“We don’t know that, Mr. Converse.” Nic had to say it, although her gut told her he was right.
His eyes were haunted. “You may not know it, but I do.” His hands curled into fists. “If I could only get my hands on the guy who took my little girl!” With a roar, he pivoted and punched the wall. A dimple appeared, and then the paint fell away, revealing plaster held in place by chicken wire. White dust swirled in the air. Wayne shook his hand as both women sprang to their feet.
“That’s not going to help!” Valerie shouted.
“Did you hurt yourself?” Nic asked.
When Wayne mutely shook his head, she took his hand between her own. His skin was cold. She ran her finger across his knuckles, which were red and already starting to swell. Bruised, but not broken, if she was any judge. When something hot plopped onto her arm, she flinched and looked up. Wayne was crying, his mouth so wide that she could see the silver flash of fillings on his back teeth. His face was red and his whole body shook with sobs, but he was eerily silent. She let go of his hand.
Finally, Valerie reached out for her husband and pulled him to her. As Wayne buried his face in her neck, Valerie stared at Nic over his shoulder. Her eyes were blank, unseeing.
CONVERSE RESIDENCE
December 16
Five minutes later, Nicole followed Katie’s parents up the stairs. While Wayne held a bag of frozen peas across his bruised knuckles, Valerie pushed open the door at the end of the hall. Katie’s bedroom had pink curtains, apple-green walls, and a window seat.
Nic said, “Sometimes I find it helps me to spend some time alone in a person’s room. It helps me absorb their spirit.”
She sounded all New Agey, like Cassidy. The truth was that she just wanted the parents out of the room in case she found something—like pot or a vibrator—that would upset them.
They both nodded, Valerie more slowly.
Nic closed the door. First, she surveyed the room. Everything was so neat. The furniture was dusted, and the clothes were hung on evenly spaced hangers in the walk-in closet, instead of strewn on the floor the way Makayla’s always were. It was so clean that even the trash basket was empty.
Where another girl might have had a poster of a popular band, Katie had a poster of Condoleezza Rice. The top of a chest of drawers held a framed photograph of herself—complete with braces—shaking hands with President Bush. There was also a mounted wooden gavel. Nic read the brass plate. To Katie Converse, for exemplary leadership in the State of Oregon Mock Legislature.
She took a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and pulled them on. The chances that this was a crime scene, that someone had been in here with Katie and forced her to go with them—or simply enticed her—were small. But if they didn’t come up with something soon, she would bring in the fingerprint specialists to see if there was anything in the room that didn’t match up.
Methodically, Nic began to search. She checked the pockets of Katie’s clothes. No Abercrombie & Fitch or American Eagle for this girl, but Nordstrom and Saks. Each pocket was flat and empty. The only surprise in the back of the closet was the hundred shoe boxes in wooden cubbies. The front of each box bore a stapled Polaroid of the contents, ranging from ballet flats to totteringly high heels.
On the bookshelf were a half dozen teen novels—the kind that looked more serious than racy—and a book of poetry. From it, the green edge of a Post-it peeked out. Nic opened the book.
The Sick Rose
by William Blake
O Rose, thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
After reading the poem through twice, Nic closed the book and put it back. Was Katie as virginal as her parents imagined? Or was it Katie herself who had done the imagining?
A search of the drawers yielded no rolling papers, phone numbers, diaries, loose pills, porn, or hidden cigarette packs. The only thing she noticed was that the panties on top of the underwear drawer were all silky thongs, while those underneath were cotton Jockey briefs. There was nothing taped underneath the drawers. Nic was pushing the last one back into place when she saw the slim white Macintosh laptop sitting underneath a pile of folders on the desk.
Her heart started to race. In today’s world, a computer held everything. E-mail, IM log, journal, calendar, shopping lists, even last time on the computer. With the latter, they might be able to nail down the last time Katie was in the house.
Nic pulled out her cell phone and called the computer forensics lab.
“Hey, Katie Converse had a laptop. I’m bringing it in.”