11

When Houston and Bouchard opened the door and stepped into the vestibule, they were immediately confronted by a stern, elderly woman. “I don’t rent to couples or men . . . single women only.”

“I’m sorry?” Houston asked.

“If you’re not looking to rent, what are you doing here?” the woman asked.

“This is official,” Bouchard said, flashing her identification.

The woman’s posture was such that Houston knew she would not accept anything he told her; still he tried to explain their presence. “We’ve been asked by Cheryl’s grandparents to find her.”

“Who is Cheryl?”

Houston was taken aback. “Isn’t this where Cheryl Guerette lives?”

“No, it isn’t.”

He presented her with the picture of Cheryl and Del Vecchio. “Is she the woman you rented to?”

“Yes. Only she told me that her name was Alana Turner.”

“Well, that is Cheryl Guerette from Kittery, Maine. When did you see her last?”

The woman’s attitude changed. “It’s been a couple of weeks now. I thought she was avoiding me . . . she’s going on two months without paying her rent.”

“She didn’t tell you anything?”

“Well, we weren’t exactly friendly. But she was always on time with her rent until the last couple of months.”

Houston put the picture back in his pocket. “Could you show us her room, please?”

“I’m not sure I should do that.”

“We’re trying to find Cheryl,” Bouchard interjected. “She has disappeared, and we’re trying to find out what has happened to her. Whether you like it or not, we’re going in.” She handed the landlady a white business envelope.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a search warrant. Now step aside, please.”

The woman vacillated for a few moments, handed the unopened envelope back to Bouchard, and then said, “All right. Her room is upstairs.” She reached into her pocket and removed a ring of keys. As she started climbing, she said, “This way.”

At the top of the stairs, the landlady led them down a short hall and stopped at the third door on the left. She opened it and stood back. Houston stood in the threshold of the door. He studied the small one-room efficiency apartment. To call this twelve-by-ten room an apartment was a stretch. It was a major step down from the apartment Cheryl had shared with Sarah Wilson. There was barely enough room in this place for a bed, single wooden chair, and small dresser. He thanked the landlady for her help, ushered her from the room, and closed the door.

The only illumination was from a single bare bulb in the center of the ceiling, and it struggled to provide enough light to navigate the room. He turned to Bouchard and said, “What ID did you show her?”

Bouchard smiled. “A badge I ordered online. It says concealed carry permit.”

“And the search warrant?”

“Archie’s letter authorizing us to see her school files.”

Houston grinned. “I knew that getting you involved with Jimmy might lead to this . . . he’s taught you a lot in a short time.” He opened the dresser’s top drawer and searched for anything that might give him a lead to her whereabouts. “If she left for New York, she couldn’t have taken much more than the clothes she was wearing.” He turned back to his search; the warped drawer revealed an assortment of cheap makeup and hair products—nothing to give any indication of where their owner had disappeared to. The remaining drawers were half-filled with neatly folded underwear—none of which you’d expect to see on a prostitute—a few shirts, and several pairs of jeans. None of the clothing looked new but neither did it look excessively worn or frayed.

The bed was unmade, and Houston lifted the mattress, finding several letters from Betty Guerette—all unopened and addressed to the apartment that she shared with Wilson. He handed the letters to Bouchard. “Obviously, the Guerettes had no idea where their granddaughter was living.”

He dropped the mattress and opened the door to the miniscule closet. The only clothes he found there were typical of what you would expect a streetwalker to wear. He did not know exactly how petite Cheryl was, but the dresses would be tight on a skinny thirteen-year-old. He checked the rest of the closet, finding a small carry-on type suitcase but nothing of interest. There was not a single indication that she had been a student anywhere in the room . . . no books, notes, or class schedules. He also was unable to find anything to indicate that she had left town of her own will.

He opened the door, and the landlady jumped backward, hitting the wall.

Bouchard walked out of the room, looked at the obviously flustered woman, and said, “Did you get an earful?”

The older woman regained her composure and ignored Bouchard’s slight. “I’m glad she hasn’t been avoiding me. But all things considered, I’m not surprised that she’s missing.”

“Oh?”

“I think she was into drugs.” She suddenly became defensive. “Not that I ever saw her do anything . . . she just seemed out of it a lot.”

“Well, we’ll keep looking,” he said.

“I hope nothing has happened to her,” the woman said. “But if you find her, remind her about the rent . . .”

Once they were back on the street, Bouchard said, “Well, that told us exactly nothing, other than that Cheryl wasn’t communicating with her grandparents.”

“I think it told us something very important. No one willingly leaves a place and doesn’t take any of their belongings. Her suitcase was still in the closet.”

“So,” Bouchard stated the obvious, “she didn’t leave of her own accord.”

“I think it’s time for me to interview some of Cheryl’s coworkers.”

“That’s something you’ll have to do without me,” Bouchard said.