Sacred and Profane. Faye Kellerman
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 hard of hearing?”
The question took her by surprise.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“It may be important.”
“How so?”
“I’m not really sure. But as soon as I am, I’ll let you know.”
“A hearing aid?” the woman asked.
Decker said yes.
“No, I don’t believe so,” she answered, deep in thought. “Maybe I can ask Erin … when does she get home? … Let’s see, it’s Wednesday … Thursday? … I think it’s Thursday …”
She realized she’d been talking to herself and gave an apologetic smile.
“Also, I’d like to talk to your husband when it’s convenient for him,” Decker said. “May I call him at home tonight to arrange an appointment?”
“Certainly.”
Marge flipped her notebook shut.
“You’ll keep me abreast?” Mrs. Bates asked.
“Of course,” replied Marge.
Mrs. Bates wrapped herself in her arms and began to knead them like dough.
“I loved my daughter,” she said. “I want you to catch the monster that … that killed her. But perhaps you can understand if I tell you that maybe I’m better off not knowing everything.”
Decker flashed to his own daughter.
“I understand,” he said.
“What’d you find out?” Decker asked Marge. He turned on the ignition, let the motor idle for a moment, then backed out of the driveway.
“Mom liked to shop with her daughter,” answered Marge.
“The usual denial?”
Marge nodded. “Not my kid! She couldn’t have run away.” She rubbed her hands together. “They fix the car heater yet? Day’s turned nasty.”
“No, but the air-conditioner works perfectly.”
“Terrific. Why don’t we chill up the inside so the outside’ll feel warm by comparison?”
Decker laughed. “You’re looking a little better,” he said.
“You talk to people with real problems, you all of a sudden don’t feel so sick,” she said. “What’d you find in Lindsey’s room?”
Decker said, “I found an average, nice kid. Not too deep, but not angry, either. Her records were standard top forty stuff, no heavy metal or rebellious punker crap. Her clothes were a bit more adventurous than preppy, but definitely not punk, either. She was into her nails in a big way. Found at least a half dozen nail kits.”
He pulled onto the freeway and floored the gas pedal. The car protested, bucked, then surged ahead.
“Girl didn’t read at all. Her book shelves were filled with knick-knacks and stuffed animals. Not a single book.”
“Posters?”