LITMIR.BIZ

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they did—and a free popcorn to boot—but Mama was none too pleased.”

      “Do you have any other cases—besides the wagger—that are pressing?”

      “My load’s pretty light. What’s up?”

      “We got a name to match a set of bones that we dug up.”

      Marge nodded approval. “Not too shabby, Pete.”

      “Sometimes you get lucky. A sixteen-year-old white female named Lindsey Bates. Disappeared around four months ago.”

      “Want me to talk to her mother?”

      “If you can. I need someone with a soft touch.”

      “When?”

      “Right now, if you feel up to it. I figured I’d take a peek at the kid’s room while you interviewed Mrs. Bates.”

      Marge stood up. In heels, she was nearly eye level with him. Her shoulders, housed in a padded jacket, appeared immense.

      She picked up her bag and said, “Let’s go.”

      The Bateses lived in La Canada. The house was on a tree-lined street at the end of a cul-de-sac—a split level with a wood and stone facade. The lawn had been newly planted and was bisected by a stone walkway lined by manicured rose bushes bursting with Day-Glo colors—hot pinks, scarlet reds, and sunshine yellows—a wreath for the house of mourning. Marge gave the door a hard rap, and a moment later a wisp of a blonde appeared in the doorway.

      “Mrs. Bates?” Decker asked, showing his shield.

      “Come in, Sergeant … Sergeant’m sorry I forgot your name.”

      “Decker, ma’am.” He handed her his card. “This is Detective Dunn.”

      “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Bates,” Marge said, gently.

      Mrs. Bates acknowledged the condolences by lowering her head. Under a different set of circumstances she might have been pretty, but sorrow had washed out her face, blurring her features. Her eyes were sunken, the blue iris faded. The cheeks sagged, the mouth was slack and pale. Her coloring was fair, as her daughter’s had been, but her hair was stringy and unwashed. She seemed to wilt under the detectives’ eyes and made a futile attempt to straighten her housecoat.

      “Forgive my appearance,” she said in a whisper.

      Decker placed a hand on her small, bony shoulder.

      “Mrs. Bates, I’m very sorry to intrude upon you at a time like this. Thank you for your cooperation.”

      The woman’s eyes filled with tears.

      “Please come in.”

      They were led to the living room sofa—white velvet, and spotless. Everything in the room was spotless. She asked them if they wanted some coffee, but they both declined.

      “If it’s all right with you, Mrs. Bates,” Decker began, “I’d like to take a look at Lindsey’s room.”

      “What … What are you looking for?” she asked.

      “Nothing specific,” he answered.

      That was the truth. But it was more tangible than that. He was trying to get a feel for Lindsey so he could relate to her as a living entity. Her room would be a logical starting place. Rooms and luggage. Ever want to do a quick analysis of a person, find out what he packs for a weekend jaunt.

      “I guess that would be okay,” Mrs. Bates said hesitantly. “It’s down the hall, the third door to the left. The one that’s … s’s closed.”

      Decker thanked her and left the two women alone.

      Marge waited until Mrs. Bates spoke.

      “I don’t know what I could possibly tell you that I didn’t already tell the police the first time around,” she said.

      “If you’re ready,” Marge said. “I’d like you to recount what happened the day of Lindsey’s disappearance.”

      Mrs. Bates peered into her lap and Marge took advantage of the opportunity to slip out her notepad.

      “It was a Saturday,” she began. “I can’t believe that she’s actually …”

      She paused to catch her breath, then asked imploringly.

      “It is possible they made a mistake? After all, how could they make such an important decision based on teeth?”

      “They seem to be sure—”

      “But it’s only teeth!”

      “I wish I could tell you differently, Mrs. Bates,” Marge said, quietly. “If I had any doubts, I wouldn’t be here. But we seem to be quite certain that we found your daughter. I’m so sorry. It must be so hard to accept that.”

      “I hope you’ll never know.” Mrs. Bates dropped her head in her hands and sobbed. Marge offered her a Kleenex and she blew her nose. Then she tried again.

      “As I started to say, it was a Saturday …” She started crying again.

      Marge put down her pad. “Maybe we came too soon for you to do this. It’s not because we’re callous. It’s just that every second we let slip by is less time for us to do our job and more time for your daughter’s murderer to get away. But if this is too hard on you, we can come back tomorrow.”

      Mrs. Bates dried her tears and shook her head no. “I’m all right.”

      “Sure?”

      “Yes,” Mrs. Bates said. “What was I saying?”

      “It was Saturday,” Marge answered, taking up her pad.

      “Yes, Saturday,” Mrs. Gates repeated. “Lindsey said she was going to the Galleria to shop, to look for a blouse … blouse’d just started driving and the mall was close to home …” She threw up her hands. “What else can I tell you? That was the last anyone ever heard of her … her now.”

      “Do you know if she was planning to meet someone?” Marge asked.

      Mrs. Bates’s face turned livid.

      “The original detective asked me the same question. Don’t police ever read each other’s reports?”

      “I like to be thorough,” Marge explained.

      The woman sank back into her chair. “I’m terribly sorry for my behavior—”

      “No, don’t apologize. You’re doing fine.”

      “As far as I know,” Mrs. Bates said, “she wasn’t going to meet anyone. I can give you a list of all of her friends and you can ask them if Lindsey called them.”

      “Thank you. That would be helpful.” She continued. “Do you know the stores your daughter routinely shopped at?”

      “Bullocks, Broadway, May Company, Robinson’s. She like Contempo, although I always thought they were a little on the high side.”

      “Did she follow a certain routine when she shopped? Park in the same place? Comb the stores in the same pattern?”

      “Not that I know of. Her friends could tell you better than I can.” Her facial expression became wistful. “We used to shop together years ago, but you know kids … kids like to be with their friends … friends loved my taste in clothes. People often mistook us for sisters.”

      Marge couldn’t see it. But the woman had probably aged ten years since her daughter’s disappearance. She consulted the notes Decker had prepared for her.

      “Lindsey has a younger sister, correct?”

      “Yes.”

      “Were they close?”

      “Yes,” she answered, with a defensive note

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