“Man, I don’t know. I was pretty fried. All I can be sure of is that she was fine-looking. Out of Tom’s league, like I said.”
“I get it, but just in case.”
“Okay.” He puts the card in the back pocket of his jeans, where Holly guesses it will probably stay until it goes through the wash and comes out lint. Randy Holsten smiles. It’s charming. “I think Tommy was starting to bore her. Ergo, breakup.”
Holly gives him a lift back to the rambling apartment building. He’s improved enough to keep his head inside. He thanks her for the coffee and she asks him again to call her if he thinks of anything, but it’s just a rote exercise. She’s pretty sure she’s gotten everything from Holsten that he has to give, which amounts to nothing but a phone number that will probably lead nowhere.
Still, when she gets back to the commerce area of Eastland Avenue, she pulls into an empty parking space—there are plenty—and calls Tom Higgins’s number. It’s two hours earlier in Las Vegas, but not that early. There’s one ring, followed by the robo-voice Holsten warned her of. Holly identifies herself, says Bonnie Dahl has disappeared, and asks if Tom will call her back (she calls him Mr. Higgins). Then she drives home, showers again, and throws her Dollar General underwear in the washing machine.
5
While the washer is doing its thing, Holly gets on Twitter and plugs in the name Craslow. She’s not expecting a long list—it’s not a name she’s ever heard before—and only gets a dozen hits. Two Twitter Craslows feature thumbnail pictures of Black people, a man and a woman. Two are whites, both women. The other eight feature either blank silhouettes or cartoon avatars.
Holly uses Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter routinely in her work. Bill didn’t teach her; he was old-school. She can send messages on Twitter to the dozen Craslows from one of her several social media aliases, something simple: I’m looking for information about Ellen Craslow, from Bibb County, Georgia. If you know her, please reply. Even if the Craslow from whom she’s hoping to get information isn’t on Twitter, chances are good one of the twelve is related and will pass the message on. Easy-peasy, nothing to it, she’s done it before when looking for missing people (mostly bail-jumpers) and lost pets. There’s no reason not to now, but she pauses, frowning at the list of names on her desktop computer.
Why the hesitation?
No concrete reason she can think of, but her gut says don’t do it. She decides to table this logical next step and think it over. She can do that while she makes a trip to Jet Mart and talks to the clerk who waited on Bonnie.
Her phone rings as she’s leaving. She thinks it will be either Penny, asking for another update, or possibly Tom Higgins calling from Las Vegas, assuming that’s where he is. But it’s Jerome, and he sounds excited.
“You think someone grabbed her in that van, Holly. Don’t you?”
“I think it’s possible. Can you tell me anything about it?”
“I’ve looked at a lot of car sites, and it might be a Toyota Sienna. Might be. The lens of that surveillance camera was mighty dirty—”
“I know.”
“—and you can only see the bottom half. But it’s not a Chevy Express. Take that to the bank. Could be a Ford, but if it was Final Jeopardy, I’d say it was a Sienna.”
“Okay, thanks.” Not that it’s much help.
“There was something funny about it.”
“Really? What?”
“I don’t know. I’ve looked at it a dozen times and I still don’t know.”
“The stripe? The blue one down low?”
“No, not that, lots of vans have stripes. Something else.”
“Well, if you figure it out, let me know.”
“Wish we had a license plate.”
“Yes,” Holly says. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Holly?”
“I’m still here.” Now heading for the elevator.
“I think it’s a serial. I really do.”
6
She’s pulling out of the parking garage when her phone rings again. The screen says UNKNOWN NUMBER. She puts her car in park and takes the call. She’s pretty sure Mr. Unknown Number is Tom Terrific.
“Hello, this is Holly Gibney, how can I help?”
“Tom Higgins.” In the background she can hear electronic boops, electronic beeps, and jangling bells. Casino sounds. Any doubt that Tom Higgins isn’t in Las Vegas departs. “You can help by telling me what you mean about Bonnie being missing.”
“Wait one. Let me park.” Holly pulls into a vacant space. She never talks on her phone while she’s driving unless she has absolutely no choice and thinks people who behave otherwise are idiots. It’s not just against the law, it’s dangerous.
“Where did she go?”
Holly thinks of asking him what part of missing he doesn’t understand. Instead, she tells him that Bonnie’s mother hired her, and what she’s found out so far. Which isn’t much. When she finishes there’s a long moment of silence. She doesn’t bother to ask if he’s still there; the boops and beeps continue.
At last he says, “Huh.”
Is that all you’ve got? Holly thinks.
“Do you have any idea where she might have gone, Mr. Higgins?”
“Nope. I dumped her last winter. She was asking—without asking, you know how some women are—for a long-term commitment, and I was already planning this trip.”
I heard the dumping was the other way around, Holly doesn’t say.
“Does it seem likely to you that she’d leave without telling anyone?”
“According to you, she told everyone,” Tom says. “She left a note, didn’t she?”
“Yes, but on the spur of the moment? Leaving her bike for anyone to steal? Was she that impulsive?”
“Sometimes…” This careful answer suggests to Holly that he’s saying what he thinks she wants to hear.
“Without taking any clothes? And without using a credit card or her phone for the last three weeks?”
“So what? She probably got sick of her mother. Bonnie hated her like poison.”
Not according to Keisha. According to Keisha, there was love lost between them but plenty of love left. Penny is driving around with her daughter’s picture plastered on her car, after all.
“She probably hasn’t called anybody because then her mother would send out the Royal Canadian Mounties. Or someone like you. Can’t wait to get her back there and start running her life again.”
Holly decides to change the subject. “Are you enjoying Las Vegas, Mr. Higgins?”
“Yeah, it’s great.” Animation replaces caution. “It’s a happening town.”
“It sounds like you’re in a casino.”
“Yeah, Binion’s. I’m just waiting tables right now, but I’m working my way up. And the tips are fantastic. Speaking of work, my break’s almost over. Good talking to you, Miz Gibley. I’d say I hope you find Bonnie, but since you’re working for the Queen Bitch, I can’t really do that. My bad, I guess.”
“One more thing before you go, please?”