“Uh-huh,” he said, not buying it. Still, I was grateful when he changed the subject. “You hungry?”
“Aren’t I always?”
“I’ve got some chicken marinating in the fridge that I could grill.”
“Sounds perfect. Want some help?” I was a god-awful cook, and the kitchen was pretty much off-limits to me these days.
“No,” he said a little too quickly before he added, “That’s okay. I’ve got it.”
“Suit yourself. Let me know when it’s time to set the table and I’ll at least do that.”
A half hour later Dutch and I were just sitting down to dinner when the doorbell rang. I groaned, knowing full well who it was. “Did you make extra?” I asked, getting up from the table to go answer the door.
“His plate’s in the oven,” Dutch said with a grin.
I opened the door to a tall, gray-haired hippie. “Dave,” I said woodenly. “What a surprise.”
“Oh, am I interrupting your dinner?” Dave asked, looking past me hungrily at the table, where the smell of barbecued chicken, baked beans, and mashed potatoes wafted.
“Won’t you please join us?” I said in the same flat tone.
“Aww,” Dave said, coming through the door and walking purposely toward the table. “I couldn’t impose.”
I rolled my eyes and headed to the kitchen to retrieve Dave’s plate from the oven. Walking back, I set it in front of him and was about to take my seat again when my intuition went zing! I looked at Dave in alarm and blurted out, “You’re moving!”
Dave had already lifted a forkful of mashed potatoes in the air, but he stopped abruptly when I spoke. Blinking in surprise at me, he said, “I keep forgetting how good that radar of yours is.”
“You’re moving?” Dutch asked, looking from me to Dave. “When and where?”
“Soon,” I answered, sitting down and not feeling very hungry anymore. “And he’s moving far away. Down South, right?”
Dave swirled his mashed potatoes, looking guilty. “Business has been really bad lately, guys. I held out here as long as I could, but my old lady is starting to panic about how little we’ve got in the bank. I can’t find much work anywhere these days, and her brother lives in Texas. He owns a construction company and he’s offered me a job.”
Everyone at the table was silent for a long moment as Dutch and I absorbed that. I might make a stink about Dave’s being something of a permanent houseguest—especially at dinnertime—but I’d come to really consider him one of my dearest friends. “Abby thinks I’m moving too,” Dutch said, breaking the silence and reminding me of something else I’d predicted.
And my heart was suddenly filled with sadness. Huge changes were happening all around me as my hometown struggled to survive. “When do you leave?” I asked.
“Next week,” Dave said. “We’re almost done packing up the house and then we’re taking off.”
I looked at Dutch and his eyes were gentle. “We’ll come visit you guys,” he suggested.
“We’ve already found a place in this city called Georgetown—it’s just outside Austin. I guess their growth rate is something like forty percent. It’s one of the few places in the country doing really well right now, and there are plenty of construction jobs and real estate there is still affordable. We think we can finally afford to buy a place.”
“What about your house up here?” I asked. The streets were littered these days with For Sale signs.
“It’s a rental,” Dave said, color lighting his cheeks.
I was really surprised by that. All this time I’d thought Dave owned his house. “Ah,” I said. “That’ll make it easier, then.”
“If you need any help packing or loading the truck, you can count on us,” Dutch offered.
Dave polished off the last of his baked beans. “Thanks, buddy, I appreciate it, but I think we’ve got it. Anyway, I wanted to come by and tell you the news in person. I’ll be back before we leave, though.”
I nodded and fought back tears. I didn’t want Dave to go. He’d been through so much with me and I was very sad to lose him. So I did the only thing I could think of to give myself a little hope. I checked the ether around him and said, “The move will be a really great thing, Dave. You’ll love Texas. I know you’ll fit right in. And you’re right about the work—there’s plenty of it. You’ll be busier than you think. I also see you buying your own home in the next year and a half, and it’ll be something you’ll have a hand in building.”
Dave’s smile was ear to ear. “Thanks, Abby,” he said, and I could see the relief in his eyes.
Dave stuck around to help wash the dishes, which was nice and highly unusual for him. And then he took his leave, suggesting he had more packing to do. When he’d gone, Dutch wrapped strong arms around me and pulled me close. “It’ll be all right,” he whispered in my ear as I began to cry.
“Everyone’s leaving,” I said.
“Everyone?”
“Yes,” I mumbled, nodding my head into his chest. “Dave, my clients, Sparky’s . . . you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dutch insisted. “It’s you and me, right here in this house, for the long haul, Edgar.”
But my left side grew heavy and I knew that the winds of change were about to blow my little world apart. I could only hope I was strong enough to weather the storm.
Chapter Six
The next morning, the minute Dutch was out of the house, I tore downstairs to continue reading Bianca’s journals. Much of the content was quite ordinary, although I genuinely liked her style and I could definitely see why she wanted to be a journalist. She was very good about detailing the place, time, and date of events, and her entries read more like articles.
By ten thirty a.m. I was at the beginning of Bianca’s freshman year when the phone rang. “Hey,” said Candice when I picked up the line. “Wanna go for a ride to East Lansing?”
