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“Absolute. He didn’t take his phone and he didn’t wear his helmet. It was in his room next to his board. I don’t think he ever wore it. Looked like it just came out of the box. Not a scratch on it.”
Holly stares at the bag of chipped beef, turning over and over in the boiling water. “What about the uncle in Florida?” She answers her own question. “Mrs. Steinman would have called him, of course.”
“She did and the detective in charge—Porter—also did. She tried, Holly. With herself and with her boy. Quit drinking for a year. Got another job. It’s a fucking tragedy. Do you think I should stay over with her? Steinman? The living room smells pretty bad and the couch doesn’t look what you’d call comfy, but I will if you think I should.”
“No. Go home. But before you do I think you should go back in, check her breathing, and check the medicine cabinet. If she’s got tranquilizers or pain pills or stuff for depression, like Zoloft or Prozac, dump them down the toilet. The booze too, if you want. But that’s only a stopgap. She can always get new prescriptions and they sell booze everywhere. You know that, right?”
Jerome sighs. “Yeah. I do. Hols, if you could have seen her before she went down… I thought she was okay. Sad for sure, and drinking too much, but I really thought…” He trails off.
“You did what you could. She’s lost her only child, and unless there’s a miracle, she’s lost him for good. She’ll either cope—go back to her meetings, sober up, get on with her life—or she won’t. That Chinese proverb about how you’re responsible for someone if you save their life is so much poop. I know that’s hard, but it’s the truth.” She stares at the boiling water. “At least, as I understand it.”
“One thing might help her,” Jerome says.
“What’s that?”
“Closure.”
Closure is a myth, she thinks… but doesn’t say. Jerome is young. Let him have his illusions.
2
Holly eats her chipped beef on toast at her tiny kitchen table. She thinks it’s the perfect meal because there’s hardly anything to clean up. She feels bad for Jerome, and terrible for Peter Steinman’s mother. Jerome was right when he called it a tragedy, but Holly is wary of lumping the missing woman and the missing boy together. She knows perfectly well what Jerome is thinking about: a serial, like Ted Bundy or John Wayne Gacy or the Zodiac. But most serials are fundamentally uncreative, not capable of getting past some unresolved psychological trauma. They go on picking versions of the same victim until they’re caught. The so-called Son of Sam killed a number of women with dark wavy hair, possibly because he couldn’t kill Betty Broder, the woman who birthed him and then abandoned him.
Or maybe Berkowitz just liked seeing their heads explode, the Bill Hodges in her head remarks.
“Oough,” Holly says.
But Bonnie Rae and Peter Steinman are too different to be the work of one person. She’s sure of it. Or almost sure; she’s willing to admit the similar locations and the abandoned modes of transportation, bike and skateboard.
That reminds her to check with Penny about Bonnie’s clothes. Are any of them missing? Did she possibly have a suitcase of duds stashed somewhere, maybe with her friend Lakeisha? Holly takes out her notebook and scratches a reminder to ask that. She’ll call tonight, try to set up an appointment with Lakeisha for the following afternoon, but she’ll save her important questions for when they are face to face.
She rinses her plate and puts it in her dishwasher, the smallest Magic Chef the company makes, perfect for the single lady with no man in her life. She returns to the table and lights a cigarette. Nothing, in Holly’s opinion, finishes a meal as perfectly as a smoke. They also aid the deductive process.
Not that I have anything to deduce, she thinks. Maybe after I dig a little deeper, but all I can do now is speculate.
“Which is dangerous,” she tells her empty kitchen.
Silver bells tinkle, which means it’s her personal (the office ring is the standard Apple xylophone). She expects it to be Jerome, with something he forgot to tell her, but it’s Pete Huntley.
“You were right about Izzy. She was delighted to give me what she found out about the Dahl girl’s credit and phone. On the Visa, no activity. On the Verizon account, ditto. Iz went back in to see if there were any charges in the last ten days. There haven’t been. Her last credit card purchase were jeans from Amazon on June 27th. Isabelle says when you call Dahl’s phone, you can no longer leave a voicemail, just get the robot telling you the mailbox is full. And there’s no way to track it.”
“So Bonnie or someone else took out the SIM card.”
“It sure wasn’t a case of nonpayment. The phone bill was paid on July 6th, five days after the girl disappeared. All her bills were paid on the 6th. Ordinarily the bank pays on the first Monday of the month, but that Monday was the official holiday, so…”
“Was it NorBank?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“It’s where her mother works. Or did until some of the branches shut down. She says when they re-open, she expects to be rehired. How much is in Bonnie Dahl’s account?”
“I don’t know because Isabelle doesn’t. It would take a court order to get that info, and Iz doesn’t see the point in trying for one. Neither do I. It’s not what’s important. You know what is, right?”
Holly knows, all right. Financially speaking, Bonnie Rae Dahl is dead in the water. Which is probably a terrible metaphor under the circumstances. “Pete, you sound better. Not coughing so much.”
“I feel better, but this Covid is a real ass-kicker. I think if I hadn’t gotten those shots, I’d be in the hospital. Or…” He quits there, no doubt thinking of his partner’s mother, who didn’t get the shots.
“Go to bed early. Drink fluids.”
