“Is there a suitcase out, or anything?”
“Nothing like that. It all looks normal, nothing out of place.”
“When you were upstairs, did you see a cat?”
“No, she has a cat?”
“Yes, but it hides.”
“Then it hid.” Officer Mendina took out her long pad and slid a ballpoint pen from her shirt pocket. “Our procedure is to leave a 48A, an incident report, in plain view. It says we’ve been here, so when she comes home, she knows. But that’s the most we can do.”
“It just seems odd. She didn’t eat last night, even though she told me she was hungry when I left. I went to get her groceries.”
Victoria rolled her pretty eyes. “Oh, brother,” she said, under her breath.
Officer Mendina cocked her head, her expression sympathetic. “Dr. Farrow, I have a twenty-year-old daughter, myself. She doesn’t cook. Nobody cooks. Mom-to-Mom, don’t worry about it. She’ll be home when she gets home.”
Jill wanted to believe her. “I’d agree if it weren’t such strange circumstances, with her father.”
Officer Mendina shrugged. “You still got questions, I’d take them over to Central Detectives. If there’s a body on a floor in Philadelphia County, a detective gets called. Two, usually, and they work it up. Central Detectives has jurisdiction over the Sixth District, and they’re the ones who decided it wasn’t a suspicious death.”
“Do you know which detective I could ask for, in particular?”
“No.” Officer Mendina scribbled on a pad. “Whoever caught the case when the daughter called. That’s what happened, right?”
“Yes, I believe so.” Jill glanced at Victoria for verification, but Victoria only looked daggers at her.
“Then ask them.” Officer Mendina tore off the sheet of paper, set it down on the coffee table, and gave the keys to Victoria. “Ms. Skyler, thanks for your cooperation. Looks like your sister isn’t here, and I didn’t see anything suspicious. Just the same, you’re lucky to have somebody like Dr. Farrow worrying about you two.”
“Thank you.” Victoria dropped the keys into her big purse.
Jill caught Officer Mendina’s eye. “Thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, and the police left for the front door.
Victoria turned to Jill, frosty. “Leave. Go. Stay out of my life, and Abby’s.”
Jill composed herself. “I’m sorry for what happened, for everything. I was trying to help Abby, and I’d do the same for you, if you needed it.”
“I won’t need it.” Victoria’s eyes narrowed. “So now what? You’re going to the police station? You’re investigating my father’s alleged murder? You’re buying into Abby’s craziness?”
“I’m going to see what I can find out in the hope it will shed some light on where Abby is. I’m not investigating any murder, I’m looking for your sister. Good-bye now, and please call me if Abby calls you.” Jill started to walk to the door, but Brian caught her by the arm.
“I’m Brian Pendle, and I don’t believe we’ve met.” His blue eyes flashed behind his glasses, and his grip on her forearm felt oddly firm.
Jill pulled her arm away. “I’m Jill—”
“Oh, I know who you are.” Brian’s tone was calm and controlled. “Let me break it down for you, Dr. Farrow. Victoria’s been through hell since her Dad’s death. It’s hard enough for her to deal with that and her sister, while she’s in law school. I don’t know what your agenda is, but you need to step off.”
Jill felt taken aback. “I don’t have an agenda, except helping Abby.”
“Nevertheless, you don’t belong. I’m an attorney, and if you keep this up, calling Victoria at odd hours and taking property that is part of her father’s estate, I’ll file for a restraining order against you.”
Jill bit her tongue. “Good-bye, now,” she said, going to the door. She wasn’t afraid of restraining orders anymore. She was afraid that something had happened to Abby.
Not even a lawyer could stop a mother.
Chapter Twenty-four
“I’m Jill Farrow, I’m wondering if you could help me,” she said to the affable detective sitting at the front desk. She’d never been inside a real squad room before, and it looked distinctly less photogenic than on network TV. Two detectives worked on outdated computers at old gray desks stacked high with files and papers, and the sun struggled through dirty windows on one wall, barely illuminating a panel of mismatched file cabinets and a cork bulletin board cluttered with Wanted posters, official memos, wrinkled cartoons, and an old March Madness office pool.
