“Unfortunately, no. Still waiting to hear from a few places, but the preliminary search hasn’t given us much.” He tapped a manila folder against the side of his leg.
I took a steady breath, climbed the front porch steps, stood one level above him. “There should really be some code that cops give when they’re waiting on your porch. Something to clue us in that you’re here to deliver bad news. Or good news. Or no news.”
Kyle cringed. “Sorry, Leah. I’ll call first next time.”
I nodded. “Want to come in?” I asked, unlocking the door and sliding it open.
I noticed Kyle looking around, as he hadn’t on Friday night. Maybe it was because it was light out now. Maybe because he had questions. But he seemed to be taking it all in. “This place,” he said, “it’s only in your name, is that right?”
“Right,” I said. Because Emmy had spent years overseas and then bounced around from place to place. She had no credit history. Her last few apartments were in her fiancé’s name. I was the one who could vouch for the money. I paid first and last months’ rent, plus security deposit, and Emmy paid me half in cash.
“Eclectic,” he said.
“I can’t take credit for it,” I said. “It came furnished.”
In truth, my style was more clean-lined Crate & Barrel. But we’d kept the furniture that came with the place, and Emmy had added the decor. I chose to see my lack of design contribution as a prolonged, delayed shell shock. “Want something to drink?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, pulling a chair from the kitchen table.
The fridge was pretty sparse. I had forgotten to go shopping this weekend, all the typical mundane tasks slowly slipping from my grasp. All we had was Emmy’s orange juice, my cans of soda, a cluster of beer bottles.
“Water’s fine,” he said.
I poured him a glass from the filtered container I kept in the fridge. One of the larger items that had made the move with me.
As I sat across from him, he opened his file folder, pulling out photocopies of drivers’ licenses with names below. Each was some variation of the first name Emmy, Emily, Emmaline, Emery, Emmanuelle; and the last name Grey/Gray. “Just wanted to double-check. Any of these your Emmy?”
I scanned them all, looking for Emmy. Looked for the cheekbones, the large eyes, the fringe of bangs. The addresses were all from D.C., Virginia, and Massachusetts. “No, none of these.”
He leaned back in the chair, nodded as if he had expected that.
“No luck with the Peace Corps?” I asked.
“I swear, they must keep their records in brown boxes thrown in a basement. They’ve been, quote, looking into it for a few days. Though I’m not sure anyone actually works there on weekends.”
“What about our old apartment in Boston?” I asked. You needed to give a Social Security number on rental applications, and that would be a quick line to a name and photo ID. The apartment in Boston had been hers, not mine.
Kyle shifted the papers into a pile again, pulled out a sheet from the back of the folder. “Yeah, that.” He slid another photo across the table. “Look familiar?”
The woman had long blond hair, a diamond-shaped face, small, close-set eyes. “No,” I said.
He let out a long exhale. “I was able to track down the rental info of the apartment, get a name on the lease. At the time you gave me, it was rented to a woman named Amelia Kent.” He pointed to the photo staring up at me. “Her.”
I looked again, tried to make the connection, focused harder, as if Emmy would suddenly appear from the angles of the woman’s face. “Maybe this was her first roommate?” I said. “Emmy told me the girl who lived there before me graduated and moved back to California. That’s why she was looking for a short-term roommate.”
But Kyle was already shaking his head. “I gave Ms. Kent a call, and miraculously, she was willing to speak with me. She said she was living with a boyfriend named Vince. But that she and Vince had an ugly breakup and she moved out. She let the place go, forfeiting her security deposit, and she assumes he finished out the last few months on his own there.”
Vince. None of the names clicked into place. “Maybe Emmy sublet from him then?”
Kyle frowned. Gave a slight nod. “Possibly. But we’re back where we started. She’s not on file anywhere.”
“Were you able to find this Vince guy?”
“She said she didn’t know. Couldn’t remember his last name.” He saw the look I gave him and put his hands up. “I know, I know. But can you blame her? If they had an ugly breakup eight years ago, she may not want to risk doing anything that would put them in contact again. She probably wants to keep that door closed.”
Maybe for the police, but I was already filing away the information for myself. Amelia Kent. Her license had her living in New Hampshire now. I could look her up.
“Sorry I don’t have anything more for you, Leah.” He slid the documents back inside the folder, took a sip of water, didn’t get up to leave.
My heel tapped against the floor in a steady rhythm. “Okay, what can I do for you, Detective?”
“Kyle,” he said.
“Right. Okay, Kyle. What do you want?”
He pressed his lips together, trying to hide his grin. “Am I that obvious?”
“You are, actually.”
“Must be off my game.” He stretched his arms out in front of him, tilted his neck side to side, as if prepping to take the field. “Okay. Look, I need to know some more about Cobb. Everyone around here keeps telling me what a stand-up guy he is, volunteering his time with the youth leagues. On paper, it’s all pretty standard fare. He married his high school sweetheart, and he’s lived here forever. Never had a complaint against him that I can tell.”
“You’re not from here, then?”
“Nope. Been here about two years now,” he said. Then he leaned forward, clearly preparing to share a secret. “Still feeling the people out.” It felt like a secret granted to lure me closer, to make me believe we were on the same side. It was working.
But it was more than that. I was familiar with the feeling, when new on a job, of having to project confidence even when you were uncertain. Of starting from scratch every time, all over again. Of trying to build a reputation for yourself as quickly as possible. I was surprised how his colleagues looked to him, then, in our interview. He had obviously done well for himself.
I placed my hands on the table, palms up. “I can’t tell you much more than you know. Everyone told me what a good guy he was. I took him up on an offer for drinks, thought it was a welcome to town. He thought it was something else.”
“What did he think it was?”
I thought back to Davis Cobb’s smile when we sat at the table. His broad forehead, thick nose, mouth that seemed too small for his jaw. His wide face leaning across the table. His knee bumping against mine underneath. “An invitation.”