Doom with a View (13 page)

The furniture was simple but tasteful; two olive wing chairs faced a chocolate brown leather couch, and olive throw pillows were placed just so.

“Please have a seat,” she offered, taking our coats to the front closet.

Candice and I both perched carefully on the edge of the couch. Neither one of us wanted to disturb the tidiness of the room. “Would you care for some coffee or tea?”

“Coffee would be lovely, Mrs. Lovelace,” said Candice.

“Make that two,” I added.

I noticed that Terry seemed relieved to have something to do with her hands before getting down to business. I imagined that she must be trying very hard to hold herself together.

She returned after a bit with three cups of steaming-hot coffee on a tray and set that down on the coffee table. After offering us cream and sugar, she picked up her own cup and seemed to stare blankly into it, lost in thought. “I’ve made copies of all Bianca’s journals,” she said at last. “I gave the originals to the FBI.”

“Thank you for taking the extra step,” Candice told her. “Hopefully there will be something useful in them.”

Terry nodded, but her face didn’t look convinced. “I’ve been all through them,” she said. “Last night I combed through all seven of her journals. Even those going back to high school. I couldn’t find anything in there that stood out. Nothing she wrote triggered any alarm.”

“What do you know about Bianca’s friends or the people she hung out with?” Candice asked, and I noticed that she’d discreetly placed a pocket-sized tape recorder on the coffee table.

Terry eyed the device but didn’t object to its use as she answered. “Bianca had tons of friends. She was such a warm and outgoing person, she made friends easily. There were three girls up at school that she hung around with the most. I can give you their names and e-mail addresses if you think that will help.”

“It would,” said Candice. “And what about boy-friends? Did Bianca date?”

Terry inhaled deeply, appearing to struggle to hold herself together. “No,” she whispered. “There was a boy that she was crazy about named Craig Stevenson. Those two were great friends all through high school, but he was captain of the football team and always had a new cheerleader on his arm. Bianca had the world’s biggest crush on him and I knew that she was privately waiting for him to notice her as something more than just a buddy.”

“Do you think he ever did?” Candice asked.

Terry seemed to catch the implied meaning in Candice’s question, which was, did Terry think that maybe Craig finally noticed Bianca and things got out of hand and one thing led to another and Bianca ended up dead? “No,” Terry said. “The last time I heard Bianca refer to Craig, which was about two weeks before she disappeared, he was overseas in Spain doing four semesters as an exchange student. To my knowledge, he’s been out of the country this whole time.”

“What about acquaintances? Did Bianca ever mention anyone hassling her or giving her a hard time over something? Even a misunderstanding?”

Terry shook her head and took a tiny sip of her coffee. “No,” she said. “Never.”

Candice looked down at a small notebook she’d taken from her purse and asked, “Can you forward me all the e-mails you might have received from Bianca while she was at school?”

“I can.”

“Also, is it possible for you to get me a copy of her last school schedule?”

“Why would you need that?” Terry wondered.

“I’d like to retrace her steps,” Candice explained.

“I’d like to know the places she walked on a daily basis. For her to have disappeared so quickly, and with no one noticing, tells me that someone might have known her routine. They were familiar with her schedule, where she went on a regular basis and when she might be vulnerable.”

Terry audibly gulped and her complexion grew paler still. She nodded her head numbly and my heart went out to her. Instinctively, I searched the ether for her daughter, wanting to give her even the smallest bit of comfort, but Bianca’s energy was absent from my sixth sense today.

Candice too seemed to pick up that Terry was close to losing it. Setting her coffee down, she stood up and said, “I believe that’s enough for us to get started on, Mrs. Lovelace. Thank you so much for meeting with us. I know last week had to have been especially difficult for you and you have our sincer est condolences.”

Terry and I stood up as well and our hostess said, “I appreciate all your efforts, Candice. I just want them to release my daughter so that we can hold her funeral.”

“The coroner still has her?” Candice asked.

Terry inhaled deeply, even as tears welled in her eyes. “They do,” she whispered. “We hope it will only be another day or two. They don’t want to miss documenting any evidence.”