Candice picked me up fifteen minutes later and I brought the journals to read while she drove the hour and fifteen minutes to the Michigan State University campus. En route Candice asked, “How’s it coming?”
I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “Nothing looks really interesting to me yet,” I said. “Mostly she’s documenting her days, her classes, who’s going out with whom. Normal teenager stuff.”
“Does she mention anyone following her or creeping her out?”
“Nope. She’s delightfully sunny about everyone she meets. The girl could find the good in Oscar the Grouch.”
“Okay,” Candice said. “Keep reading, then. We’ve still got a half hour to go.”
We made it to campus around noon and decided to start with Bianca’s dorm. Candice found a place to park in a nearby lot. As we backtracked to the dorm, she took out a copy of Bianca’s schedule and a map of the campus. “She lived in Wonders Hall,” Candice mused as we walked along. “That must be that big one over there.”
“Should we go inside?”
“Can’t hurt. Might be a good idea to go up to her dorm room too.”
“You want to go into her room?” I asked, feeling a bit nervous about disturbing the students.
“Why not?” Candice asked. When I continued to look at her skeptically, she said, “If someone’s there, we don’t have to give them any details. We can pretend that we’re alumni taking a trip down memory lane and stopped by, hoping to see the old dorm room we shared.”
“That is not a bad idea,” I said. “Okay, I’m in.”
“Turn your radar on,” Candice advised as we stepped through the door, held open by an exiting student, and into the large lobby.
We located the elevators and Candice pushed the button for the sixth floor. Once there we went the wrong way out of the little elevator lobby and had to backtrack, but eventually we found Bianca’s room. Candice knocked loudly three times. From behind the door we could hear the sound of music playing, and the door was abruptly opened by a young girl with greasy hair and bad skin wearing a skintight running suit that exposed her
plump belly. “Hey there,” Candice said, flashing her friendliest smile.
“Yeah?” the girl asked, her look guarded.
“So sorry to bother you, but this is my old roommate from the class of ’ninety-five and we were up here on campus taking a trip down memory lane and thought we’d stop by our old dorm room.”
“Uh-huh?” the girl said. I could tell she really wasn’t picking up what Candice was hinting at.
“We used to live in this dorm, in your room actually,” I said, getting to the point. “And we were curious to see how it’s changed. Is there any way you could let us take a peek?”
The girl eyed me suspiciously, and then surveyed me up and down, checking out my jeans and thick sweater. Then her eyes roved over Candice and gave her the once-over too.
“We promise, we’re harmless,” Candice said, holding up her hand like she was willing to swear on it.
The girl finally shrugged and stepped aside, and Candice and I moved into the room—which was a total mess—and took a look around. I had my radar on high, but everything I intuitively sensed came from the girl standing in the doorway, still staring at us suspiciously.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Candice gushed, eyeing me to see if I was getting anything. I subtly shook my head and moved toward the bunk beds against the far wall. “Do you remember when we threw that party right around finals?” Candice asked with a laugh.
I knew she was trying to buy me a little time by making small talk, but the room was so cluttered with energy that it was impossible for me to pick anything out specifically. Whatever had gone on here over the years had included a lot of drama. “I do,” I said, and then an awkward silence followed. Turning once more in a circle, I gave up and announced, “Well, we’d better let you get back to your studies. I know I had a hard time with statistics too.”
The girl in the doorway nodded; then she seemed to catch what I’d said. “Wait a minute,” she said, putting her hand up in a stopping motion. “How did you know I was studying stats?”
I thought quickly and moved across the room to one of the two desks by the window. “Your homework is out on your desk,” I said, relieved that it was.
“Oh,” she said, still looking oddly at me. I’d been nowhere near her desk, which was partially obscured by the bunk beds, so I knew she was wondering how I could have seen her books.
“Anyway,” I said, moving toward the door with a flourish, “let’s go, Sharon. We don’t want to be late meeting the others for lunch.”
“Thanks again,” Candice said as we passed the girl and walked back out into the hallway. As we moved down the corridor, Candice said, “Sharon?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t want her reporting our real names to the campus police.”
Candice eyed me with a smile. “You’re a little paranoid, aren’t you?”
“Can you blame me after what happened in Vegas?” I asked, referring to a time a few weeks earlier when it had paid to be paranoid.
“Good point. So what did you get from the room?”
I sighed tiredly. “Not a damn thing other than the usual clutter.”
Candice arched an eyebrow. “Usual clutter?”
I nodded. “Yep. You find a lot of energetic clutter in places like apartments and dorm rooms. Anywhere there’s a constant turnover of people carries energy that feels a lot like static—it’s too garbled to pick up anything significant or specific. In other words, I couldn’t pick up on Bianca’s individual energy—the room was too stacked with the energy of all the other kids who’ve ever lived there.”
“Huh,” Candice said thoughtfully. “Good to know.”
When we were back downstairs, Candice eyed the schedule again and the map. “Her first class was in the Eppley Center.”
I peered over Candice’s shoulder. “Holy cow!” I said as I took in the distance on the map between the dorm and Bianca’s first class. “That’s way across campus!”
