“Sixteen years ago,” said Milo, “she was seventeen. High school summer job. Where?”
“San Diego. She went to Mission High, there. The school lists her parents as Donald and Colette Murphy but says they have no other records. S.D. County assessor has Donald and Colette living in the same house for twenty-one years, then selling it ten years ago. No indication where they moved. No record of their buying another house. I took a trip down there. The neighborhood’s working-class, civilian military employees, retired noncoms. No one remembers the Murphys.”
“Maybe when Daddy retired, they moved out of state,” said Milo. “It would be nice to find them for their sake.” A half-second grimace tightened his face; imagining another bad-news call. “But the picture I’m getting is Erna was long gone from hearth and home, so it’s unlikely they can tell us anything relevant.” He looked to me for confirmation.
“The lack of social connections,” I said, “would make Erna the perfect acquaintance for our boy. Someone he could talk to without fear of her confiding his secrets to another friend. Someone he could dominate, whose identity he could borrow.”
“The lack of connections,” said Petra, “made her an easy victim.” She brushed nonexistent lint from the lapel of her black pantsuit. To Milo: “What, now?”
“Maybe another visit to Kevin’s parents?” said Milo. “Shake the family tree a bit and see what falls out?”
“Not right now,” she said. “Dad’s overtly hostile, very clear he wants nothing to do with us. It’s possible Mrs. D. could be made more pliable, but he’s calling the shots. And his being an attorney makes it riskier than usual. One wrong move, he makes lawyer noise, there goes the evidentiary chain. If we had infinite manpower, I’d stick a surveillance on the house. What I figured I’d do in the real world is work the streets some more. Keep looking for anyone who remembers Erna or Kevin.” She glanced at Stahl. “No harm trying to trace her parents.”
He said, “Donald and Colette. I’ll go national.”
“A guitar string,” said Milo. “So far, we’re playing out of tune.”
“So far,” said Petra, “we don’t even know what the song is.”
32
Allison arrived by taxi, an hour and a half late, freshly made-up but looking exhausted. I had a couple of steaks on the grill, spaghetti with olive oil and garlic in the sauté pan, was mixing a butter lettuce salad.
“I was wrong,” she said. “Food at hand seems like a great idea.”
“No peanuts on the plane?”
“We were lucky to land. Some guy got drunk and rowdy. For a while it looked as if it was going to be ugly. A bunch of us subdued him, and finally he fell asleep.”
“A bunch of us?” I said.
“I got hold of one ankle.”
“Sheena, Queen of the Jungle.”
She flexed a biceps. “It was terrifying.”
“Brave girl,” I said, holding her.
“When it happens, you don’t even think,” she said. “You just act . . . I need to sit down. Is wine on the menu?”
We took a long time eating, chatting, slipping into the fuzz of light intoxication. Later, undressed, in bed, we held each other without making love and fell asleep like roommates. I awoke at 4 A.M., found Allison’s side of the bed empty, and went to look for her.
She was in the kitchen, sitting in dim light, wearing one of my T-shirts and drinking instant decaf. Hair tied up carelessly, face scrubbed of makeup, bare legs smooth and white against the dark oak floor.
“Biorhythm must be off,” she said.
“From Colorado?”
She shrugged. I sat down.
“Hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but I was wandering around, trying to tire myself out. What are all those guitar cases in the spare bedroom about?”
I told her.
She said, “Poor Robin, what a trauma. Nice of you.”
I said, “It seemed the right thing to do.”
A clump of black hair came loose, and she slipped it behind her ear. Her eyes were bloodshot. Without makeup she looked a bit faded, but younger.
I leaned over and kissed her lips. Sour breath, both of us.