An awkward kind of silence followed and neither Candice nor I seemed to know what to say to offer any comfort to Terry. She was the first to break the silence, though, when she said, “Jeremy has been handling the press, thank God.”

“Press?” Candice asked curiously.

“Yes,” Terry said. “I believe one newspaper reporter and someone from channel seven contacted him. His friend Bill Gaston told Jeremy to tell them as little as possible. They’ve all but concluded that Bianca’s death was either an accident or a suicide, which bothers me a lot.” Suddenly Terry’s eyes focused hard on Candice. “I’d like to call them and tell them what the FBI really suspects, Ms. Fusco. I don’t want my daughter being thought of as mentally unstable enough to commit suicide. What do you think?”

Candice seemed to shift slightly. “I think that it’s better for the time being to follow the FBI’s instructions, Mrs. Lovelace. I think that whoever could have done this to Bianca might really hope to get the story in the papers and on TV. You might be feeding right into them by saying anything.”

“But what if someone out there can help? What if someone saw something that can point to the killer and all they need is to hear about it on the news?”

I looked at Candice, knowing she was in a tough spot. She really couldn’t explain why the FBI wanted to keep this case on the down-low right now without revealing to Terry that there were two other missing teens—one of whom might still be alive. If Tracy said anything to the press, that could incite the killer to murder Leslie and move on to another victim.

Candice handled the delicate situation very well by saying,“Mrs. Lovelace, I know that more than anything you want the person responsible for your daughter’s death to be captured and brought to justice, and if that is truly your goal, I think it’s best to listen to the advice of the FBI. They know what they’re doing, and all they’re asking for is a little time to get to the bottom of this and put some of these clues together without tipping off the killer that they’re on to him. It would also help us with our investigation if you said nothing to the press. I mean, the last thing Abby and I need is some reporter sniffing around our investigation.”

Terry gave Candice a weak smile. “Well, when you put it like that, Candice, it makes a lot of sense. I just hope whoever did this to my daughter is caught soon.”

Candice stuck out her hand. “We’ll do our best to make sure that happens, Mrs. Lovelace, and we’ll call you the moment we find anything relevant.”

After handing us the copies of Bianca’s journals and getting our coats out of the closet, Terry looked at me and asked softly, “Did she come to you again?”

“No,” I said honestly. “I was open to it, but she’s not with us at the moment.”

Terry seemed concerned. “Do you think she’s all right?”

I squeezed her arm gently. “Of course she is,” I reassured her. “What I know about the dead is that it takes a lot of energy for them to come through to someone like me, and once they use up that energy, it can sometimes take them a little while to recuperate. Don’t worry, I’m absolutely positive that she’s okay and that she hasn’t gone far away from you.”

Terry swallowed hard. “Thank you,” she said.

We left her and began the long trip back to Royal Oak. I’d made sure to wait until after Dutch had gone to work to meet Candice, so I wasn’t worried about him wondering where I was or why I was dressed in a suit. And as my phone with the tracking device linked to his phone had been lost in Vegas, I wasn’t worried about him checking some GPS system to figure out that I was far outside of town.

About the time we were approaching our exit, Candice said, “Want to grab some lunch?”

My eyes went to the clock on the dash and my stomach answered first with a loud gurgle. “I do.”

“What sounds good?”

“Coney Island?” Strange though it may sound, the Detroit metro area offers the best damn hot dog and chili combo
ever
.

Candice smirked. “You and your junk food.”

I shot her a look. Candice spent a lot of time trying to convince me to eat right. I spent an equal amount of time trying to get her to cheat a little. “If I offer to get a side salad, can we go to Sparky’s on Woodward?”

“They’ve closed down,” Candice told me.

“What?”
I gasped. “When?”

“Three weeks ago,” she said. “A lot of restaurants and small businesses have closed around these parts,” she reminded me. “Some of them can’t survive.”

I scrunched down in my seat and pouted. “Well, that just sucks,” I moaned. “I loved Sparky’s.”

