“Is there anything else about him you can remember?” I asked. “Did he have any facial hair or any tattoos or piercings?”
Mrs. Dixon shook her head. “No,” she said, and I could tell she wished she could give us more. “Do you think he was the one that took my Fatina?”
“I do.”
Candice eyed me in that way that told me I shouldn’t have said that, but I couldn’t help it. I knew I needed to be straight with this woman.
Candice jumped to the next topic by asking, “Can you tell us about how you came to be Fatina’s guardian, Mrs. Dixon?”
Again Mrs. Dixon’s eyes turned sad. “Fatina is my daughter’s child,” she said. “And Fontana was my only child. She wasn’t a bad person, but she fell in with the wrong crowd when she was about fifteen or so. It was right after her daddy died, in fact, and next thing I knew, my daughter was pregnant and on drugs. I done everything I could to get her to stay clean, but that pipe was too powerful for her.
“When Fatina was born, they found traces of crack in her blood and they took her away from Fontana. I fought for custody and won, and I promised that as soon as Fontana kicked the drugs, she could come live with us and help raise Fatina.
“Last time I saw her was when my grandbaby was still a toddler. Fontana said she was working to get clean and I believed her. Then she showed up here strung out and I told her not to come back, and I never saw her again. One of her druggie friends moved up to St. Louis, and Fontana went with him. I used to hear from her twice a year every year at Christmas and on Fatina’s birthday, and then four years ago she didn’t call and I knew she was dead.”
“Did the police in St. Louis ever notify you of that fact?”
Mrs. Dixon shook her head. “No. They got some dead homeless black woman off the street, and they don’t do nothin’ to try and find the next of kin. And I didn’t really want to know, truth be told. I was afraid of what I would have to tell Fatina.”
Candice opened the folder and looked at the notes taken by the investigator on the case. “It says here that the agent assigned to the case thought there was some evidence that Fontana had taken her daughter.”
Mrs. Dixon waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, that’s a bunch of bull,” she said. “That FBI man wasn’t interested in finding my grandchild! He just wanted to close his case and be done with it, so he found one of Fontana’s old boyfriends, who said he heard my daughter say that someday she was gonna come here and just take Fatina away.”
“But you don’t believe that’s what happened,” I said.
“No,” Mrs. Dixon said with a shake of her head. “Fontana wouldn’t do that to me or to Fatina, and besides, Fatina went missing several years after those phone calls stopped. I know in my heart that Fontana was already dead by then.”
“And what about Fatina’s father?”
Mrs. Dixon scowled. “That heap of garbage went off to meet his Maker right before Fatina was born. Died of a drug overdose. He was the one that got Fontana hooked on the pipe in the first place. And he only married her ’cause I threatened to turn him in to the police if he didn’t. Fontana was a minor when he started havin’ relations with her.”
“How old was he?” Candice asked.
“Twenty-two,” she replied with disgust.
“And there were no other relatives that might have been interested in taking over custody of Fatina?”
I knew Candice wanted to be thorough, but my mind was already made up that a family member hadn’t abducted the little girl. “There is no one else but me,” said Mrs. Dixon. “I got no one left, miss. Just this dog and this house. My sister died some ten years ago, and my husband’s family is all dead too. Me and Snowy is all alone in this here house. Ain’t no one to care ’bout us no more. And ain’t no one for us to care for neither.”
Mrs. Dixon’s eyes watered and my heart broke for her. She appeared to be a gentle, good-hearted woman who’d had so much tragedy in her life. And I couldn’t imagine going through all of that and finding yourself almost completely alone.
No one spoke for the longest time; it was as if we were observing a moment of silence for all the people in Mrs. Dixon’s life that had been lost. Finally, however, Candice asked, “Mrs. Dixon, could I perhaps ask you to part with a photo of your daughter?”
The older woman sniffled and dabbed at her eyes. “What for?”
“I want to bring you some closure, ma’am. I know your heart is suggesting that your daughter and granddaughter are both deceased, but it must still tug on you a bit not to be absolutely certain.”
Mrs. Dixon stroked Snowy’s fur. “It does.”
“Then loan me a picture and let me investigate. I’ll do my very best to find out the truth for you.”
“I ain’t got no money to pay you,” Mrs. Dixon said warily.
“That’s perfect,” Candice said with an easy smile, “because today, I’m not charging.”
Mrs. Dixon regarded Candice for a moment before she got up and moved over to a sofa table where several photos were displayed in a variety of frames. Selecting one from the group, she brought it over to Candice. “This one’s my favorite,” she said, turning the frame around so that we could see the image.
In the photo, Fontana looked bone thin, but there was some light in her eyes and she had an easy smile. Next to her was Fatina, hugging her mother fiercely, although the little girl couldn’t have been older than three or four.
I noticed with a heavy heart that both mother and daughter appeared flat to my intuitive eye, confirming to me at least that they were both dead. Candice took the frame from Mrs. Dixon and pretended to study it while sneaking a sideways glance at me as if to ask me if there was any hope. I frowned and subtly shook my head.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Candice said, removing the photo from the frame carefully. “I promise to take very good care of it and return it to you just as soon as I find something out.”