“Yes, hi, I’m Detective Pitkowski.” The detective extended a hammy hand over a half-eaten Egg McMuffin, which filled the air with the aroma of steamed sausage. He was in his fifties, completely bald, with an unusually bumpy head and steely glasses that perched atop a bulbous nose. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s about my former stepdaughter, Abby Skyler. She’s nineteen, and she didn’t come home last night. I’m worried it has something to do with her father, William Skyler, who was found dead in their home on Acorn Street, last Tuesday.”
“Skyler? I know that case.” Detective Pitkowski nodded, pushing up his glasses from the bridge. “It wasn’t a homicide.”
“Abby thinks it was. Were you the detective on the case?”
“No. And you are—”
“His ex-wife.”
“Is this a joke?” Detective Pitkowski chuckled, and his pot belly jiggled, straining the buttons on his shirt, above his belt. He had on a striped tie with his white, short-sleeved shirt, and an old-school tie clip. “I got an ex who’d throw a party if I kicked the bucket.”
Jill managed a smile. “No, it’s not a joke. I’m trying to find Abby. Can I talk to the detective who worked on the case? Do you know who it was?”
“Detective Reed, but he’s not in, and he couldn’t meet with you, anyway. You’re not immediate family.”
“But I was.”
“You’re not now. Sorry.”
Jill felt momentarily stumped. “My problem is that Abby has been gone all night, and she was raising questions about her father’s death, so I’m worried that something bad happened to her.”
“Like what?” Detective Pitkowski asked, cocking his shiny head.
“Worst case scenario, some form of foul play.” Jill shuddered at the very notion. “She thought there was something fishy about the prescription painkillers that killed her father, and it turns out that they were gotten via a forged script, and the guy who filled the script was in disguise.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Detective Pitkowski put up his hand. “Let me ask you something. How did you find this out?”
“I went to the pharmacy and checked. Also, I think there’s been a black SUV following her lately, and maybe even me. The license plate starts with a T.”
Detective Pitkowski frowned. “How do you know it’s following you?”
“I saw it, twice.” Jill saw his expression change to skepticism. “What do you advise I do, if she’s missing?”
“She’s not a missing person after only one night.”
“I would agree with you, if not for whatever happened to her father. She lives with him, and if he was murdered, maybe she saw something or knows something, or the killer thinks she does, and that’s why she’s gone.”
“You’re speculating wildly here.” Detective Pitkowski eyed her. “Tell you what, when she comes home, and I bet she will, have her come in. Detective Reed will sit down with her, talk to her, and answer any questions she has. You can come with her, if you like.”
“Let me ask you this. Detective Reed took her father’s cell phone, wallet, and the pills. Would he give them back to her?”
“The phone and wallet, yes.”
“Would he show her your file, your investigation of her father’s death, if she had questions about whether it was really a murder?”
Detective Pitkowski shook his head. “No, not even immed
iate family sees our files. It has crime scene photos and the like. We show that to no one.”
“If she got a lawyer, could he see it? Or if she hired a private investigator?”
“No. No charges were filed, so it should never come to light.”
Jill took a flyer. “Do you happen to know if Detective Reed spoke with any of my ex-husband’s business associates about the case? There’s a man in New York named Neil Straub whom he should call. I have Straub’s address.”
“Hold up, I suggest we do it this way.” Detective Pitkowski slid a ballpoint from a Phillies mug on the desk. “Give me all the information you have, and I can pass it on to Detective Reed. The prescription, the SUV, the whole kit and caboodle. He’ll look into it.”
“Will he get back to me?”
“Only if he has a question, he will. Otherwise, he’s not gonna discuss this case with you. If the daughter calls, he’ll discuss it with her.”
“Okay, thanks.” Jill told him the story, and Detective Pitkowski listened in a professional way, taking notes and asking questions. It took about twenty minutes, and when she was finished, she hurried from the police station, checking her watch on the fly. She’d make it back just in time to see Megan swim.
