A motorcycle growled on the street outside. From the room next door Veronica could just make out the murmur of a television. She leaned across the gap between the beds, resting her forearms on her knees.
“Melanie, if someone did hurt Hayley—they’re the only ones responsible.” Veronica’s voice was low and urgent. “And if that’s what happened, I’m going to find them. And I’m going to make them pay.”
Melanie looked up at her from under her baseball cap, eyes wet with tears.
Veronica stood up and handed the phone back to Bri. “Do me a favor and send me copies. None of the pictures on the flyers show what she looked like the night she disappeared. It might be useful to circulate them.” She shouldered her bag. “I’m going to ask around about our Mystery Man. In the meantime—if you two remember anything else about that night, call me right away.”
The girls nodded. Melanie hesitated, then carefully disentangled herself from Bri and got to her feet. She straightened her cap, then held out her hand to shake Veronica’s.
“We will. We promise.” She opened the door, wiping fiercely at her eyes with her free hand. “Thanks, Veronica.”
In the parking lot, Veronica dialed Mac.
“How hard do you think it’d be to hack into the databases of a major research university?”
Mac hesitated. “Since you’re asking me on a cell phone, in front of God and the NSA—impossible.”
“Okay, fair enough. Look, I need to go home and check on Dad, but do you think I could come by your place later? I’ve got some, uh, overtime work for you. It might be a long night.”
“OT, huh?” There was no mistaking the excitement in Mac’s voice. It’d been a while since she’d had an excuse to take her skill set out to play. “Sounds fun.”
“In the meantime, can you get me on a flight to San Jose tomorrow morning? And I’ll need a car. Something sensible.” She thought about it for a moment. “Not too sensible, though. I need to represent the Neptune Chamber of Commerce in style.”
“Give a girl a BMW for a few weeks and suddenly she’s got standards.”
“See you tonight.”
The moon crested the skyline as she pulled the car out of the parking lot. It’d been a week to the day since Hayley’s disappearance. Now hundreds of innocent kids like Hayley were pouring out into the streets for another night of drinking and debauchery, oblivious to just how cruel the world could be.
CHAPTER SEVEN
An hour later, Veronica sat in front of the computer in her bedroom, fingers flying over the keys. Logan’s face grinned crookedly from the corner of his most recent e-mail—it was the picture she’d set as his contact photo, taken right before he’d deployed.
I wish you could have seen Lamb’s face when she told him I had the case. He looked like he’d just swallowed a bug, she typed. It would have made your day.
Keith hadn’t been there when she arrived home at the little blue bungalow. He was most likely out for a walk. The muscles in his leg needed to be strengthened, so he’d taken to circling the block a few times a day, slowly, deliberately, his cane tapping lightly against the concrete. He was wearing away at his convalescence with the same patience, the same resolve that made him a good detective.
Veronica’s room—until recently known as “the guest room”—was decorated with a mélange of high school artifacts and the odds and ends her father had shoved in there before she’d moved back. One of his model ships sat on the dresser, between old photos of her as a little girl. All of her old books—Salinger, Plath, Toole, the literature of choice for the brooding outcast—were lined on the small wooden bookshelf. It was a little surreal to be back under her father’s roof after all this time—but maybe a little comforting too. With all the changes she’d made, all the things in her life that didn’t make sense, she kind of liked the sight of her old panda alarm clock perched on her desk.
She’d just hit Send on her e-mail when the familiar Skype chime came singing out her speakers. She gave a little start.
It was Logan.
She clicked Accept, and his image filled the screen. She could tell her picture wasn’t coming in clear for a moment—he stared blankly at the camera for a few beats. It was a strange thing, watching him without his knowing. His long, vulpine face had a stillness she didn’t usually see in it, pensive and expectant. His hair was short and spiky—he shaved it himself rather than letting the company barber mangle it month after month—and he wore a blue crewneck T-shirt, his off-duty garb. Just a few inches behind him was a steel wall. She could just make out the corner of some kind of inspirational poster containing eagle feathers and a flag.
Then, all at once, a grin broke across his face.
“Hey,” he said, his voice soft.
“Hey,” she said, smiling. “This is a nice surprise.” Usually they had to plan their Skype dates weeks in advance, and then there was still the chance he’d miss them.
“I saw that you were online. I figured I’d take my chance.” His eyes didn’t quite meet her eyes—his camera must be a little off center. She felt like he was staring at her ear.
“What time is it there?”
They always started like this—awkward, banal. And by the time they got over the strangeness, it was usually time for one or the other of them to leave.
“Almost eight.” He glanced to his left, speaking to someone off screen. “Ten minutes. Come on, please?”
“Someone’s got a timer out, huh?”
“Yeah, it’s okay.” He turned back to her ear, smiling, and she wondered what part of her he was really staring at. Her eyes? Her lips? For some reason the whole thing—the way they could never quite sync up right—made her indescribably sad. “So Petra Landros. In your office. I’ve had that fantasy a few times, but it usually didn’t involve a missing person case.”
“She’s not nearly as sexy in real life. That beauty mark?” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “It’s really just a mole.”
“Don’t tell me that. Right now the 2004 Victoria’s Secret Christmas catalogue is all I’ve got keeping me warm at night.”
“Really? That thing must have seen some mileage by now.”
“The seaman’s life is one of privation,” he said soberly. She smirked.
“How’s the sinus infection? You still grounded?”
“For another few days. The flight doc says he’ll clear me by the end of the week.”
“I hate that news,” she said softly. “You sneezing is you not on missions.”