Mrs. Dixon looked unsure, and I suspected she was wondering if we were making legitimate promises or if this was some sort of elaborate scheme to bilk her out of what little money she had. “Here is my card,” I said, reaching into my purse to pull out my new business cards embossed with the FBI logo. “That’s my office number,” I told her, “but I’ll be in the field for the next few weeks, so if you need to get ahold of me, call this number.” I then quickly wrote my cell number on the card.
Candice too reached into her purse and pulled out her own business card. Like everything else about my good friend these days, it looked expensive and classy. “Call me anytime as well, Mrs. Dixon. And if I could have your number to keep you updated as we get information, that’d be great.”
Mrs. Dixon appeared overwhelmed by all the contact information coming at her. It made me wonder how the original investigator on her granddaughter’s case had treated her. After giving Candice her phone number, she walked us to the door, where we shook her hand and headed to the car.
Once inside Candice asked, “What’d you think?”
“Intuitively?”
“Yes.”
“That she’s had one heck of a tragic life and we’ve got to do everything in our power to give her some closure.”
Candice smiled and started the car. “Funny,” she said. “I was thinking the same thing.”
As we cruised away from the neighborhood, I was grateful that Candice was controlling her speed better on these suburban streets, and I allowed myself to simply look out the window at the passing houses. We came to a stop sign and Candice focused her attention on the navigation gizmo built into the dashboard, while also checking the next address from one of the files.
As she was fiddling with that, I happened to glance up at the street sign. “Pecan Valley Drive,” I whispered. Where had I seen that street name before? Or had I seen that name before? Sometimes it’s difficult for me to know if my radar is giving me a clue, or if I’m simply remembering something I’ve seen somewhere else.
I scanned the area carefully. The charm
ing street name was a misnomer. There was nothing appealing about this neck of the woods. “Where are we?” I asked abruptly.
“Hmm?” Candice hummed, still poking at her GPS gizmo.
“Seriously, Candice,” I said, laying a hand on her arm. “Where exactly are we?”
Candice pulled her eyes away from the dashboard. “About halfway between Fatina’s house and Keisha’s.”
My radar was buzzing at me and my eyes kept roving to the street sign. There was something about it that I was missing. Something important. “Can you go down this street for a minute?”
Candice squinted out the window, then eyed me oddly. “For real?”
“Yeah.”
“Abs,” she said seriously, “this isn’t exactly the kind of neighborhood where one drives a brand-new Porsche around.”
She was right of course. There were lots of vacant and boarded-up homes on the block, and I also noticed that we’d caught the attention of a group of young men about two hundred yards away. “Okay,” I reluctantly agreed. “You’re right. Let’s go.”
Candice moved away from the stop sign and Pecan Valley Drive, and the farther away we got, the more convinced I was that I’d just missed something like a major clue, but for the life of me I couldn’t puzzle out what it was. Still, just to make sure I wasn’t missing something obvious, I took the two folders on Fatina and Keisha and searched the ink for any trace of Pecan Valley Drive, but found no reference to that street.
I had to put it out of my mind just a few minutes later when we pulled up in front of Keisha’s house, which was a small but tidy little ranch with thick stone steps leading up to a wrought iron gate across the front door. There were also bars across the windows. I looked around at the other houses nearby. Most of them had the same detail on the windows and doors. At least there weren’t any boarded-up houses on the street, but I did see plenty of curtains move to the side as people spotted Candice’s shiny new Porsche. “Why do I think this visit is going to be the talk of the neighborhood?” I muttered as we got out.
Candice subtly glanced up and down the street, probably determining if it was safe to leave her car unattended. She clicked the button on her keys and the Porsche made a chirping noise. “Locked and loaded,” she said with a wink to me.
We approached the door and I let Candice take the lead. She pushed the doorbell and this time we definitely heard it echoing from inside. We waited several seconds before Candice tried again, but clearly there was either no one home or no one willing to answer the door.
“What do you think?” she asked me.
I pointed my radar at the house. “I think no one’s here.”
Candice walked down the steps and moved over to the driveway. “Doesn’t hurt to be thorough,” she said over her shoulder. “Stay by the car. I’ll be right back.”
I moved to the Porsche and let my side fall against it with a tired sigh. Immediately it began to make a huge racket as the horn sounded, lights blinked, and an alarm blared. “Gah!” I shrieked, spinning away from the car.
Candice came running back from around the corner. “What happened?” she shouted right before she pressed a button on her key again.
“Your freaking car is possessed!” I yelled. Then I realized the noise from the car had stopped, and I lowered my voice but flushed with embarrassment as several doors opened and people came out to see what all the racket was about. “All I did was lean against it.”
“The alarm’s a little sensitive,” she admitted.
“Gee, Candice, ya think?”
My partner moved over to the driver’s side. “Come on,” she coaxed. “He’s not home and you look like you could use some lunch.”
At the prospect of food I let go my indignation and got right in. Buckling my seat belt, I asked, “When you say ‘he’s’ not home, who’re you talking about exactly?”
“Keisha’s brother. He had custody of his baby sister when she went missing. Didn’t you read the file?”