She hustled to the car, chirped it open, hopped in, and started the engine, but couldn’t stop worrying about Abby. Jill remembered what she’d said to her, only last night.
There’s me, Abby. You always have me.
Chapter Twenty-five
Parents and kids filled the pool area, and their cheering, talk, and laughter echoed harshly off the tile walls and deck. The air was warm and thick, and the meet was already underway, but Jill had five minutes before Megan swam. She scurried up the stairs to the bleachers and spotted Sam sitting with the other swim moms and dads, Len Wynn and Rita Cohen, the McGraths, and Bill Roche and Jenny Zeleny.
“Sam!” she called out, and he turned, breaking into a grin.
Sam motioned her to come over, and Len and Rita looked up, smiled, and shifted aside to make room as Jill picked her way down the row. She sat down on the hard wooden bleacher and kissed Sam lightly on the lips.
“Hiya, honey.” Jill was already sweating under her shirt, and she could practically feel her hair curl. “I made it.”
“Way to go. What happened? Was Abby there?”
“No, but her car was. I went to the police, and they checked the house.”
“Good.” Sam nodded, his face shiny from the humidity.
“I told the police everything, but I’m still worried that she hasn’t called me back.”
Sam patted her leg again. “I gave Megan her swim bag.”
Jill could see he was over talking about Abby. “Was Megan bothered that I wasn’t there?”
“If she was, she didn’t say so. I told her you went to check on Abby, and she seemed fine with it.”
“Good.” Jill turned her attention to the pool, which was new and Olympic-sized, to accommodate the high school. Navy-and-white tiles rimmed the edge, in Sequanic High colors, matching the floating lane dividers. The far wall was a panel of glass, and it flooded the pool area with indirect light, making bright shadows of each ripple, illuminating the chop churned up by a hundred arms and legs, like a restless sea.
Sam craned his neck at the starting blocks, where the girls clumped together, a noisy flock of yellow bathing suits and swim caps, like so many baby chicks. “Which one’s Megan? I can never tell. They all look alike.”
“There.” Jill pointed at Megan, standing near the front and swinging her arms to keep them warm. The yellow spandex of her bathing suit outlined her skinny little body, and Jill could see her hips and breasts, formed but not fully mature, somewhere between girl and young woman.
“How can you always tell it’s her?”
“It’s like penguins. You know your own.”
Sam gave her a sweet nudge, and they both watched Megan, who was looking up at the bleachers, trying to find them in a way that wasn’t obvious.
“Hey, honey!” Jill called out, raising her hand, but Megan was still looking for her. “She doesn’t see us.”
“Yes, she does.”
“No, she doesn’t, I can tell.” Jill stood up, waving her arms, but Megan had already turned away and was talking to Courtney, their yellow caps close together. Jill shouted, “Megan!”
“Down in front!” called a man behind her, and Sam turned around and shot him an annoyed look.
“It’s okay.” Jill sat down, and on her other side, Rita leaned over.
“He’s from the Plymouth Meeting club. Want me to hit him?”
Jill smiled. “It’s okay, I just like it when Megan knows I’m here. We always make eye contact before she gets on the block. It’s our thing.”
“She saw you.” Sam patted her leg. “It’s okay, relax.”
Jill thought Megan looked worried as she walked toward Coach Stash. Jim “Stash” Stashevsky was only in his thirties, short but powerfully built in his yellow polo shirt and sweats. He bent over to talk to Megan, tucking his clipboard under his arm, and she listened intently, nodding as he spoke, her dark eyes looking up at him and her mouth making a stiff little line, like a dash.
Sam shifted forward on the bleachers. “You can do it, Megan!”
Jill made a megaphone of her hands. “Go, Megan, go!”
Megan climbed onto the third platform, swinging her arms, then slipping her yellow goggles down over her eyes and adjusting them on her head, her cap, and her nose. Jill knew all of Megan’s swim rituals, and the time for making eye contact with Mom was over. She’d be visualizing the race, ignoring the other swimmers as they climbed onto the blocks, shaking their arms and fidgeting with their goggles.
