Pretties in Pink

8. Hallie

8

HALLIE

Prestia considered my offer for a moment. “Ristretto? I can live with that.” Then he winked. “Better to under-promise and over-deliver.”

Well, that backfired. Great.

“Can we get back to the reason we’re actually here? The Feinstein case?”

“Sure.” He held up his glass. “Laissez les bon temps rouler.”

“Huh?”

“It’s French for ‘let the good times roll.’ The waiter’s coming—know what you want to eat?”

I ordered chicken provolone I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stomach, and Prestia picked grilled langoustines plus a salad. Next time—if there was a next time—I’d offer to meet somewhere that didn’t involve three courses and…

“Wine?” Prestia asked.

I shook my head. “Just water for me.”

“You don’t drink?”

“I only drink with friends.”

“Ouch.”

That had come out harsher than I’d intended, but really, what were we? Just two people wishing to trade information about a particularly nasty crime. As soon as the waiter moved out of earshot, I got to the point.

“The Feinstein case—what do you have?”

“What happened to ‘ladies first’?”

“I made an executive decision, and it’s your turn.”

He gave a wolfish grin. “For the record, that’s not how I usually operate. But for you, plum, I’ll make an exception. There’s a possible connection between Micah Ganaway and another abduction.”

“Mila Carmody?”

“I see you’ve been reading the papers.”

And the rest. “What’s the connection?”

“Micah Ganaway used to work for the landscaping company the Carmodys used.” Prestia watched me carefully. “You weren’t expecting that.”

No, although I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting. But when I’d asked Micah about Mila Carmody this morning, he’d flat-out denied knowing her, and Prestia’s revelation sent a chill through me. Had Micah held back? If so, why?

“You mean MowTown Lawn Care?”

Prestia’s turn to look surprised. “You know of them?”

“The Carmody file’s been on my desk for months. I don’t have a full caseload yet, and I like to read through the cold cases in my spare time.”

“Blackwood worked on the Carmody disappearance?”

“Her father hired us.”

“And yet you didn’t solve the mystery.”

Thanks for the reminder.

“The family didn’t like the direction we were headed in.”

“Which was?”

Nice try. “Ganaway would have been a kid back then.”

“You think teenagers can’t harm people? What about Harvey Miguel Robinson, Craig Price, Jesse Pomeroy?”

“I’m not saying it’s impossible, just…statistically less likely. How long did he spend at the Carmody place?”

“That’s currently unknown.”

“Did he work on the Carmody contract at all?”

“Again, unknown. We’ll be asking him those questions tomorrow.”

“What time?”

“You’re gonna try and beat us to the punch?”

“Of course.”

Prestia barked out a laugh. “Your honesty’s refreshing, plum, but the detention centre’s closed to visitors on Sundays. Breadstick?” Dammit. He held out the basket, and I took one, just one, careful not to let our hands touch. No carb overload for me this evening, and no feeling up the detective either. “Plus we’re still on opposing teams here. What’ve you got?”

“Fine, ristretto.” I had to play the game too. “Micah says he knows nothing about the blood in his trunk.”

“Figures. Is that it?”

I folded my arms. The surveillance footage hadn’t yielded any breakthroughs, but thankfully, I’d been able to find a ripe peach or two elsewhere.

“Give me a little credit.”

“I’m listening.”

“Since Micah knew nothing, I got in touch with the vehicle’s old owner. Micah bought the car on August nineteenth from a man named Jack Lucking over in Wyndham.” When I called Fenika, she’d told us where Micah kept his papers, and Knox had let himself into their apartment and rummaged through the kitchen drawer until he found the receipt. “Mr. Lucking says that a year or so ago, his wife cut herself on the edge of a saw blade while they were unloading the car after a trip to Home Depot. There’s every chance the blood belongs to her and not Vonnie Feinstein. And that blonde hair you found… Guess what colour her hair is?”

“Blonde?”

“Blonde, but bleached. I bet when your lab takes a closer look, they’ll find evidence of cuticle damage.”

“I’m impressed.”

“And I’m not done yet. Ever hear of a girl called Donna Metgood?”

“Can’t say I have.”

Neither had I until this morning. But thanks to the cyber geniuses who practically lived on Blackwood’s third floor, her name had pinged onto my radar as I sipped my second cup of decaf. They’d created a program called Providence, which was basically Google on steroids. Ask it a question in plain English, and it trawled through the internet plus Blackwood’s internal databases and came up with answers in the blink of an eye. Plus it used advanced AI to make connections that might take a human months to put together.

“Donna Metgood lived on the outskirts of Lewisburg with her parents, and just over three years ago, she vanished from her bed in the middle of the night.”

Prestia dropped the breadstick he was eating onto a side plate and leaned forward. “You think there’s a connection to Feinstein and Carmody?”

Providence had thrown it up as a possibility. “They disappeared in nice, low-crime neighbourhoods, and in all three cases, the perpetrators came in through the window. Donna’s parents were asleep in the next room, and nobody heard a sound. The only evidence noted in the media was a size eleven footprint outside her bedroom window. As far as I’ve been able to ascertain, nobody was ever arrested, let alone charged.”

“Gone without a trace.”

“Not exactly. A hiker stumbled over her body in a forest near Fairfield six months after she vanished.”

“So that’s one big difference to the Carmody case.”

“Is it? Just because nobody’s found Mila Carmody’s body doesn’t mean it’s not out there. Somewhere.”

