The Killing Vision - By Will Overby Page 0,21
into the trash and let the plate clatter into the sink. Mel sat on the counter, watching him intently. “So much for dinner,” Halloran said. There was nothing else to eat in the apartment, so now he supposed he would have to head out. “Guess it’s Mickey D’s tonight,” he told the cat.
His phone rang, and he flopped down on the sofa and answered it.
“Halloran?” It was Pettus. “I need you to come down here to the station if you can.”
“Now?”
“Are you in the middle of something?”
“Not really. Just gonna go grab a bite to eat.”
Pettus grunted. “Well, get it to go.”
“What’s up?”
“You’re gonna love this. We got another missing kid.”
Halloran’s heart sank. “Another one?”
“Yep. Another girl.”
“I’ll be right there.”
* * *
Her name was Carmelita Santos. Her parents, both migratory workers from Mexico, were already seated in his office talking to Chapman when he arrived. The mother wept softly against her husband’s shoulder, her round, brown cheeks glistening with tears. Mr. Santos sat slumped over, his dark eyes glassy and fearful beneath the red brim of his St. Louis Cardinals cap.
Chapman was scribbling information onto a report form, a chewed-up Bic pen clamped in his fingers. “Carmelita is how old?” he asked.
“Quince años,” said Mr. Santos, then shook his head, seemingly embarrassed that he had lapsed into Spanish. “Soy arrepentido. Fifteen years.”
Chapman noted it on his report. “Tell us again what happened.”
Mr. Santos’s eyes flashed hotly. “We have already told everyone. Three times.”
Chapman smiled sympathetically. “I know. But let’s go over it one more time.” He nodded toward Halloran. “Lieutenant Halloran and I will be investigating your daughter’s disappearance. I’d just like him to hear everything from you.”
The Santoses eyed Halloran suspiciously. “You will find our Carmelita?” Mrs. Santos asked.
“We’re certainly going to try,” Halloran told her.
They spoke hesitantly at first but gradually opened up and began talking faster, at times in Spanish and then repeating themselves in English. The three of them were living in a rooming house on Bellevue Road, an area on the fringes of town where most of the migrants stayed during farming season. Carmelita had left just after lunch to meet some friends at the city park. The friends returned about two o’clock. Carmelita was not with them; they had not seen her all day. Somewhere in the four blocks between the rooming house and the park, she had vanished. The Santoses and the others staying at the house had searched the neighborhood for two hours, but they found nothing.
Halloran pulled a chair into the office from the hallway. “You know of any reason why your daughter would run away?”
The Santoses shook their heads adamantly.
“Any problems with boys? Or drugs?”
Mr. Santos looked at Halloran, his face hard. “Our Carmelita was happy,” he said.
Mrs. Santos pulled a photograph from her shirt pocket and handed it over to Halloran. It was a slightly fuzzy snapshot of a beautiful slender girl who looked just on the verge of womanhood. She was smiling into the camera showing the dimples at the corners of her mouth. Her hair, long and black, was tucked playfully behind her ears. She was wearing an ash-gray jersey with purple sleeves and blue jeans.
“She says Carmelita was wearing that shirt today,” Chapman said.
“Por favor,” whispered Mrs. Santos, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Mi bebé. Mi bebé.”
Halloran looked at her and nodded. “Entiendo,” he said.
* * *
10:55 PM
Joel sat in the recliner, staring at the television. Saturday Night Live was on the screen, but he wasn’t watching it. Beside him on the end table a cigarette sat in the ashtray; its length had smoldered to gray ash until the fire had hit the filter and it sputtered itself out.
In his fingers was the note Deb had given him today. He had tried to tell himself all evening that it had just been a chance encounter—a fluke. That she was like some psychic Hare Krishna handing out Post-It note equivalents of flowers. But he knew otherwise. She had sought him out. And she had been telling the truth. He was sure of it.
And she had known his name. He shuddered with a sudden chill.
A place to belong. That’s what she had said. And he wanted that. Needed it.
Maybe he would go tomorrow. Just to check it out. He didn’t have to stay long. And no one said he ever had to go back if he didn’t like it.
He could try it. Just once.
SUNDAY, JULY 8
11:30 AM
Marla sat in the pew of the church, holding her open bible