“Go, Megan!” Jill shouted again.
“Come on, Megan!” Sam hollered, and Rita, Len, and the others cheered for Megan, because they all cheered for each other’s kids. The parents from other clubs added to the chorus, hooting and hollering for their own kids.
Megan and the others took the positions on the blocks, bending at their bony knees, tucking their heads, and curling their toes around the edge. The electronic beeper sounded, barely audible above the crowd noise, and the girls shot into the air, stretching out their lithe bodies and extending their fingers and toes. For a split second, they were all knifing forward through thin air, transformed from girls into something that could fly. But Megan didn’t get her typical smooth start, and she hit the water behind the others.
“Sam?” Jill heard herself say, her gaze on Megan. “Did you see that? She’s off.”
“She’ll catch up.”
“No, it’s not that.” Jill had been a competitive swimmer, but she didn’t care about Megan’s time or if she won. Megan’s skinny arms started to bend and extend, but they were churning more than usual, and she didn’t move through the water the way she always did. Her hands slapped the surface, and her kick was too low, not her distinctive flutter. “Am I crazy, or is something the matter?”
“No, she’s fine.”
“Go, Megan, go!” Jill yelled. The other swimmers stroked ahead, kicking hard and picking up the pace, and Coach Stash shouted for Megan, holding his clipboard to his mouth, to amplify the sound.
Megan fell behind two lengths, then three, and the other girls reached the wall, straining for the tiles with outstretched fingertips. Megan only seemed to slow down, losing ground.
Jill leapt to her feet. “Go, Megan!”
Sam rose. “Go, Megan!”
The man behind them yelled, “Sit down!”
They both ignored him, and Jill started to worry as Megan took a few more feeble strokes, then stopped in the middle of her lane. Coach Stash hustled poolside past the cheering teammates, and before Jill knew why, she found herself in motion, climbing down the bleachers toward the pool, pushing past the other parents.
“Yo, watch it!” one man said, as Jill moved him aside. The race continued fast and furious, the crowd kept cheering, and the teams on the poo
l deck jumped up and down with excitement.
“Megan!” Jill cried out, just as Megan’s yellow cap disappeared beneath the water. Glare from the windows reflected on the chop, whiting out the water’s surface, obliterating everything.
“Help!” Jill reached the bottom row of the bleachers, threw herself over the rail, and half stumbled and half slipped toward the pool.
Megan was gone.
Coach Stash dropped his clipboard and dove into the water. Jill dove in behind him. The water muffled the cheering, and she opened her eyes to see Megan sinking to the bottom of the pool, her eyes closed and air bubbles leaking from her mouth.
Coach Stash reached Megan first, grabbed her by the waist, and raised her head up and out of the water. Jill grabbed her other side, pushed aside the floating lane markers, and they all popped together to the surface.
“Megan!” Jill shouted, terrified. Megan remained unconscious, her head flopped over. “Get her to the side!”
Coach Stash nodded, his eyes wide with fear. The race stopped, and the cheering silenced. Kids and parents watched in shock, and a stricken Sam came running.
“Megan, Megan!” Jill shouted, swimming with Megan, and they reached the edge of the pool. The coaches grabbed Megan and lowered her onto the pool deck. One flipped Megan onto her back and started to administer CPR, but she coughed and gasped.
“Megan!” Jill climbed out of the pool and scrambled to kneel beside her on the watery deck.
“Stay back!” shouted one of the other coaches, stiff-arming Jill, but she brushed it aside.
“I’m her mother and a doctor,” she said, turning Megan onto her side, letting her cough out the water. Coach Stash, the other coaches, and all the swimmers gathered around while Jill kept a hand on Megan, who was spasming with coughs. “Honey, let it come out. Cough it out.”
“Mom?” Megan said, weakly.
“I’m here.” Jill held her steady. “You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”
Megan expelled the pool water, inhaling deeply.
“Just breathe, honey.” Jill sent up a silent prayer of thanks, and Sam came through the crowd of coaches, horrified.