Candice gave me a pat on the head. “Buck up, lil’ camper, I know a joint.”

About ten minutes later we were on the south side of town and seated in a booth with duct tape on the seats, cracked Formica tabletops, and salt and pepper shakers that had seen better—cleaner—days. “This is great!” I said, looking around in approval.

Candice chuckled. “Remember to order the side salad.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, inhaling deeply as the rich aroma of onions, chili, hot dogs, and mustard filled my nostrils.

We gave our order to the waitress—who, like the salt and pepper shakers, had also seen better days—and began to discuss our game plan for Bianca’s case. “Nothing new came to you when we were sitting with Terry?” she asked me.

“Nope,” I said, after taking a long pull of my Coke. “The ether was quiet.”

“What do you think that means?” she asked.

I thought about that for a minute before answering. “I think it means that we have all the clues we need to get started. And because Bianca specifically mentioned her journals, I think that’s where we should start.”

Our food arrived and my eyes widened as I surveyed the huge plate of Coney fries set in between Candice and me. “Yum!” I sang happily, diving right in.

Candice gave me a minute to indulge my taste buds before she continued. “I also think I should head up to MSU.”

I cocked my head. “You want me to come with you?”

She nodded. “You’re better than any bloodhound. Maybe there’s a trace of her up there, some kind of imprint you can pick up on to help us bring out another clue or two.”

“You know,” I said, pointing a fry at her, “that’s a damn good idea. When do you want to head to East Lansing?”

“As soon as her mother sends me the class schedule. If she doesn’t e-mail or fax it to me by this afternoon, I’ll give her another call and remind her.”

“I’m free tomorrow,” I said.

“Perfect.”

“And give me half of the journal entries today,” I added. “I’ll take them home and see if my radar hits on anything.”

“Done.”

“Then what?” I asked after a bit of silence.

“I’ll conduct my usual routine and do some digging into Bianca’s credit, assuming of course that she had any. I’ll contact her friends, teachers, roommates, and acquaintances and see if there’re any clues there. I’ll look into her bank accounts, e-mails, and any other personal information I can get my hands on and try to find the needle in the haystack.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s a lot of work. Maybe you’d better give me all the journal entries, then.”

Candice laughed. “Done,” she said.

We left the restaurant and Candice dropped me at my place with the journal entries. I went inside, changed into sweats, and curled up on the couch with Eggy and Tuttle (our dogs) to begin sifting through Bianca’s most private thoughts. I started with the entries just before she disappeared, working my way backward. It bothered me at first to think that I was invading her privacy—it felt so voyeuristic—but I reminded myself that it was Bianca who had suggested I sift through her journals in the first place.

Dutch came home around six, catching me by surprise. I’d been completely absorbed in Bianca’s world when I heard his car pull into the driveway. Quick as a flash, I bolted to my home office and stuffed the copies into the bottom drawer of my desk. I then zipped back to the couch and flipped on the TV.

“Hey,” he said when he came through the door.

“Hi, sweetheart!” I said happily. “How was your day?”

Dutch eyed me suspiciously. Maybe I was a little
too
happy. “Fine. Yours?”

I shrugged. “Nothing special,” I said.

“Why are you panting?” he asked, noting that I was still breathing a little heavy from running back and forth to my office.

I forced a laugh and lowered my lids seductively and purred, “You take my breath away, hot stuff.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, not buying it. Still, I was grateful when he changed the subject. “You hungry?”

“Aren’t I always?”

“I’ve got some chicken marinating in the fridge that I could grill.”

“Sounds perfect. Want some help?” I was a god-awful cook, and the kitchen was pretty much off-limits to me these days.

“No,” he said a little too quickly before he added, “That’s okay. I’ve got it.”

“Suit yourself. Let me know when it’s time to set the table and I’ll at least do that.”

A half hour later Dutch and I were just sitting down to dinner when the doorbell rang. I groaned, knowing full well who it was. “Did you make extra?” I asked, getting up from the table to go answer the door.