Chapter 2 #2
Not since the notorious Conahan murders, when Michael Conahan had kidnapped teenaged girls from their bedrooms and butchered them in his basement.
My Uncle Arty had been witness to those horrific events.
In fact, it had been my uncle’s very first case.
Arty had plenty of gruesome stories that would keep even the most seasoned lawman up at night.
James approached me then, breaking into my bleak thoughts. “McAllister. I just talked to Reynolds and we have their full support.”
I eyed my partner and friend. James was exceptionally tall and broad, his warm tanned skin a contrast to his light khaki uniform.
His eyes were soulful and expressive and had seen far more than mine had.
James had transferred to Crow’s Peak sixteen months ago, after serving the first five years of his career in Green Bay.
Nodding, I thinned my lips. “I’m going to pay Daphne Vaughn a visit,” I told him. “She’s our only lead at this point.”
“I’ll go with you,” James said, already reaching for his jacket.
“No.” I shook my head and pressed a finger to my chin. “We need to cover as much ground as possible. I want you to start digging. Pull up everything you can find on this girl.”
James looked reluctant. He was more of a contact man. He liked hitting the streets and getting down and dirty, preferring people over computers and office work. “You know that’s not my forte, McAllister. I can’t stand that techy bullshit.”
My smile was soft, sympathetic. “I know. But I was with Daphne last night and I saw Abby before she left the bar. I need to be at the forefront of this investigation.”
“As long as you don’t get too close.”
The implication in my partner’s warning did not go unnoticed, causing the muscles in my jaw to tic. “I’ll check in with you soon.”
It was a short drive to Daphne’s small ranch home off Sullivan Hill, but everything was a short drive in this town.
I decided to park in front of The Crow Bar and walk the remainder of the way. It was only three-quarters of a mile up the road and I wanted to keep my eyes out for any signs of a struggle.
For anything at all.
An odd chill washed over me, and I faltered.
I stood in front of my father’s bar as the sound of a spring breeze coasted off the nearby lake.
It would have been a peaceful feeling if the hairs on my arms hadn’t stood straight up.
I glanced down at the pavement, my boots crunching against the gravelly potholes that were still damp from the rain.
I was standing in the one parking space that always remained vacant, since the potholes were deep and craterous.
Patrons often complained, but my father had been dragging his feet getting them fixed.
But this wasn’t about the potholes. This was about the ominous white van that had been sitting in this spot the night before.
This was about The Withered Man.
The stranger who had bailed on his bar bill and gotten into that white van.
I hadn’t seen the man before, but there was something about him, something that had made me take pause. If the guy hadn’t left in such a hurry, I would have likely kept my eye on him all goddamn night.
Releasing a heavy sigh, I kept walking. It wasn’t enough just yet, but it was something.
It was a starting point.
I rounded the corner until Daphne’s property came into view.
She lived just at the top of the hill, not far from my own two-bedroom bungalow down Crooked Tree Lane.
I approached her front porch and knocked my knuckles against the rickety screen door.
Footsteps sounded on the other side of the threshold.
Daphne opened the main door and peered out at me through the screen, her eyes bloodshot. “Hey, Cooper. I figured you’d be stopping by.”
“Can I come in?” I noted that Daphne was still wearing her previous night’s dress and had mascara smudged along her cheekbones.
She nodded, pushing open the screen door while it squeaked with resistance. “It’s all my fault, Coop. I shouldn’t have let her walk home alone. I’m such a jerk.”
Guilt skated across her doe-like features.
I shook my head, glancing around the small house.
It was cluttered and lived in. Colorful clothes and an impressive assortment of shoes were littered throughout every room.
“It’s not your fault, Daphne. But I intend to find out whose fault it is.
What can you tell me about Abby?” I continued to peruse, poking my head into various rooms. I wavered in front of a tiny guest room, furnished with only a twin-size bed, a modest dresser, and a plethora of half-opened boxes.
Daphne followed behind me. “We met in college. We both went to Columbia. I was kind of a bitch to her at first.”
“Shocking,” I muttered, squatting down to rummage through one of the boxes.
Her eyes narrowed. “Abby was sort of moody and sarcastic. I don’t know how it happened, but we both went to some house party and ended up bonding over Rum Runners.” Glancing down at her painted toenails, she added, “She was super into photography. She had talent.”
“Was?”
Daphne paused, her eyelashes fluttering. “What?”
“You said that Abby was into photography. Past tense.”
She continued to stare at me for a moment before the color drained from her face. She raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God. I didn’t even realize. Jesus.”
I returned my attention to the box, sifting through Abby’s personal items and pulling out picture frames, knick-knacks, and a worn teddy bear. “Go on,” I encouraged.
“Right.” Daphne inhaled slowly, regaining her train of thought.
“Abby lived with her grandmother. I don’t know much, but her parents died when she was a teenager and her brother moved out as soon as he turned eighteen.
Her grandma was filthy rich. The Stone family owned a ton of car dealerships along the north shore suburbs.
They had a lot of power in town. Her grandma died a few weeks ago and left Abby with everything. ”
I stood, my interest piqued. That could certainly point to a crime driven by financial gain. If so, the chances of Abby still being alive had just gone up substantially. “Was she seeing anyone? Boyfriend?”
Daphne shook her head, her strawberry-stained hair bobbing over her shoulders. “No. I mean, I don’t think so. She was with this guy, Jordan, for a million years, but then he cheated on her. I’m pretty sure the breakup, combined with her grandma dying, was why she got the hell out of dodge.”
It was unlikely a crime of passion, but I couldn’t rule it out.
I didn’t know enough about Abigail Stone yet.
Was there a secret romance? A salacious love affair with a married man?
Everything was in question. I also couldn’t rule out a crime of opportunity, even though a violent transient passing through Crow’s Peak was dubious, at best.
I ran a hand through my hair. I desperately needed a haircut, but I hardly had time to sleep, let alone indulge in the finer things in life such as personal grooming.
Scratching at my stubbled jaw, I realized I needed to shave as well.
“Are you able to give me her ex’s last name and any information you have on him? ”
Daphne nodded.
“And let me know if you think of anything else,” I continued. “I’m going to compare notes with Walker and see if we can catch some leads.”
Daphne halted me, wrapping her cranberry claws around my upper arm. “Cooper…”
I turned to face her, noting the softening of her usually sharp features.
“Look, I know we have our differences. I don’t even really like you,” she said.
My eyebrow arched. “Thanks.”
“But you’re a real good cop. And Abby’s my friend. I know if anyone can find her…you can.”
I ducked my head agreeably before turning to leave.
I wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe that so damn badly. However, I was well-versed with the odds, and I knew that when pretty girls went missing, they didn’t always turn up.
And if they did, it was often in a ditch, in the woods, or in a shallow grave.
I shuddered, my mind conjuring up all sorts of morbid scenarios. I didn’t enjoy it, but it was something I had to do. Prepare for the worst and hope for the best. It was a solid motto.
It was a cop’s motto.
Swallowing hard, I sauntered out her front door and squinted into the sun.
Where are you, Abigail Stone?