That's the last thing Carolyn says to me before she shuts down. When she reaches for a pack of cigarettes, it's my signal to leave. I don't see any point in our getting together again this evening. I tell her on my way out that I'll make her excuses to my folks. I wonder just how much I'll tell them about the mother of their only grandchild.
Probably not much.
On the way back to school I mull over the recurring theme - the Franco's, Daniel Frey, and Carolyn's parents - all from Boston. Carolyn says it's a coincidence. She may be right. David found no connection between them. Nevertheless, I've never put much stock in coincidences.
It's a little after twelve when I pull in at the school. Mom is holding a press conference on the steps in front of her office. Chief Williams is beside her. A crowd of students gather to the side, some weeping and some talking in low voices. The TV news cameras swarm in to catch it all.
I drive around back and park in the same lot as this morning. Most of the teachers must have left for the day because there are far fewer cars. When I get to Daniel Frey's classroom, however, he is there with a half dozen students. He detects my presence immediately. He wraps up his conversation and the students drift out. No one pays the least bit of attention to me, though they make their way around me like a wake around the bow of a ship.
He joins me at the doorway. "I need a ride home. Why don't you take me." He doesn't ask it like a question.
I raise an eyebrow. "And why would I want to take you home?"
An impatient frown tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Look, we both know you plan to follow me. I let my driver go. Will you take me or not?"
"Fine. I'll take you home. But I want to stop by the office first."
Frey has his coat over his arm, and with his free hand, he pulls the door to his classroom closed and locks it. "I need to check messages. Let's go."
I pick through his thoughts, looking for some hint of duplicity but find none. I feel him doing the same to me, so I send him this message: You are either being honest with me about your innocence or you are the most accomplished liar I've ever met.
He smiles, not warmly, and slips his keys into the pocket of his coat. I could say the same about you - being an accomplished liar, I mean.
I haven't lied to you. In fact, I've told you a lot more than I should have, considering the circumstances.
Or maybe you felt you didn't have a choice. He twirls a finger at his head. Because of this.
We approach the office just as the press conference is coming to a close. Frey goes to the receptionist to check for messages and I wait for Mom in her office. Williams is at her side when she comes in.
He closes the door behind him. "I got a call from the Medical Examiner's office," he says. "Barbara died from strangulation. A belt was used, with a metal buckle that left a clear imprint. And a distinctive one. We found marks on her body where she had been hit with it. There was skin under her fingernails. She fought back. And semen on her clothes. Multiple donors. We have DNA samples that we will run through our databases. If we don't get a hit, we have more than enough to make a match when we catch them."
Williams's tone is detached, professional. I'm used to it, but I can see how it's affecting my mother. She's thinking of Trish and her shoulders are rigid with tension. Williams can read the signs and will if I don't distract him. His sharp eyes are watching her.
Barbara went down fighting.
His eyes shift to me. Yes, she did. But there are other things, too. We need to meet privately.
He's not letting any of those "other things" into his thoughts. I know what you're doing. It won't work. Barbara died from human hands. You want to meet about Avery, not Barbara. I can't do it now.
Because you want to concentrate on finding Trish.
Yes.
In the instant it takes for this to pass between us, my mother presses her fingertips gently against her eyelids and draws a deep breath. "What can we do, Chief Williams?" she asks.
Without hesitation, he switches mental gears. "I'll have detectives on campus this afternoon and tomorrow. But if you hear anything, or if a student goes to a counselor or teacher because he feels more comfortable talking to someone familiar, let us know immediately. In cases like this, what we learn in the first forty-eight hours often determines whether or not we catch the killer."
Mom nods and extends her hand. "Thank you for your help today," she says.
He shakes her hand, offers his to me, and leaves with no parting shots.
Several teachers and parents have gathered outside Mom's office door. I take just a minute to let her know we won't be meeting with Carolyn tonight but that I will call her later, after I've checked in at the office. I don't add that I'll be taking Daniel Frey home for the same reason I don't tell her what I learned about Carolyn. Mom has enough on her plate right now without adding to her anxiety.
Frey is waiting for me at the back door to the office. We are at the edge of the parking lot when I realize David told me only that Frey lives in Mission Valley. Big valley and a lot of condos. Where are we going?
He gives me a sideways glance. So, you know I live in Mission Valley. You've already checked up on me. I guess I shouldn't find that surprising.
He directs me to the freeway and then to take the off-ramp at Friar's Road. During the twenty or so minutes it takes to get there, we don't exchange a word, orally or mentally. I can't tell if Frey is in my head, so I keep my thoughts carefully neutral. When we pull into his condo complex, he hands me a magnetic card that I slip into a reader, allowing us to enter the gated community.
It's a very upscale community, perched above Qualcomm Stadium, with a view that extends over the shopping complexes that make up Mission and Fashion Valley and to the city. He directs me with a terse, turn right, then turn left, pull in here. "Here" is a numbered space that I presume is his. Empty, of course, since he doesn't have a driver's license.
So, you know that too, huh? You have been busy.
The look he gives me is a mixture of anger, contempt and disgust. The vibe he's sending off, though, is tinged with something odd. Disappointment. Like I've let him down in some subtle way.
I shake my head and smile at that. You've been hanging around teenage girls way too long. The "I'm disappointed in you" shtick doesn't work on me. I plan to find out everything I can about you. Now if you have nothing to hide, as you keep insisting, why not invite me in? You can answer some questions and make my job that much easier.
His fingers are wrapped around the door handle but he pauses and half-turns to face me. You have questions? Is that all? His smile is brittle. Sure. Why not? That way you can search the place, too, and you'll know I'm not holding Trish captive in a broom closet.
Sarcasm comes through, even in telepathic communication. He realizes instantly that Trish's disappearance doesn't merit ridicule. He backs off with an apologetic shrug. I'm sorry. I will do everything I can to help you find Trish. She's a good kid and I don't want anything to happen to her.
I cut the engine and grab my purse to follow him. I believe him when he says he wants her to be safe. But that doesn't mean I'm convinced he didn't play a part in her disappearance.
Or that I trust him.