“Hmm?” the detective said, like he’d forgotten why he was here.
“Sarita. I don’t know where she’s at.”
“When did you see her last?”
“Yesterday. Late afternoon.”
“What’s her name? Her last name?”
“Gomez. Sarita Gomez.”
“And she rents a room here from you.”
“Yeah.”
“Does she live here alone?”
The woman nodded.
“Since when?”
“She’s been renting from me going on three years now. Never a speck of trouble from her. She’s a good girl.”
“How old?”
“Twenty-six? Seven? Something like that. She makes money and sends it home to help her family.”
“Her family where?”
“Mexico, I think. Don’t know where exactly. It’s never been any of my business. But she told me that much.”
“You know how she makes a living?”
“She did some work looking after some lady’s baby, and she also did shifts at a nursing home or two, I think. She couldn’t afford a cell phone, so I always let her use mine, just so long as she didn’t run up long-distance charges to Mexico on it.”
“You know which nursing home?”
Mrs. Selfridge shook her head. “Beats me. But the people she did nannying for are named Gaynor. Lady’s name is Rosemary. But I don’t know much more than that. But Sarita must have had a shift yesterday, ’cause she was dressed for it. In like a nurse’s uniform.”
“And tell me about yesterday. The last time you saw her.”
“I heard the front door open real hard and then running up the stairs. Her room’s right over mine and I could hear her banging about, so I went up to see and she was stuffing some things into a suitcase. I says, ‘What’s up?’ And she says she’s going away.”
“Going away where?”
“She didn’t say.”
“She say for how long?”
Mrs. Selfridge shook her head. “But she didn’t say she was giving up the apartment or anything. But I’ll tell you this, she was rattled pretty good.”
“Did she say why?”
“Nope. But I says to her, ‘You okay? You’ve got some blood on your sleeve there.’ And she looks at it and starts taking her uniform off and putting on something else and she’s running around like a chicken with its head cut off, right? And she runs downstairs with her bag and there’s a car waiting for her out front.”
“A car?”
“I didn’t get a look at it. Just black. And it took off. It might have been a boyfriend. I think she might have had a boyfriend, but she never had him here, not overnight. But the last thing she says is not to tell anybody anything about her, not to say where she went, but I don’t even know, so I guess I’m really not doing anything wrong by telling you.”
“I appreciate it,” Duckworth said. He finished off the second slice of banana bread and downed the last of his coffee. Smacked his lips with flourish.
“Whaddaya say we go have a look at Sarita’s room,” he said.
TWENTY-TWO
“I want something done about that man,” Agnes Pickens said as she, her husband, Gill, and their daughter, Marla, entered the Pickens family home.
“Agnes,” Gill said, “the detective is just doing his job.”
“Why am I not surprised that you would take his side?”
“For Christ’s sake, it’s not a question of taking sides,” Gill said. “Duckworth has a murder to investigate, and he follows things where they lead.”
“He’s got no business following them to our daughter.”
“She had their goddamn baby!”
His voice bounced off the walls of the oversize foyer. Marla stood behind them, arms limp at her sides, her eyes dead.
“For God’s sake, Gill,” Agnes said, taking her daughter into her arms, shielding her as though her husband’s words might physically strike her. “That really helps.”
Marla’s arms remained motionless.
Agnes said, “You go up to your room, sweetheart. Why don’t you lie down? It’s been an exhausting day for you. We’re going to take care of this.” Turning to Gill, she said, “I just hope Bondurant knows what she’s doing.”
“I liked her,” Marla whispered. “I thought she was nice.”
“Yeah, well, she needs to be a lot more than nice,” Agnes said.
“When can I go back to my house?” Marla asked.
“That’ll be up to the police,” Gill said. “I’m guessing they’ll tear the place apart.”
“Can you go get my computer?” she asked. “So I can do my work?”
“Yes,” Agnes said. “Look into that, Gill.”
“They’re not going to give her back her computer,” her husband said, exasperated. “They’ll be reading all her e-mails and checking her browsing history. That’s what they do in these kinds of investigations.”
“You’re some sort of expert?” his wife asked.
He shook his head. “Have you watched any television?”
Agnes looked at her daughter. “Is that going to be a problem, sweetheart? Are they going to find anything you’d rather they didn’t on your computer?”