“Yes, I read the file,” I told her. “But some of the details may have gotten lost because I read at least a hundred files last week.”
“Ah.”
“Was that the house Keisha lived in when she was abducted?”
“Yes.”
“And her brother still lives there?”
Candice nodded. “According to public records, he does.”
“I take it we’re going to eat, then swing back by again to see if he’s home?”
“Yep.”
“He won’t be,” I told her, feeling that intuitively. “In fact, I don’t even think he’s in the area right now. Does he have some connection to the military?”
Candice smiled wide. “You sure you don’t remember reading that in the file?”
I held up my hand like I was taking a vow. “Scout’s honor.”
“Okay, I believe you. Antoine LaSalle is in the army. He’s a lieutenant currently stationed in Killeen.”
“Killeen?”
“It’s about forty-five minutes southwest of here.”
“Why didn’t we start there?”
“Way too many security checks to clear. ‘Who are you? Where are you from? Who are you there to see? Why?’ It’s a royal pain in the butt just to deliver a pizza.”
“We’re delivering a pizza?”
“No. But trust me, I once tried to run some surveillance by posing as a pizza-delivery girl at a military base and let’s just say it did not go well.”
“Ah.”
“If he’s not there when we swing back by, then we’ll leave him a note and my card and hope he calls.”
“Then what?”
“Then we’ll run you home so you can take care of your man, and then I’ll try and find out if Fontana Carter ended up in the St. Louis morgue.”
I remembered with a jolt the intuitive feeling I had that Fatina and Keisha weren’t the only victims of our serial killer. “I think you should also do a search of other missing little girls who fit Fatina and Keisha’s description from this area.”
Candice eyed me. “You think there are more victims?”
“I do.”
“Shit.”
“There could even be a file on the other victim in one of those boxes back at the office and I just haven’t come across it yet,” I told her.
“Well,” she said, “if there is a file on another missing little girl, then you’re not going to be able to see it until IA clears you—which could take a while.”
That got my attention. “You think they’re going to take a long time to clear me?”
Candice shrugged. “IA investigations within local police departments are bad enough; I gotta believe that they’re ten times worse when they’re part of the FBI.”
I gulped. “Great. Just great.”
Candice shifted gears and bumped my arm with hers. “Don’t sweat it, Abs,” she said. “You did what you had to do in the moment, and if there’s anyone who’s to blame, it’s that Rodriguez guy. You should be cleared no problem.”
“But I like that Rodriguez guy.”
“Oh. Well, then, we’ll just hope for the best, okay? Now, where did you want to go for lunch?”
“The nearest Coney Island hot dog joint.”
Candice gave me a sympathetic smile. “No such luck round these parts either, partner.”
“So drive me back to Michigan,” I said grumpily. “Where things used to make sense and I could get a decent hot dog with the works and an order of some chili cheese fries.”
“I wouldn’t do that even if I could,” Candice said flatly.
“Why not?”
“Have you ever smelled your breath at the end of one of those lunches? Trust me, the box of Altoids you pop doesn’t even cover it.”
I felt my cheeks heat and I sank down in my seat, totally embarrassed. “So I like onions!” I snapped.
Candice laughed. “Oh, honey,” she said sympathetically. “I know you love them. It’s just that they don’t really love you. Now, how about a
nice bowl of soup and salad, hmm?”
Chapter Eight
We ate the most boring, lifeless lunch ever and I bought a pack of wintergreen gum the first chance I got. We also made our way back to the LaSalle residence, but just like I’d predicted, Antoine wasn’t home, so Candice left him a note and her card and we headed back to Austin.
After retrieving Dutch’s car from Candice’s parking garage, I zipped over to pick him up, noting that I was running just a teensy bit behind. I found my S.O. leaning against the building, looking all manly and gorgeous. I also found that any frustration I’d had with him earlier seemed to melt away. “Hey, cowboy,” I said, pulling to a stop at the curb. “Can I give you a lift?”
Dutch moseyed over to the driver’s side and opened my door. “How about letting me drive?”
I shrugged and gave up the wheel. The moment we pulled into traffic, he started in. “I called your cell a couple of times this afternoon.”
Oops.
“Sorry. I didn’t hear it ring.” Nervously I took it out of my purse and squinted at the screen. “Ah, I see. You called all right.” For the record, it’s hard to hear a cell phone ring above the roar of a Porsche’s engine.
“Where ya been all afternoon?” Dutch pressed.
“Hanging out with Candice.”
“Where?”
Uh-oh . . .
“Here and there.”
“More there than here?”
I sighed tiredly. Dutch had been with me long enough to never trust it when I didn’t answer my phone. It was the first sign that I was up to something. “We had a spa day,” I said quickly. “We got massages and pedicures.”
“Really?” he said in that voice that told me he didn’t for one second believe it.
“Yep.” I was sticking to this story if it killed me.
“What was the name of the spa?”
“Pecan Valley Salon and Spa.” Wow. I’d rattled that off without a moment’s hesitation. Maybe I was getting better at this whole lying thing.
“Pecan Valley?” he repeated. “Where’s that?”