“Welcome to MSU,” Candice said. “The campus where the smart students travel by pack mule.”
We spent the next hour going from one location to the next, walking the long route that Bianca had for her classes. We were halfway through her schedule when we found ourselves close to Grand River Avenue and downtown East Lansing, so we stopped for a bite to eat and to rest our feet.
“I can’t believe she walked this route every day,” I complained as I took my foot out of my boot and rubbed the sole.
“She only needed to walk it twice a week,” Candice said. “She scheduled all her classes for Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“What time did her first class start?”
Candice looked down at the schedule. “Nine a.m.”
“What time did they end?”
“Two were in the morning, one was in the late afternoon, and her last class, Intro to Journalism, was an evening class. That started at six and let out at seven thirty.”
My radar dinged and my eyes widened. “Bingo,” I said.
“What?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I admitted. “But we need to go next to the hall where her last class was held.”
“You got it,” Candice agreed, and I could tell she was relieved that I’d finally hit on something.
We finished our lunch and set out at a brisk pace back across Grand River toward campus. Walking southeast, we eventually arrived at a dark brick building labeled North Kedzie. Going inside, we toured the hallways for a bit, finding Bianca’s classroom—which was empty—and following my radar, which kept pulling me toward a set of stairs. Instinctively I headed up them. When we arrived on the third floor, I pushed through a set of double doors, with Candice right behind me, and came to a hallway lined with offices of the various professors who taught here. I walked slowly down the corridor, glancing at the nameplates by the doors, and asked Candice, “Who did Bianca have for journalism?”
“Someone named Houghton.”
“Professor J. Houghton?” I said, turning around and pointing to the nameplate I’d just stopped in front of.
“Ooh.” Candice beamed. “You’re good!”
I could see light coming from the crack under the door so I knocked. “Come in,” called a voice.
I opened the door wide and stepped into the room. “Good afternoon,” I began. “My name is Abigail Cooper, and this is my associate, private investigator Candice Fusco.”
Professor Houghton’s face registered surprise. “Private investigator?” he asked nervously. “Is this about my ex-wife?”
I bit my lip so as not to laugh and replied, “No, sir. This is about a student who went missing late last spring named Bianca Lovelace. We were wondering if you had a moment to talk to us about her?”
The professor relaxed a little. “I’ve already spoken extensively to the police and the FBI,” Houghton said. “Bianca came to class, took her final, and left.”
“How’d she do?” Candice asked.
“She got a four point,” the professor said proudly. “She was by far my best student.”
I could tell that the professor didn’t really want to get involved any deeper, and I couldn’t blame him. Being connected to a student who disappeared could cause anyone to get nervous, but my radar didn’t want me to let Houghton go. There was something I knew I needed to dig for, but I didn’t know what. “Can you tell us anything more about her?” I asked.
Houghton shrugged. “What more can I tell you?” he said, turning the question back on me. “Bianca was a great kid. She was enthusiastic, paid attention, never skipped class, studied hard, and got good grades. At least in my class she did. She was eager to get on my good side for obvious reasons, but she never did anything inappropriate or out of line.”
I shook my head. That last sentence didn’t make any sense to me. “I’m sorry, she was eager to get on your good side? Why exactly?”
Houghton waved his hand at the walls of his office and I suddenly realized they were covered with framed newspaper articles. “I’m the administrative edi
tor of the State News,” he explained. “I appoint all the student reporters and writers to MSU’s paper.”
“And Bianca wanted to join the paper,” I said as the memory of asking Terry if Bianca was trying to get an internship at a newspaper for the summer rang some bells.
“She did,” he said. “But she was only a freshman. Because there’s such an interest in the paper, it’s more traditional to appoint second-semester juniors or seniors to those positions. I told her to work on a story or two and come back to me in the fall. I might be willing to make an exception if she came back with something really good.”
And like that, a few of the puzzle pieces that had been swirling around in my head clicked into place. “She was working on something,” I said softly.
“What’s that, Abs?” Candice asked.
I shook my head, snapping my eyes back into focus and momentarily ignoring Candice’s question. “Professor Houghton,” I began urgently, “did Bianca by any chance tell you about a story idea she had, or something she might have been working on?”
Houghton looked slightly chagrined. “Maybe,” he said.
I cocked my head. “Maybe?”
Houghton nodded and cleared his throat. “As I said, Bianca was anxious to get onto the school newspaper’s staff, and I knew that her father was a state legislator. We haven’t really had any interesting political stories lately, so I told her to use her connections and bring me back something working that angle. I also let her know that it would have to be a big enough story to warrant an exception to the rule of assigning someone so young to the staff. I recommended that she nose around her father’s office, and see what she could come up with.”
I could feel a sense of adrenaline rush through me as my radar dinged big-time. Candice, however, didn’t seem at all pleased with the professor’s response. “So let me get this straight,” she snapped. “You told an eighteen-year-old girl to basically rat on her father or one of his colleagues?”
Houghton’s face immediately flushed. “Of course not,” he said defensively. “I would never suggest such a thing. But she did have the perfect cover for some undercover reporting, which is done in journalism all the time.”