The phone rang and she jumped.
It was Barry Endicott, the sheriff’s detective from Indio. “Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you,” he said. “I’ve been working a case that’s taken all my time.”
“That’s okay.” Aware of her own breathing.
“I heard you had a girl,” he said. “Dressed up and posed, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“So did we, five months ago. Girl named Alison Burns.”
“What was she wearing?”
“She was dressed up like a flower girl and posed on a bed at a motel slated for demolition. It was pure luck we found her at all. It was kind of opportunistic—guy that found her was taking pictures of abandoned buildings. He said he had his eye on the place and as soon as they cleared out, he went in before it could be boarded up. He was our main suspect for a while, but turns out he was in Monterey around the time the girl was killed—at a photographer’s workshop.”
“How old was she?”
“Twelve. How old was yours?”
“Fourteen.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, probably pondering the disparity in their ages. Laura pressed him for details.
“She was left there after they officially closed the place, but before they removed the beds. The fact the guy found her that early gave us a better fix on time of death.”
According to Endicott, Alison Burns had been smothered. She had traces of Rohypnol, the date rape drug, in her system.
“We figured the guy gave her the Rohypnol, then soft-smothered her, but that’s only a theory. We think from the stomach contents that he held a little party for her.”
Laura said, “What?”
“We think he took her to McDonalds. Happy Meal, soft drink, Baskin Robbins after that. There were balloons in the room and a new teddy bear.”
Stranger and stranger. “Like a birthday celebration?”
“Like one. Her birthday wasn’t anywhere around that time. We think he made her last day a good one.”
Laura was aware how tightly she gripped the phone.
“That’s conjecture on our part, though.”
“He soft-smothered her?”
“We think he wanted to quote unquote ‘ease her into sleep.’”
“Was she molested?”
“Oh yeah. For days.”
“Days? He didn’t kill her right away?”
“We think he had her four days, maybe five.”
Jessica’s killer had kept her only a few hours tops, and raped her postmortem. Maybe this wasn’t the same guy. “Could I see the evidence list?”
“We’ll need a written request.”
“I’ll fax you one, but is there any way we can expedite this?”
“I’ll see what I can do. Go ahead and send your request. Make sure you ask for a detailed list. You’ll want to ask for photos of the dress, the digital camera—“
“What camera?”
“The one he sent her.”
“He sent her a camera?”
“Among other things.” He paused. “We think he got to her over the Internet.”
Twenty minutes later, Laura got the first fax: A photograph of Alison Burns’s dress.
According to the accompanying report, the dress pattern came from an Internet company called Inspirational Woman, which sold clothing designed for the “modest woman and girl.” Laura recognized it from Ted Olsen’s list. She looked it up online. The dress, called “Winsome,” was a lot like the one that had been used for Jessica Parris, but there were a few differences. Alison’s dress was plainer, but it had an apron that looked as if it were part of the dress itself.
She scrolled down through the patterns and found Jessica’s dress at the bottom: It was called “Charity.”
This was good. This was really good.
It got better. The faxes came through at a maddeningly slow pace: A photograph of the camera Alison had received in the mail, two photos of jewelry that seemed sophisticated for a twelve-year-old. But the last picture was the best find of all.
Scribbled on top was a notation by Endicott, saying that the original photo had been printed up on an inkjet and taped to Alison’s mirror. This was a black-and-white photocopy, a poor one—but enough to give her a thrill.
