“Are you suggesting she ran away?” Mrs. Gregory interrupts.
“I’m not suggesting anything, Mrs. Gregory. Please let me finish. Does she have any birthmarks, scars, moles, anything that can help me identify her other than these pictures?
“She has a birthmark on her right outer thigh. It is light brown and small, but it looks like Australia.”
“And you’re sure she wasn’t dating anyone?”
“Yes, we are,” Ian says firmly. “She wasn’t allowed to date until seventeen.”
“Did she go to the movies with friends, the mall, anything like that?”
“Of course. We weren’t that strict,” he tells me. “And the friends she went with are on the list we gave you.”
“Now, please, just bear with me, because I have to ask these questions. I’m sure you’ve already been asked them. But I don’t see any boys’ names on this list. She didn’t have any friends that were boys? Doesn’t mean she had to be dating them, but she is a teenager, after all.”
“To be honest, Detective Marr, there could have been. Maybe she didn’t tell us, but not because she was hiding something. Probably just because it wasn’t a big deal. I really don’t know.”
That appears to affect him ’cause he seems like the type of man who needs to know, maybe even control, everything.
“She’s a good girl,” Mrs. Gregory says, as if she’s trying to convince me.
How do I respond to that?
“Is Monday a good day for me to come by your home?”
“I’ll be at work, but Elizabeth will be home.”
“Around one p.m., then?” I ask Mrs. Gregory.
“That’ll be fine,” he says for her.
She nods accordingly.
Leslie’s in her office plugging away at the computer. I remember all those days of nothin’ but writing. I don’t miss that shit.
“Are they still here?” she asks.
“No, we’re done.”
“And…?”
“And I guess I’ll see what I can do.”
“That’s good. Good. I don’t have any cases that need an investigator right now, so I’m glad you’re taking this on.”
“Get me out of your hair for a while, huh?”
“You know better.”
I wish I did.
“Then how about dinner tonight? On me.”
She considers it, but I can’t read her so well right now.
“It’s been a while, and I’m really craving oysters. We can hit the Old Ebbitt.”
“Why not,” she says. “It’s going to be packed on a Saturday night, though.”
“No need to worry about that. I’ve got my connections.”
“Oh, I know you do.”
“All right. Pick you up from your porch at around seven?”
Her mouth turns up. She says, “My stoop.”
First thing I need to do when I get home is tuck this shit I have stashed in my pocket out of reach, take a couple of Valiums, and try to nap.
Home alone I have a tendency to binge, and the last thing I want is to get all wired up before the dinner. Once I start something like that, the next line is the only thing on my mind.
I can do without for a bit of time as long as I know I have something to come back to. Doesn’t hurt sneaking a couple little lines here and there throughout the evening, ’cause that’ll balance me out. But I got to find a bit of sleep first and then a nice long, hot shower.
When I get home I call a buddy of mine who works the bar at the Old Ebbitt. There was a time when I was a regular at the bar at the Old Ebbitt. Haven’t been there in a bit, but I always keep important numbers handy. He said he won’t be working tonight, but he’ll make sure they hold a booth for us in the main room.
I strip down to my boxers and lie on the bed, on top of the covers.
I close my eyes and try not to think about anything, especially the missing girl.
Twenty-six
Leslie’s wearing her faded leather jacket again. Also those black jeans I like so much. They hug her with meaning. So does the long-sleeve designer T-shirt with a scoop neck.
The cool air is comfortable. Gotta love this time of year. Winter’s closing in, and hopefully bringing a bit of snow with it, but not so much that I can’t get around. Depending on the situation, though, that might not be so bad.
I park a couple of blocks from the Old Ebbitt. The White House is in view across 15th Street, nicely lit up. We walk a block and then cross G Street and it’s a few steps more to the restaurant’s beautiful old revolving-door entrance. I see the small area inside jammed with people waiting to be seated.
We nudge our way to the front booth, and when the hostess finds a second I give her my name. My boy came through, and after a couple of minutes, we’re escorted to a nice booth toward the back of the room. Leslie hangs her jacket on a hook attached to a post on the edge of the booth and we sit across from each other.