Lost Souls. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
if I decide I need a roommate?” Kristi asked, though whoever that might be would be relegated to the tired-looking love seat or an air bed.
Irene’s lips thinned. “Lease would have to be rewritten. I’d want to run a security check on any prospective tenants and, of course, the rent would go up along with another security deposit. And no subletting. Got it?”
“So far, it’s just me,” Kristi said, somehow managing to hold her tongue. She needed this apartment. Housing was hard to find in the middle of the school year, especially any apartments close to campus. A stroke of luck helped her discover this loft on the Internet. It had been one of the only units she could afford within walking distance to school. As for a roommate, Kristi would rather fly solo, but finances might dictate trying to find someone to share the rent and utilities.
“Good. I’ve no use for nonsense.”
Kristi let that one slide. For now. But the older woman was beginning to bug her.
“You don’t have any other questions?” Irene asked as she folded her copy crisply with her fingernails and slid it into a side pocket of a hand-crocheted bag.
“Not yet. Maybe once I move in.”
Irene’s dark eyes narrowed behind her glasses as if she were really sizing Kristi up.
“If there are any problems, you can also call my grandson, Hiram. He’s in One-A.” She waved her fingers as she explained, “He’s kind of the manager on duty. Gets a break on his rent to fix things and take care of small problems.” The furrows over her eyebrows deepened. “Damned parents of his split up and forgot they had a couple of kids. Stupid.” She fished into the pocket of her jeans and withdrew a business card with her name and phone number along with Hiram’s, then slid it across the table. “I told my son he was making a mistake taking up with that woman, but did he listen? Oh, no…Damn fool.”
As if realizing she was saying too much, Irene quickly added, “Hiram, he’s a good kid. Works hard. He’ll help you move in, if you want, does all the fix-up. Learned it from my husband, may he rest in peace.” Pushing to her feet, she added, “Oh, I’m having Hiram install new dead bolts on all the doors. And if you have any window latches that aren’t solid, he’ll take care of those, too. I suppose you’ve heard the latest?” Her gray eyebrows shot up over the tops of her rimless glasses and she scratched at her chin nervously, as if she were weighing what she was about to reveal. “Several students have disappeared here this school year. No bodies found, y’know, but the police seem to suspect foul play. If ya ask me, they’re all runaways.” She glanced away and muttered, “Happens all the time, but you can never be too careful.” She nodded, as if agreeing with herself, tucking her bag under her arm.
“I saw the news coverage.”
“Things were different when I grew up here,” Irene assured. “Most of the classes were taught by priests and nuns, and the college, it had a reputation, but now…ach!” She waved one hand into the air, as if brushing aside a bothersome mosquito. “Now it seems they hire all sorts…weirdos, if you ask me, anyone who has a damned degree. They teach classes about vampires and demons and all kinds of satanic things…religions of the world, not just Christianity, mind you, and…then there are those ridiculous morality plays! Like we’re still living in the Middle Ages. Oh, don’t get me going about that English Department. A nutcase is in charge of it, let me tell you. Natalie Croft has no business teaching a class, much less running a department.” She snorted as she opened the door. “Ever since Father Anthony—oh, excuse me, it’s ‘Father Tony’ because he’s so hip I guess, everyone’s best friend—ever since he took over from Father Stephen, all hell has broken out. Literally.”
Lips compressed, Irene shook her head as she stepped over the threshold onto the porch with its poor lighting. “How’s that for progress? Morality plays, for crying out loud? Vampires? It’s like All Saints stepped back into the Dark Ages!” She grabbed hold of the railing and headed down the stairs.
Open-minded, Irene Calloway was not. Kristi neglected to mention that some of the classes the old woman had disdained were already on her schedule.
Locking the door after her new landlady, Kristi checked all the windows, including the large one in the bedroom leading to an ancient, rusted fire escape.
The latch on every window in the small apartment was broken. Kristi figured she wouldn’t mention the lack of security to her father. Immediately, as she headed down the exterior staircase for her things, she called Hiram’s cell. Irene’s grandson didn’t answer, but Kristi left a message and her phone number, then began hauling her few belongings to her new home, a crow’s nest overlooking the stone fence surrounding All Saints College.
Seated at her desk at the Baton Rouge Police Department, Detective Portia Laurent stared at the pictures of the four coeds missing from All Saints College. None of the girls had resurfaced. Just disappeared, not only from Louisiana, but, it seemed, the face of the earth.
As computer keyboards clicked, printers hummed, and an old clock ticked off the final days of the year, Portia eyed the pictures for what seemed to be the millionth time. They were all so young. Smiling girls with fresh faces, intelligence and hope shining from their eyes.
Or were their expressions masks?
Behind those practiced smiles was there something darker lurking?
The girls had been troubled, that much had been ascertained. So they’d been written off. No one, not the other members of the police department, not the administration of the college, not even the missing girls’ families seemed to think that any serious foul play was involved. Nope. These smiling once-upon-a-time students were just runaways, headstrong wild girls who had, for one reason or another, decided to take a hike and not reappear.
Had they been into drugs?
Prostitution?
Or were they just tired of school?
Had they connected with a boyfriend who had whisked them away?
Had they decided to hitchhike around the country?
Had they wanted a quickie vacation and never returned?
The answers and opinions varied, but Portia seemed to be the only person on the planet who cared. She’d taken copies of these girls’ campus ID pictures and pinned them to the bulletin board of her cubicle. The originals were in the general file of all the recent missing persons, but these were different; these photos connected every girl who had attended All Saints College, disappeared, then left no trail. No credit cards had been used, no checks cashed, no ATMs accessed. Their cell phone usages had stopped on the evenings they’d gone missing, but not one of them had turned up in a local hospital. None of them had bought a bus or plane ticket, nor had there been activity on their MySpace pages.
Portia stared at their pictures and wondered what the hell had happened to them. Deep inside, she believed them all dead, but she hoped against hope that her jaded cop instincts were wrong.
None of the girls had owned a vehicle, and none had called the state of Louisiana home until they’d enrolled at the small private school. The last persons known to have seen each of them hadn’t noticed anything strange, nor could they give the police even the tiniest hint of what each girl had in mind, where she could have gone, whom she might have seen.
It was frustrating as hell.
Portia reached into her purse for her pack of cigarettes, then reminded herself that she’d quit. Three months, four days, and five hours ago—not that she was counting. She grabbed a piece of nicotine gum and found little satisfaction in chewing as she gazed from one picture to the next.
The first victim, missing nearly a year since last January, was an African-American student, Dionne Harmon, with dark skin, high cheekbones, a beautiful, toothy grin, and a tattoo that said “LOVE” entwined with hummingbirds and flowers low on her back. She hailed from New York City. Her parents had never married and were now both deceased, the mother from cancer, the father in an industrial accident. Her only sibling, a brother