Her car was still parked in the back lot.’
Fuck, fuck, fuck. If it was an abduction, it couldn’t be Poole. It was that simple. Or that complicated. If this girl turned up dead in a cane field, then it couldn’t be Poole. Bryan was watching the house the whole night and the guy was home the whole time. That would mean he was looking at the wrong guy. He wouldn’t be the first detective to try and make the suspect fit the crime. Was that what he was doing here?
But Faith Saunders had ID’d. There was a long purple hair in the trunk of Poole’s car. Derrick Poole refused to give an alibi, because he obviously had none. There were a lot of pieces missing to the puzzle, but he did have a couple. He just wasn’t sure yet where they fit.
‘You still there?’ Tatiana asked. ‘Did you hear anything I said?’
His brain was jumping the gun, imagining the worst-case scenario and trying to fix it. Maybe this Langtry girl had gone missing for the usual reasons strippers and prostitutes went missing: drugs, pimps, boyfriends. It didn’t mean she was a victim. And it didn’t mean she was a victim on this case.
‘Oh, I heard it,’ he replied quietly, starting down the stairs. He had to let out the crime-scene techs who’d thoroughly combed through the townhouse and found nothing.
‘This probably has nothing to do with us,’ she tried. ‘You want me to take a ride out to Sugar Daddy’s and see what they know?’
‘Nah. I’ll head over there after I’m done here. I’ll talk to you later,’ he replied quickly.
A discouraging thought came to him as he sat at the breakfast bar completing the disappointing inventory of property taken under the warrant for the return that had to be filed with the court tomorrow. Maybe he was looking for a serial killer because he was hoping for a serial killer. Something that was more important than just a regular homicide. Something that would make him more important than just a regular detective. Something that would make life exciting and him exciting and maybe get Audrey to notice him again.
It was hard to think this way, but he had to be honest with himself. Especially if the case against Poole started to fall apart – or, more fittingly, the pieces never came together to form the picture he wanted to see. Maybe he’d been building this Cane Killer case up, trying to make it something it wasn’t so that he wouldn’t have to think about how his own life sucked. He could be the rock star of the detective world. At least in Palm Beach. He could make headlines and be asked to speak at conferences and maybe write a book about the experience. Like a bullied teen who dreams of social revenge one day – he’d be someone special again and he’d show her.
He’d gained a hundred pounds since Audrey blindsided him fourteen months ago and asked for a divorce. Before that awful day, he’d taken two-week summer family vacations with her and the girls to family places like the Grand Canyon and the Smoky Mountains. On weekends he’d held garage sales, and washed both the car and the dog in the driveway of the house he’d worked real hard to buy in Boynton Beach, while he waved hello to neighbors he’d known for years. He went out to dinner with other couples, and joshed the guys in the squad who were on wives number three and four.
Now he lived in an apartment that was a few miles from the Key West-style two-story Audrey had once called her ‘dream house’. He’d pushed himself and the budget to buy it for her just so he could see that smile on her face – the one that made his insides glow. Most nights he ate dinners that came from a microwave or a local takeout on his rented sofa. He could count the pieces of furniture that were in his apartment on his fingers. He saw his kids on Wednesdays and every other weekend. He tried to see them more, but they were always so busy. The girls were seventeen, and he wasn’t sure if it was their age or his size, but they weren’t excited to see him any more when he showed up at school to surprise them at lunch or after school at their softball games and lacrosse practices. The twins used to think he was so cool, that what he did was so cool – now they were embarrassed when he hugged them in public. He rang the bell at the house he worked overtime to buy, and watched as his former neighbors avoided saying hello to him as they washed their cars and their dogs in their driveways, because, as Audrey had explained, ‘It’s awkward for everyone, Bryan.’ Twenty-two years and she just didn’t love him any more. It wasn’t her and it wasn’t him. It was as simple and devastating as that.
‘We’re done here, Detective,’ called out Styles, the crime-scene tech, from the front door.
Bryan stood up and looked around the empty kitchen. He felt incredibly lonely. ‘Me too,’ he replied quietly, gathering his papers and his bag.
It was unmanly to cry, even when no one was around to see.
So he never did.