The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,70
counter, the middle girl was scowling, holding her drink but obviously mad as two teenaged boys approached the counter. “Did you talk to any of these guys?” he asked, motioning to the boys pushing each other and laughing, screwing around as they ordered.
“No, they were never located.”
“Seriously? Because they could have known Owen Duval, and because of it, might have paid more attention to what happened to him.”
“I sent you a list of everyone who was questioned. These guys weren’t located. No one recognized them.”
As Delacroix’s cell phone beeped and she checked an incoming text, Reed reversed the footage until it fell on the boys again. “One of them has braces.” He pointed to the blond with the long hair, his eyes nearly obscured by the pale fringe, a burst of freckles over a Roman nose. He was wearing a tank top, jacket and shorts and looked all of fourteen. The other was taller and seemed slightly more mature, more filled out, his face a roadmap of pimples, his dark hair curly and wild, his shoulders broad and straining the shoulders of a long-sleeved T-shirt that barely covered the waistband of his shorts, which were so low slung they nearly fell off his narrow hips. “We need to find these guys.”
“They tried,” she said, pocketing her phone. “At least Charles Easterling tried originally.”
“Well, we gotta try again. Let’s get a picture from the film of each boy. Make it as clear as possible and give it to the press, get it out there, see if anyone remembers them or if they come forward. They’ll be in their early to midthirties by now. If that doesn’t work, we’ll do computer enhancements, show what they look like today, like we did with Rose Duval, and see if we get a hit.”
Delacroix had retrieved her cell from her pocket and was nodding as she made notes on the device, but she paused, looking up. “You think that will work—the computer-generated images?”
“Won’t know until we give it a try.”
“But nothing’s come through on the youngest Duval girl, right, the one where we sent out the images?”
“Not yet, but it’s still early. Been less than twenty-four hours that it’s been with the media.” He managed a smile he didn’t feel because they both knew that the chances of the youngest sister being alive were slim, almost nonexistent. And even if she somehow had managed to survive, locating her was a long shot, an extremely long shot. “Let’s do it and see what we come up with. Who knows?” His gaze locked with hers. “We might just get lucky.”
CHAPTER 17
“Yeah, I can meet.” Brit Sully’s voice sounded a little faint over the wireless connection.
Nikki sat a little straighter in her desk chair. After over a week of trying to reach the woman, Brit, who was part of a clique that had included Andrea Clancy and Ashley McDonnell, had finally called her back.
“Awesome,” Nikki said. She’d been searching for and going through all the social media accounts of the people associated with the Duval case. If anyone who knew Holly, Poppy or Rose Duval had a Facebook, Instagram or Twitter or other social platform account, Nikki had been trying to track them down or, if she could get into the account, take a look at their psyches, as well as their friends and contacts and interests and groups.
Now, finally, she could actually talk to someone about the case. Someone who’d actually known Holly Duval. Besides the girls’ parents, with whom she’d had short, emotional conversations.
Margaret, the girls’ mother, had been eager to talk, though unable or unwilling to offer any real insight, preferring instead to rail against the police for not finding her daughters earlier, and held tight to the belief that her youngest was alive somewhere.
“And where is Rose?” Margaret had wailed. “Where’s my baby? Why can’t the police locate her?”
Harvey said little more than, “It’s a real shame.” And when asked about his still-missing youngest daughter, Harvey had been more resigned. “I doubt we’ll ever see her again. Look, I can’t talk about this anymore. Please, don’t call again.”
So far, she hadn’t.
Everyone else she’d tried to contact about the Duval case had denied her. Until now. Her pulse ticked up as Brit suggested, “How about in half an hour? Ten thirty, I know that’s kind of short notice, but I didn’t really know if I should talk to you, and the rest of the day is pretty full.”