whatever goes with a pair of dominatrix boots.”
I pivoted on my heels, looking at the room as if it were mine. Though I envied her private bathroom, I had the books, TV, a CD player, and ….
“Where’s her computer?” I asked.
“Right. Every girl has one, certainly a laptop. Homicide probably took it, but I’ll note it for later.”
She squeaked and ran to the CD player, turned it on and ejected a disk.
Grinning widely, she stuck a gloved fore-finger in the hole. “She likes Robin Thicke? Me too. I just love Blurred Lines. ”
“That might be evidence.”
“I sure hope so,” she said. “But since they didn’t think to take it, we’ll just hang onto it for now.”
She opened her purse, removed a baggie, dropped the CD in, and zipped it closed.
I snapped my fingers. “If the laptop went into evidence, Mac Coker would’ve signed off on a list of items removed from the house. If he can get us a copy, we’ll know for sure if Homicide has it.”
“Good idea. We’re done here,” she said, stuffing her notebook into her purse.
We found Mac Coker in the kitchen, an elderly onion in his dish-gloved hands. Seeing us, he put the onion in the sink and removed the dish gloves. “Did you find anything?”
“It’s what we didn’t find that has us puzzled.”
“Yes?” he said, turning on the water to wash his hands.
“Did the detectives have you sign for items they removed?”
“I suppose so. Is it important?”
“We’ll know when we see it,” Pearlie said, taking out her notes. “They would’ve left you a copy.”
“It’s around somewhere. Do you want it now?”
At the stricken look on his face, Pearlie’s position on the evidence list softened.
“Maybe later,” she said. “We noticed there were no meds in her bathroom. Did she take any prescription medication?”
“Why do you ask?” he said, looking from Pearlie to me.
“I noticed the blackout shades. They help with migraines, if she had them.”
“Yes. She had migraines . She would’ve had oxycodone and Imitrex in her medicine cabinet, but come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time mentioned having a headache.”
“Some people outgrow them,” I said.
“Did Bethany have a boyfriend, either here or in Chicago?” Pearlie asked.
“My daughter didn’t date.”
“Never?” I asked.
He leaned against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest. His defensive posture was back.
“Bethany’s health is, was, delicate. She required privacy in order to work, and she had migraines. I did everything I could to make sure that she had what she needed without having to leave the property. You saw the No Trespassing signs. No one came here except the UPS truck and grocery deliveries.”
Her life sounded very solitary and I had to wonder why she would cut herself off from the world. “About the other artists—how many are living here?”
“Only two. Jason Stark and Reina Schmidt. I’ve just met them, but I know because I do her books.”
“There’s a picture of some girls in her room,” I said. “Was one of them Bethany?”
“Her cousins. They live in Chicago.” He looked down at his hands, as if examining them for guilt. “I don’t know why she chose to frame that picture.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d e-mail me their phone numbers.”
“Don’t bother,” he said. “They never expressed any interest in her, living or dead.”
Another oddity to ponder. Then why keep a picture of distant cousins with whom she had no contact?
“Then do you have a picture of Bethany we could borrow?” I asked.
Mac sighed. “I have one.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled a photo out of his wallet, handing it to Pearlie.
Pearlie held it so I could see. The photo was ragged and pale with age. A young girl, her head tilted at a mischievous angle for the camera, smiling, her chin length hair w hipping around her face as if she’d been caught dancing. She must’ve been about fourteen and she was
I pivoted on my heels, looking at the room as if it were mine. Though I envied her private bathroom, I had the books, TV, a CD player, and ….
“Where’s her computer?” I asked.
“Right. Every girl has one, certainly a laptop. Homicide probably took it, but I’ll note it for later.”
She squeaked and ran to the CD player, turned it on and ejected a disk.
Grinning widely, she stuck a gloved fore-finger in the hole. “She likes Robin Thicke? Me too. I just love Blurred Lines. ”
“That might be evidence.”
“I sure hope so,” she said. “But since they didn’t think to take it, we’ll just hang onto it for now.”
She opened her purse, removed a baggie, dropped the CD in, and zipped it closed.
I snapped my fingers. “If the laptop went into evidence, Mac Coker would’ve signed off on a list of items removed from the house. If he can get us a copy, we’ll know for sure if Homicide has it.”
“Good idea. We’re done here,” she said, stuffing her notebook into her purse.
We found Mac Coker in the kitchen, an elderly onion in his dish-gloved hands. Seeing us, he put the onion in the sink and removed the dish gloves. “Did you find anything?”
“It’s what we didn’t find that has us puzzled.”
“Yes?” he said, turning on the water to wash his hands.
“Did the detectives have you sign for items they removed?”
“I suppose so. Is it important?”
“We’ll know when we see it,” Pearlie said, taking out her notes. “They would’ve left you a copy.”
“It’s around somewhere. Do you want it now?”
At the stricken look on his face, Pearlie’s position on the evidence list softened.
“Maybe later,” she said. “We noticed there were no meds in her bathroom. Did she take any prescription medication?”
“Why do you ask?” he said, looking from Pearlie to me.
“I noticed the blackout shades. They help with migraines, if she had them.”
“Yes. She had migraines . She would’ve had oxycodone and Imitrex in her medicine cabinet, but come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time mentioned having a headache.”
“Some people outgrow them,” I said.
“Did Bethany have a boyfriend, either here or in Chicago?” Pearlie asked.
“My daughter didn’t date.”
“Never?” I asked.
He leaned against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest. His defensive posture was back.
“Bethany’s health is, was, delicate. She required privacy in order to work, and she had migraines. I did everything I could to make sure that she had what she needed without having to leave the property. You saw the No Trespassing signs. No one came here except the UPS truck and grocery deliveries.”
Her life sounded very solitary and I had to wonder why she would cut herself off from the world. “About the other artists—how many are living here?”
“Only two. Jason Stark and Reina Schmidt. I’ve just met them, but I know because I do her books.”
“There’s a picture of some girls in her room,” I said. “Was one of them Bethany?”
“Her cousins. They live in Chicago.” He looked down at his hands, as if examining them for guilt. “I don’t know why she chose to frame that picture.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d e-mail me their phone numbers.”
“Don’t bother,” he said. “They never expressed any interest in her, living or dead.”
Another oddity to ponder. Then why keep a picture of distant cousins with whom she had no contact?
“Then do you have a picture of Bethany we could borrow?” I asked.
Mac sighed. “I have one.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled a photo out of his wallet, handing it to Pearlie.
Pearlie held it so I could see. The photo was ragged and pale with age. A young girl, her head tilted at a mischievous angle for the camera, smiling, her chin length hair w hipping around her face as if she’d been caught dancing. She must’ve been about fourteen and she was
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