You Don't Want To Know - By Lisa Jackson Page 0,65
that held them fast. He scanned the pages, then slid them across the desk.
She recognized her statement from the night of Noah’s disappearance. “This is what we’ve got from you. Oh, and I think this, too . . .” He dug a little deeper in the file and found a few more pages, this time part of an interview that had been recorded and transcribed. Most of the information was the same as what she’d compiled over the last few days. He said softly, “Was there something more you wanted to add?”
She started to feel foolish as she recalled when she’d made this statement. They’d been at the house, in the dining room, and Detective Snyder’s little recorder had been sitting on the table as the interview had progressed, its pinpoint, red light flashing as she spoke. She’d told him all about the party the night before, where everyone had been in the house, what she remembered of the night. It was the very same information she’d put together again.
“No,” she admitted, feeling the heat climb up her neck as she sat back in the chair. “This is what I remember.”
He replaced the pages and his eyes above the half-lenses were kind. “Well, if you think of anything else, please, let me or someone here know. And I promise, I’ll keep you in the loop if anything new develops.” He stood then, indicating the interview was over, and she left feeling deflated.
Of course the police wouldn’t listen to her; not without some hard evidence, something beyond conjecture, or her own visions, or her own damned needs.
She walked out of the station and took a deep breath. Clouds were rolling in off the Pacific, dark and gray. A blustery, relentless wind was chasing along the waterfront, and the temperature seemed to have dropped ten degrees since she’d entered the police department. Tightening the belt of her sweater coat, she walked the seven blocks to Tanya’s salon.
Raindrops were just beginning to splash against the sidewalk as she ducked under the striped awning of the Shear Madness salon. A small bell tinkled as she pushed open the door to the small shop. Along one wall was a row of three stations, each complete with pink sinks, pink chairs, and small faux crystal chandeliers sparkling overhead. The first station was occupied, a woman leaning back in the sink while her beautician washed her hair, the smell of recently used chemicals heavy in the air.
“Hi, Ava,” Hattie, the stylist, said as she glanced over her shoulder. “Tanya’s in the back.” Then to her client, “Okay, that’s good,” as the woman sat up and Hattie started gently toweling her head.
Ava picked her way over hair clippings that hadn’t yet been swept up, past the two empty chairs, and a huge photograph of Marilyn Monroe on a back door where she knocked and found Tanya standing in the middle of the unfinished back room. A toilet, sink, and stacked washer and dryer were framed in. The rest of the space was still open, and from the temperature, without any heat vents.
Tanya was still wearing the gloves she used to color hair and a dark apron over a long skirt and sweater. She was standing square in the middle of the concrete floor. “Hey, hi,” she said, turning to look over her shoulder as Ava stepped into the unfinished room. “I was just trying to figure out for about the millionth time how to cram in a manicure and waxing station back here, maybe a tanning bed or massage table. Trouble is, I need a hallway to get to the washer and dryer and still have room for a back door and . . . oh, who knows . . .” She peeled off her gloves in frustration and tossed them into a basket near the washer. Then she turned to Ava and gave her friend a hug. “It’s good to see you. And you don’t need to hear about my space/construction/contractor problems. Besides, I’m going cross-eyed just thinking about them. Maybe I should just leave things as they are. C’mon let’s go eat! I’m starving!” She was already untying her apron and reaching for a jacket hanging on a bracket on one of the exposed two-by-fours.
“Perfect.”
“Guido’s?”
“You read my mind.”
Tanya opened the door to the salon and poked her head inside. “I’m taking off for an hour or two, Hattie.”
“Got it. I’ll hold down the fort,” was the muffled reply.