Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection. Faye KellermanЧитать онлайн книгу.
Do you think the girls were keeping secrets from me?”
“It’s routine, I assure you, Mrs. Bates.”
Mrs. Bates bit her lip.
“If you think it’s necessary.”
Marge nodded.
“The girls are … are very different,” Mrs. Bates mumbled.
“In what way?”
“I’m … m was closer to Lindsey. We shared more interests. She was the sweetest thing on two feet, Detective. And beautiful inside and out.”
“And Erin?” Marge prompted.
“Erin’s more of an individual. But she’s a good girl also.”
“I’m sure she is,” Marge said. “The Glendale police interviewed Lindsey’s friends. She seemed to have had a lot of them.”
“What can I tell you, Detective? She was very popular.”
“Did you know most of her friends?”
“Yes. Our home was their hangout.” Again eyes welled up with tears. “I miss the noise.”
“Did Lindsey have a boyfriend?”
She shook her head. “Her father and I discouraged her from getting too involved with anyone special. A sixteen-year-old girl doesn’t need an immature boy breathing down her neck, monopolizing her attention. That’s how kids get into trouble.”
The irony wasn’t evident to her, and Marge talked quickly to keep it that way.
“But she dated?”
“She went out in groups with her friends. We knew all her friends, Detective. They’re nice kids.”
“What kind of student was she?”
“She didn’t have a head for academics, but she passed her classes.” She sighed. “We had tutors, but we decided against college for her … her charm was her kindness and beauty. You’ve seen her picture. A lovelier girl never existed.”
Marge agreed with her.
“She was head junior cheerleader,” Mrs. Bates continued. “She had to compete with one hundred girls for that spot, but she knew she’d win. That’s the type of girl she is.”
Marge didn’t correct her tense.
“Was she involved in other extracurricular activities besides cheerleading?”
“She was on the tennis team. What a backhand!” The woman came alive, revitalized by the memory.
“What was her weekday routine, Mrs. Bates?”
“School at 8:10. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, tennis team from 3:15 to 4:30. Cheerleading practice was every day from five to seven. On Wednesday and Thursday nights at eight she had patch—ice skating, Once a week, on Tuesday, piano lessons. She loved to be active. She has an incredible energy level, unlike Erin who’s a—.”
She fell silent. Tension between Erin and Mom, Marge noted in her pad. She asked, “Did Lindsey go out on weekends?”
“Yes. But she had to be in by ten.”
Marge smiled, trying to look benign.
“Mrs. Bates, how would you describe your relationship with your daughter?”
“We were very close,” she said. “My daughter was not a runaway.”
“I’m sure she wasn’t,” Marge said quickly. She noticed Mrs. Bates was digging her nails into her hands.
Keep her talking.
“Do you happen to know if Lindsey kept a diary?” Marge asked.
One nail broke skin. There was blood.
“She did, didn’t she?” Marge said.
“I know she kept one,” Mrs. Bates admitted. “I haven’t been able to find it. Everything else is the way it always was. Her clothes, her money, her records, her jewelry—and most of it isn’t cheap, costume junk—sentimental mementos, her awards. But I … I can’t seem to find her diary.”
Because she ran away from home and took it with her, Marge thought. That’s why you haven’t been able to find it.
She asked her some wind-down questions about Lindsey. What emerged from Mrs. Bates’s answers was a shell of a girl, a sweet kid who never disobeyed her mother. Marge decided to wrap up the interview since nothing enlightening was likely to come out of it.
“After the police failed to find her, did you try to locate her yourself, Mrs. Bates?” she asked. “Did you and your husband hire anyone to try and find her?”
The woman lowered her head.
“Who’d you hire, Mrs. Bates?”
“It was a reputable firm. The Marris Association.”
Marge agreed they were reputable.
“And expensive,” Mrs. Bates grumbled. “They wasted thousands of our dollars and came up with nothing.”
“Who was the private investigator assigned to the case?”
“His name was Lee Krasdin. And older, fat man with a disgusting red face. Didn’t do a damn thing! I don’t think he ever left his office.”
“I’d like to talk to him. Would you do me a favor? Would you ask him to release your daughter’s report to me? Otherwise I’m going to have to get a subpoena—”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll call him up right now.”
“How about if I call him up and you write me out a release statement for your daughter’s records?”
“Fine.”
“And I’ll need that list of your daughter’s friends.”
“Of course.”
Marge called the Marris Agency and said someone would be there in an hour to pick up the file. She was putting the final touches on her notes when Mrs. Bates returned with a few sheets of paper.
“Here,” she said, standing over the detective. She smelled slightly stale, as if her clothes hadn’t been washed recently.
“This is the list and this is the release statement. Does it say what you want it to say?”
“It’s fine,” Marge said. “I appreciate your taking the time out to talk to me, Mrs. Bates.”
“That’s all right,” she answered softly. “If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”
“That would be fine.” Marge saw Decker standing off to the side. How long he’d been there, she didn’t know. It was good that he didn’t intrude. His size could sometimes be intimidating. Marge thought that this was one of the times.
She said, “Oh, Sergeant Decker’s back.”
“Just about done?” he asked, entering the room.
“Yes,” Marge answered, winking at him. “Perfect timing.”
“Did you find anything illuminating?” Mrs. Bates asked Decker. He noticed anxiety in her voice.
“Not really. It’s just a teenage girl’s room,” he said; then added quietly, “not unlike others I’ve seen.”
Like my own kid’s, he thought.
Mrs. Bate’s eyes began to swell with tears.
“I’m so sorry,” Decker said.
She nodded.
“Mrs. Bates,” he asked, “did your daughter ever know someone who was deaf or