Speak No Evil

His tone was full of anger and accusation. Carina wondered where it was coming from. One minute he sounded like he was concerned talking to Abby, the next ticked-off. Anyone who could flip a switch that fast had anger close to the surface.

They showed their IDs. “Steve Thomas?” Will asked. “Did you try to file a missing person’s report on Saturday?”

“Not that anyone would listen to me. I knew something was wrong, but because she hadn’t been missing long enough, the cop said he couldn’t do anything.” He let out a deep breath. “I’m sorry. What happened? Are you sure it’s Angie?”

“Do you have a few minutes to talk?” Will asked without answering Thomas’s questions.

He looked like he was going to refuse, then gave a curt nod.

Carina said, “Let’s go to the student union, Mr. Thomas. Unless you would prefer to talk downtown.”

“Fine,” Thomas said through clenched teeth.

After taking down Abby’s contact information, they let her go. Carina planned to talk to her again. Abby knew something.

Now, however, they were faced with a suspect. The overwhelming majority of the time, when a woman was killed it was by her husband, boyfriend, or an ex.

Will led them to a relatively quiet table on the far side of the student union, though with the lunch crowd coming in it was rapidly filling up.

“What happened to Angie?” was Thomas’s first question.

“We’re waiting for a positive identification of her body, but-”

“So it might not be her!” He started to rise, but Will motioned for him to sit.

“We’re certain it’s her,” said Will. “The rest is just a formality.”

Thomas sank back into his chair, his military-straight posture caving. Was his hope that she was alive an act? He sounded genuine, but killers were liars. They could con anyone, often keeping their crimes from their loved ones. Lying to the police was second nature to criminals.

“Where were you Friday night?”

He tensed, sitting up straight. Grief, if that’s what it was, turned to hot anger. “I don’t fucking believe this. I’m the one who told you guys something was wrong!”

Thomas was an explosive pendulum of emotions. Almost as soon as he finished his outburst, he took another deep breath and apologized.

“I’m sorry, I just-I thought I was doing the right thing going to the police, but now you’re here talking to me rather than looking for whoever killed Angie.”

“Mr. Thomas,” Carina said, “I can assure you that regardless of your actions on Saturday, we would have been talking to you eventually. You’re Angie’s ex-boyfriend and she filed a restraining order against you.”

“That was-”

Will interrupted. “Where were you Friday night?”

“When?” Thomas asked through gritted teeth.

“Let’s start at dinner and work from there.”

“I had dinner with a friend at a Mexican restaurant downtown.”

“Does your friend have a name?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with Angie’s disappearance.”

“It would establish an alibi.”

“I can’t believe this!” he repeated. “I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Angie.”

“Did you see Angie Friday night?”

“I saw her at the Sand Shack when she got off work. Around ten. I offered to take her home. She declined. I left.”

“You offered to take her home when she has a restraining order against you?” Carina looked at her notes. “According to the order, you are not allowed within a hundred yards of Angie unless you’re in class.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Enlighten us.”

Thomas didn’t say anything for nearly a minute. Trying to think up a lie? Concoct an alibi? Carina sensed that something was off, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. “Angie and I broke up over two months ago. We parted friends-ask anyone. Ask Abby. But Angie-She started getting into the party scene. She started seeing this asshole Doug Masterson. I swear, Angie never took drugs until Doug gave her some coke. I confronted Angie, warned her, we got into an argument and, well, I said some things I shouldn’t have. Her friend Kayla convinced her to get the restraining order.”

“Did you threaten her?”

“No.”

“Then why was she scared of you?”

Steve clenched his fists. “She wasn’t scared of me, she was scared of what I said. She just took it out on me.”

“What did you say that scared her?”

He paused, looked at his hands, which were clasped tightly in front of him. “It sounds bad, but I wanted her to see that her actions have consequences.”

“What did you say?” Carina repeated.

His face reddened as he stared at Carina. Anger? Guilt? Fear? His voice was low. “I told her if she didn’t watch herself she’d end up dead.”

FOUR

THE SAND SHACK was across the highway from the beach. A cross between a Hawaiian luau and surfer haven, the outside eating area was larger than the indoor, and there were racks for surfboards, towels, and backpacks. Several people were eating monster-size hamburgers wearing nothing but bathing suits and flip-flops. A half-dozen Web hookups along one wall allowed patrons to surf the Internet after surfing the waves.

When Carina was in college, the Sand Shack had been called Big John’s and was one of the last fifties-style soda shops, less casual, but still a hangout for students. She’d have loved a place like the Shack, though she missed the old-fashioned soda fountain and jukebox that only played fifties and sixties bubble-gum rock.

She and Will approached one of the waitstaff, who wore a “uniform” of jeans and red T-shirt with “The Sand Shack” in white across the back. “We need to speak to the owner or manager.”

“Sure.” He scurried off.

Moments later a man approached. “I’m the manager. Kyle Burns. Can I help you?”

Burns was in his mid-to-late twenties with short sandy brown hair, inquisitive blue eyes, and the body of a weight lifter.

They identified themselves and Will said, “Do you have an office or somewhere private we can talk?”

He frowned, opened his mouth, then closed it and led the way to the back of the restaurant. A small alcove off the large, spotless stainless-steel kitchen served as an office.

Burns glanced at his watch and Carina asked, “Are we keeping you?”

“No, it’s okay. I have a class at three. I just came in for the lunchtime rush because my assistant manager didn’t show up.”

He pulled a sliding pocket door from the jamb and closed them into the office, then sat on the corner of the organized desk. It was a tight fit for the three of them, and Will leaned in a deceptively casual stance against the narrow wall.

“What can I help you with?” Burns asked.

“When was the last time you saw Angela Vance?” Will asked.

Burns looked from Will to Carina and back to Will. “She’s my assistant who didn’t show up. Did something