Bobcat reeks of Chinese food. I can tell by the expression on his face that he’s got something to tell me. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then burps, grins sheepishly, and waits for me to ask the obvious question. For a second, I hesitate, but I don’t have the heart to postpone his impending revelation. “So? How did you make out?”
In response, Bob plops a manila folder onto my desk. “Lots of pictures,” he says. “Very pretty girl. And, the mother wasn’t nearly as much of a hard case as I had expected. Her husband’s in Attica, doing five years for armed robbery. That’s why she finally felt safe to call us.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, and extracts the evidence bag containing the hairbrush, dangling it in front of me. “And, I got this,” he says, proudly.
“Nice work. Shouldn’t be any problem getting a DNA sample from that. I’ll get it off to the lab first thing in the morning.” I pick up the manila folder, and begin to look slowly through the pictures. A few are posed, probably for a school yearbook, and others are candid. But, there is one thing consistent in each image—a certain appearance, a certain feel. It’s a kind of look with which I’ve become way too familiar during my years in law enforcement. It’s the look of desperation. Suddenly, I’m filled with a sense of dread that I haven’t known in some time. With a sigh, I return the pictures to the folder, closing it, and setting it back down on my desk.
When I look up, Bobcat is still standing there. He’s grinning like a Cheshire cat. It doesn’t take much to make some people happy. I only wish I could share in his enthusiasm.
The following day, I receive a call from Frank Lynn.
“You won’t believe it,” he shouts. “She’s in Miami Beach, at some fancy hotel.”
“Who is?”
“Wanda. After I talked to you, I decided to call the credit card companies, you know, and cancel the cards—so she can’t keep buyin’ all that shit. All of a sudden, I get this call. She’s screamin’ at me, sayin’ all she needed was a little break. She tried to use the card at some restaurant, and they told her it was no good. She wants to know why I canceled the credit cards. So, I told her…”
I permit him to rant and rave until he runs out of breath—and expletives. Finally, it’s my turn. “Did you ask her about the bracelet?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “That’s what I was gonna tell you. She says she bought it for her niece. The kid was fascinated by the war, you know, that Iraq thing. So Wanda bought her the bracelet as a birthday present. Does that help?”
“In a way,” I reply. But one question in particular cries out for an answer, and so, reluctantly I ask it. “What’s your niece’s name?”
“Oh,” he replies. “It’s Rhonda. But, not Miller, like her old lady. It’s Jeffries. That was the name of my sister-in-law’s first husband—Jeffries. Artie was a real jerk, and the kid’s not much better—a real pain in the ass. Ever since her old man ran off, she started right in…”
I reach over and pick up the manila folder with the pictures of Rhonda Jeffries in it. Such a pretty kid. But, really, what chance did she have? Suddenly, I feel sick to my stomach. But, it passes. On the other end of the line, Frank Lynn is still spewing venom about his wife and her sister. He hasn’t missed a beat.
“Mr. Lynn?” I repeat the words softly. “Mr. Lynn?”
“Yeah?” he says.
“Thank you very much, sir. You’ve been a big help. I really appreciate your calling me.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “No problem. Hey, if you’re ever in Mexico, look me up. We’ll have a drink.”
I hang up the phone without responding, silently thanking God that I’ll never have to make the ride.
The DNA report comes back on the hairbrush, and the results are a foregone conclusion; it’s a match. At long last, we have a victim. There’s work to be done—and I have an unpleasant phone call to make. “Nancy, get me Mrs. Miller on the line.” Then, I look up at the clock, and realize there’s no hurry. No hurry at all.