He ran the name through a couple of databases on known criminals. No priors, no hits. He checked the Department of Motor Vehicles, both Pennsylvania and Ohio. No vehicle registered in the name of Danni Reynolds. He did a background check through the court records. He called the Registrar of Deeds at three county courthouses for a listing of any property held in the name of Danni Reynolds. He keyed in the name on Google, Classmates.com, Facebook, EmailFinder.com, People Finder, Zabasearch, ThePublicRecords.com. He tried four different zip codes on Whitepages.com. No address available for a Danni Reynolds. No Danni Reynolds. No Danielle Reynolds. No Danna, Danique, or Danica Reynolds.
As a last resort, he ran the name through the cell phone registry. No hits on either Danni or Danielle or any of the other variations, but there were seventeen listings for D. Reynolds. Only four—two D. Reynolds, a D. J. Reynolds, and a D. L. Reynolds—were within fifty miles of Whispers.
He used the office landline and blocked the number. The first call was answered by a deep male voice. DeMarco said, “Is this D. J. Reynolds?”
“Who’s this?”
“I’m a friend of Danni’s, Mr. Reynolds. Would you happen to know where I could reach her?”
“Hell, I don’t even know who Danni is, pal.”
The number for D. L. Reynolds connected to the voice mail for a landscaping business. The call to the first D. Reynolds was answered by the recorded greeting of what sounded like a teenage girl. “Hi, guys! I can’t take your call right now. Leave me a message!”
DeMarco circled that number on his notepad and dialed the last. This call was answered by another female voice but older, tired. “Hello?”
“Hi, Ms. Reynolds. My name is Bob Leland. I’m with the County Census Bureau and we’re doing an update of our records in anticipation of the next census. Could you just confirm for me that I am speaking with Danielle or Danni Reynolds?”
“Sorry. My name is Darlene.”
“Well, that’s a good name too. Yep, there you are, three names below Danielle. And you are residing at the same address as provided during the last census?”
“Unfortunately I am,” she said.
“Okay, thank you very much, that’s all I needed to know. Unless…any chance you would know the address for a Danni or Danielle Reynolds? I’m having a heck of a time tracking her down.”
“Sorry. Nobody I know.”
“Well, thank you anyway. Have a beautiful day.”
Next DeMarco did a reverse lookup of the number he had circled. Thirty seconds later, he had what he needed. D. Reynolds, 14 East Pearl Street, Apartment 2C, Albion, Pennsylvania. She lived fewer than fifteen miles from the strip club. “You’re my girl,” he said aloud.
It was 10:09 a.m. If he left now, he could be in Albion around eleven. “A good time,” he told himself. A stripper who worked until two or three in the morning would probably still be in bed, but not so soundly asleep that a phone call wouldn’t rouse her. She would be groggy, not thinking straight, might blurt out a few words he could use.
He stuffed the notepad into his jacket pocket, then walked down the hall to Carmichael’s desk. “You get me anything?”
The trooper handed him another small slip of paper. “Cell phone number, that’s it. No address yet.”
DeMarco looked at the listing, then took out his cell phone, blocked his number, and made the call. Tracy Butler answered on the third ring. Her voice was throaty and slow, still groggy with last night’s Xanax. “Hello?”
“Annabel?” DeMarco said.
“Who, baby?”
“I’m looking for my Annabel. Are you her?”
“Not last time I looked. But it’s a pretty name, isn’t it?”
DeMarco pressed End, crumpled up the slip of paper, and tossed it onto Carmichael’s desk.
“Sorry,” Carmichael said.
DeMarco patted his jacket pocket. “No worries. I have her in here.”
Before leaving the building, he stepped inside his station commander’s office. “I’m headed north to check out a person of interest. She might know something about Thomas Huston’s current whereabouts.”
“How does she know him?” Bowen asked. “University stuff?”
“Whispers stuff.”
“Say again?”
“It’s a strip club just east of Pierpont, Ohio.”
“You telling me the man had a secret life?”
“Research for his novel.”
“That’s a handy excuse, isn’t it? Covers just about everything a guy could get into.”
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“You taking a cruiser?”
“Not this time. Low profile.”
“Well, that piece of shit of yours is certainly low profile. Think it will get you there and back?”
“I’ll buy a Lincoln when I get your job.” He turned toward the hall.
“Hey!” Bowen said.
DeMarco looked into the room again.
“You taking 62 west to the Interstate?”
“I am not bringing back any fucking spinach rolls,” DeMarco told him.
“They make them one day a week. What’s the harm?”
“Do I look like a delivery boy to you?”
“You drive a delivery boy’s car.”
“Fuck you and die,” DeMarco said.
“If you go past the place. That’s all I’m saying.”
“If I go past,” DeMarco said. He turned away and started down the hall.
“And this time don’t forget the dipping sauce!”
Thirty-Six