Griffin said, “You should call Atlanta. Try the Feebie. She seemed all right. Wish I could help you more, especially given the time line…”
D.D. agreed. Three days to solve two cold cases that hadn’t yielded any leads in the past two years…“So,” she asked briskly. “If you were me, who would you be on the lookout for?”
“Someone physically strong, mentally patient, good with his words, better with his hands, and absolutely positively soulless. Probably above average computer skills as well—the Internet being every stalker’s new best friend. Conversely, I’d tell Charlie that as long as she’s running, stay off the net. Logging on these days is like sending out smoke signals: Here I am. And mine the connections. How many people really knew all three women? In fact, here’s a thought—have you checked out Facebook? Sometimes there are pages in memoriam, you know, in honor of Randi Menke and/or Jackie Knowles. See who’s posting, then track them down. Might give you a start.”
“Lotta man hours for a case that’s not even a case,” D.D. muttered. Then in the next instant, she thought of Detective O, Internet predators, and online grooming and felt a satisfying click in the back of her head. Ten weeks of total sleep deprivation, and she still had it. “Thanks, Griffin,” she said hastily. “You just gave me an idea.”
Chapter 12
JESSE FLEW OFF THE SCHOOL BUS, slinging his Red Sox backpack over his left shoulder while dashing down the snowy street. Didn’t have a watch. Wasn’t sure about the time, but the bus had been late. Wouldn’t it figure that today of all days the bus would be late? Had to hurry, hurry, hurry.
He hit the front steps of the apartment building and jumped them two at a time before slapping the palm of his hand against the buzzer for his apartment. His mom, expecting him, buzzed back. He jerked open the heavy outer door and leapt for the stairs, missing the bottom two, hitting the edge of the third and sliding down on his knees before he got his feet beneath him and finished the long rat-a-tat dash up three levels. He was already digging in his coat pocket for the apartment key. He arrived at his unit’s front door, sweaty, trembling, and feeling a little sick.
Couldn’t be late, didn’t want to be late.
Helmet Hippo was depending on him.
Jesse jammed the metal key in the lock, got the door open, and burst into the apartment, already hemorrhaging boots, backpack, mittens, coat, hat, snow pants. No time for snack. Gotta move, move, move.
He sprinted for the table, hitting the power button above the keyboard of the computer as his mother yelled down the hall: “Jesse, you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just gonna play a game.”
“Jesse?”
“AthleteAnimalz. Geez, Mom, everything’s all right!” Second the words left his mouth, Jesse bit his lower lip, realizing too late, he should’ve watched his tone. Sometimes, if he was “fresh,” his mother would take his computer privileges away. He paused, hand still on the computer, eyes on the screen as the old laptop slowly churned to life.
But his mother didn’t appear in the hallway, didn’t say anything more. Probably on a call, couldn’t tear herself away. Jesse felt guilty, but grateful. He darted away from the loading computer long enough to grab Zombie Bear and a glass of milk. The stove clock told him it was 3:42 P.M.
Yep, he was late. Very late.
He flew back to the table, sloshing some of the milk over the rim of the glass, then had to run back to the kitchen for a napkin, and by the time he returned and cleaned up the mess, his heart was really going thump, thump, thump and he didn’t feel well again. He was hot, like shaky and trembly and he wanted to cry, but he didn’t know why.