109: “I told you, we don’t run contests. I have no idea what that is.”
Clair stared at the woman behind the counter at the Designated Driver driving school. She felt the blood heating her face. The woman stared at her blankly, defiantly. Clair wanted to reach across the counter and pull her over. Kloz had taken the image of Lili Davies holding her iPad, enhanced it, and blown the picture up so they could make out the detail. The version Clair had on her phone clearly showed this building and some of the cars out front. “Look at the pictures again,” Clair said, pushing the photo sheet of the missing and dead children across the counter at the woman.
She glanced down, then back at Clair. “I told you, I haven’t seen any of them. None of those kids have ever set foot in here. I’d know. Anybody could have taken a picture of this place and mocked it up. That’s not our phone number, it’s bogus.”
The phone number in the picture, the one Gabby Deegan had called earlier that morning, currently rang through to a voice mail box that had not been set up. Kloz tried to trace the number, but it came up as a burner phone, no longer online. He and Nash were working with the phone company to try and trace back Gabby’s call from earlier and possibly pin down a location.
Gabby sat in a chair at the corner of the small building, Sophie next to her, holding the girl’s hand. “Okay, run through it one more time for me, sweetheart,” Sophie said.
Gabby wiped at her eyes. “I should never have let her go by herself. It’s my fault. If I had gone with her, she’d still be alive.”
“Tell us about the phone call, about the man who answered. What did he say to you? Did you hear any strange noises? Anything that might tell us where he was?”
Gabby shook her head. “I hung up right after he answered. He sounded funny. I . . . I could see inside here, I could see her. She didn’t answer the call. I don’t think the phone in here even rang.”
“I haven’t gotten a call all day. It’s been dead,” the woman said.
“Sounded funny, how?” Clair asked, walking over.
“Like he just woke up, sleepy, I guess. He couldn’t say the word school right.”
“He had a stutter?”
Gabby frowned. “No, not a stutter. I’m not sure what you call it. He couldn’t say the letter s—well, he could say it, just not right. He pronounced it thcool.”
“A lisp?” the woman behind the counter asked. “Is that what you mean? He had a lisp?”
Gabby was nodding. “Yeah, that’s it. A lisp.”
Clair went back over to the counter. “Does that mean something to you?”
The woman picked up the phone and began dialing. “I need to call the owner.”
Clair took the phone from her and hung it back up. “You need to tell me whatever it is you know.”
Her eyes jumped from Clair to Gabby, then to Sophie, then back again. She drew in a deep breath. “One of our instructors, he has a bad lisp. It came on recently. A side effect, I think.”
“Side effect of what?”
She came out from behind the counter and went to the wall on the left side of the office, to a series of employee photographs. She reached up and took one down off the wall. “Paul Upchurch. He’s been with us for nearly ten years. About six months ago, he started smelling things that weren’t there. He kept telling me I smelled like almonds and vanilla. I thought he was trying to be nice. He was always sweet. The nicest guy. Funny too. Then he started to get the shakes. They’d come on randomly and disappear just as fast. The owner pulled him out of rotation, made him see a doctor. We can’t risk something happening to one of our instructors with a kid in the car. He went for a series of tests, over the course of a week or so. Anyway, the doctors said he had a brain tumor. I don’t remember the specifics. He explained it, but it was all so technical, went over my head.”
Cancer, Clair thought.
Insurance.
Oncologist.
Pharmaceuticals.
X-ray.
MRI.
Surgeon.
Hospital.
“Where is Paul Upchurch now?”
“Home, I imagine. He’s had three surgeries that I’m aware of, maybe more. We haven’t heard from him for over a week. I was thinking about driving over and checking on him if he didn’t call in over the next few days.”
“I need an address.”
“Sure, okay.” Her eyes were still on the picture in her hand. A man in his early thirties, smiling back. “Paul wouldn’t hurt anyone, he’s really the sweetest guy. Terrible, what he’s going through. He’s so young, very spiritual, a good soul too.”
Clair was already dialing Nash.