“Who have you heard mention his name before?”
“I don’t know, people at school. Not even friends.” She hesitates, but this time she doesn’t look at her mom for reassurance. Her mother doesn’t seem to pick up on it, though.
“What, he hung with a different crowd?”
“Yes.” This time she looks at her mother with an expression like she’s had enough.
“What, honey?” her mother asks.
“I don’t know those people, Mommy.”
“If she says she doesn’t know them, then she doesn’t know them,” the mother tells me. “Who is this Edgar, anyway?”
“He’s just a kid that goes to her school and is on another list I have. That’s all. I believe she doesn’t know him, but maybe your daughter can tell me if she knows about him?”
After another reassuring tap on the shoulder from the mother, Carrie says, “He just hangs with the loser crowd is all.”
“Kids that don’t study, kids that skip out on school, drink; what do you mean by losers?”
“All of the above.”
“Drugs?”
“I don’t hang out with any of them.”
“We’ve already established that, Carrie.”
“I’ve heard they’re into pot, stuff like that.”
“You’ve seen them smoking at your school?” the mother demands.
“No, Mother. They’re just losers.”
“Did Miriam hang with any of them ever?” I ask.
“I saw her with one of the older boys before.”
“But not Edgar?”
“No. I told you I don’t even know what this Edgar looks like.”
“What about the one you saw her hang out with? What does he look like?”
“I don’t know. He’s just a boy.”
“White kid, African-American? About how old?”
“He’s white and I think he’s a junior.”
“Describe him for me—hair, how tall he is.”
“Brown hair. I don’t know how tall. Average, I guess.”
“Does he drive?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you’re telling the truth, Carrie? You don’t know these boys?” the mother asks with concern.
“No! I don’t hang out with losers, Mom.”
“Did you mention these losers to the police when they interviewed you?”
“I don’t remember.”
“No, she didn’t,” the mother says angrily.
“It’s okay, Carrie,” I try to comfort her. “Sometimes things come back to you later, things you may not have thought were important way back then. And that’s why I like to ask the same questions. So you did good.”
She manages a meager smile, the kind of smile you might give a loser.
Thirty-two
I stop at the Chinese takeout on 11th Street and grab steamed chicken with vegetables and steamed white rice.
I eat it when I get home. I cut up a nice grapefruit for dessert.
I pour myself some Jameson, set up a nice pile of powder with a few lines beside it, and light a cigarette. I sit back on the sofa with Miriam’s yearbook. I go through it page by page, checking out every photograph and reading every inscription made by her friends. I find two boys with the first name Edgar.
The first one’s a freshman. Edgar Rawlin. He doesn’t fit the profile. Too clean-cut, and when I first talked to Amanda she said Edgar took her to the Salvadorans’ house in DC. This guy’s too young to drive, but that doesn’t mean he won’t drive. Still, he doesn’t fit the bill.
The second one is Edgar Soto, a junior. He’s a good-looking kid, the kinda face that might charm some of the younger girls. He’s got something he’s trying to grow on his chin to make him look tougher.
I bookmark both Edgar pages with torn paper.
I look at the photos of Miriam, the ones given to me by the parents.
Such a pretty girl. Seems like she could do a lot better than a little punk like Edgar, if one of these is the Edgar I want.
Damn, makes me glad I’m not a father. If I had a daughter, she’d be in a boarding school for girls. One of those schools with tall gates all around at least thirty miles from the closest town.
Thirty-three
I’ll be meeting with Amanda at four o’clock. I have some time so I decide to head up to 16th and Park, sit on it for a bit and see who’s out playing.