The waiter bustled up with our food, his cheery smile at odds with the heavy silence that had fallen over our table.

“I have the chicken provolone for you…” He slid the plate in front of me, then turned to Prestia. “And for you, the langoustines. Can I get you anything else? Some wine?”

Prestia answered for both of us. “We’re good here.”

“Buon appetito.”

We stared at our food. The chicken looked perfect, but I had zero desire to pick up a fork.

“Lost my appetite,” Prestia muttered. “How’d you come up with Donna Metgood? That another Blackwood case?”

“No, not ours, but we began wondering what the person who took Mila Carmody had been doing for the past five years, and there she was. The disappearance was a big story in West Virginia, but it didn’t make much of an impact here, even when her body was found. Can you get the file?”

Better to ask nicely than admit that I’d already put in a request with Mackenzie Cain, Blackwood’s top cyber geek and the architect of Providence. She had ways and means of getting ahold of information, ways and means that Detective Prestia definitely wouldn’t approve of.

He pondered for a few moments, no doubt trying to work out whether my suggestion had merit. He’d also have to work out a way of explaining the hot tip to Detective Duncan.

Finally, he nodded. “I can try.”

The coil of anxiety in my gut loosened a smidgen. Deep down, I’d been afraid Prestia would brush me off, especially after his “tenderfoot” comment. But he believed me, and maybe, just maybe, that was the first brick in a foundation of trust between us.

“Thank you. Is that enough of a peach for you? Or do I have to deliver the whole damn fruit basket before I get the steak?”

“The steak… The steak could cost me my job, so forgive me if I’m a little hesitant about forking it onto your plate. Do you have anything more? A pear? An orange? One of those spiky pink-and-green things that I have no idea what to do with?”

“A dragon fruit?”

“Yeah, one of those.”

“Try blending it into a smoothie. But the pear and the orange will have to wait. I have a psychologist working up a profile and a genetic genealogist looking at the DNA sample, and the results will take time to come back.”

“What DNA sample?”

“The one from the Carmody crime scene.”

“How the hell do you have that?”

“Because five years ago, you could buy any low-level employee of the Richmond PD for a six-pack and a pretzel.” So Dan said, anyway.

Prestia groaned. “Tell me that’s changed?”

“Now it would cost NFL tickets and a month’s worth of pizza.”

“You’re joking?”

“There’s a reason why Blackwood’s hospitality budget is so large.”

“Sheesh. Although NFL tickets…”

“You’re a fan?”

“I still have season tickets for the Saints, although I don’t suppose I’ll get to use them much this year.”

“Blackwood has a box at the Washington Football Team’s stadium. I could ask—”

I could ask myself what the hell I’m doing. But before I got that chance, Prestia was already shaking his head, and he looked pissed.

“I’m not one of the men you can bribe, no matter how short your skirt is. Let’s get that straight.”

Gee, thanks for making me feel like a w***e.

“I wasn’t trying—”

“If I think it’ll benefit a case, I’ll trade information on occasion, but I am not a corrupt cop.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, I—”

“Then how did you mean it?”

“I—”

“How, Hallie?”

“I just… I thought… Maybe I just wanted to spend some time together, okay? When I got near you, I felt as if I was on a roller-coaster ride—light-headed and slightly sick, but it was also fun and weirdly addictive. But now you’ve fixed that by acting like a jerk, so I suppose I should be relieved.” I shoved my chair back and stood, all too aware that people were staring at me. “Some detective you are. You saw things that weren’t there and jumped to the wrong conclusions, kind of like you’re doing with Micah.”

“Hallie—”

I hurled the banana at him, and it hit him square in the chest. “Go stuff that where the sun don’t shine.”

“Plum…”

“Don’t you ‘plum’ me.”

I rifled through my purse and dropped a hundred-dollar bill onto the table, then marched out of the restaurant as fast as I could manage on Bradley’s stupid shoes. Graceful I was not. At least I’d parked my car in the basement garage, so I didn’t need to run along the damn street.

“Hurry up, hurry up.” I jabbed at the elevator button once, twice, three times. “Come on.”

Prestia was heading toward me with a face like a winter storm, but the doors opened and I leapt inside. Pushed the button for the basement.

“Stay away from me!”

He checked his stride for a second, long enough for the doors to close. Then I was gliding downward, and my tears began to fall. This was such a mess. I was a mess. And perhaps Prestia had been right to call me a tenderfoot because I had no idea what I was doing. How the hell was I meant to explain this to Dan? To Knox? I needed to come up with an explanation fast because Giovanni would probably call Oliver, and he’d call Dan because they were friends, and for once, I hated the speed at which Blackwood managed to disseminate information.

I fished in my purse for my key, and the second I emerged into the parking garage, I bleeped my car unlocked. But then a loud bang sent my heart leaping into my throat, and when I wheeled around, Prestia was running out of the stairwell. Instinct took over. True, the last two times I’d been abducted, men had slipped drugs into my drink, but terror gripped me with eagle claws and I fumbled for my purse again, for something to protect myself—my switchblade, or the gun I’d spent so many hours on the range learning how to use—but in the panic of the moment, I pulled out a freaking tampon and aimed it at his chest.

“Stop!”

He skidded to a halt and stared, incredulous, then slowly raised his hands.

“You sure do know how to strike fear into a man’s heart, plum.”