Page 52 of Our Daughter's Bones

“Sure.”

“So, I’m adecorateddetective?”

Twenty-Seven

The shop was nestled in a corner and easy to miss. Devoid of any flashy signs or striking color, it was inconspicuous from afar, but up close had an intimate quality to it – even with the cloying smell of the Subway next door hanging in the doorway. A bell jingled when they entered, but the old lady sitting behind the desk, frizzy white hair spilling out of her ponytail, continued frowning at an iPad. Next to her were a utility press and a moving train of dry-cleaned clothes. The grating sound of the tunnel washer tickled the air—a warning of its old age.

“Excuse me?” Mackenzie knocked on the table. The old lady looked up. “I’m Detective Price and this is Detective Blackwood from the Lakemore PD.” They flashed their badges.

“Oh!” She shot up from her seat and toppled the iPad off her lap. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, please sit down,” Nick said.

“How can I help, dear? Do you want your suit dry-cleaned? I see a few coffee stains there.”

Nick pouted at his clothes.

“Actually, we’re looking for the owner of this jacket.” Mackenzie placed a picture of the video frame showing the man. The lady picked up the picture and squinted at it. “I’m sorry, but this is the best quality we could get. Can you help us?”

She groaned and examined the picture for several long seconds. “That’s definitely our jacket. We’re a dry-cleaners but stitching clothes is our true passion.” She pointed at a faded picture of a soldier hanging on the wall behind her. “Daddy opened the store after returning from the Vietnam War. Though I’m pretty sure he was dishonorably discharged.” She scratched her head. “What do you want again?”

Nick sighed, exasperated. “Who did you make this for? The initials are E and R. Is there anyone else who can help us? We don’t want to bother you sifting through old records.”

She picked up the iPad and wheezed into a handkerchief. “Oh, don’t worry, dear. It’ll only take a second to search through the records. I have a script for it. Just need to access the Cloud first, where we store client information.”

Mackenzie and Nick exchanged a blank look.

“Got it. I can just email you the list.”

“Sure,” Mackenzie gave her email, trying to hold back her laughter.

She checked her email on their way back. It was an Excel file of client names, including their addresses. There were fifty-one people with the initials ER.

One of them was the last person to see Abby Correia before she vanished.

Twenty-Eight

“Did you two read this?” Sully threw the newspaper across the desk to Mackenzie and Nick. “Hawkins is at it again.”

Mackenzie picked up the newspaper. The front page had the headlineLakemore’s Princess and the Pauper. Pictures of Erica and Abby were printed at the bottom with another picture of the Lakemore PD building on top. Mackenzie read aloud.

“The year-long disappearance of Erica Perez ended in tragedy when her remains were discovered in a shallow grave in the woods behind Hidden Lake. While the heartbreaking discovery brings closure to the Perez family, it sheds light on the incompetence and laziness of the Lakemore PD. The poor handling of the case by retired Detective Bruce Stephens shows the lack of accountability in an office that is supposed to serve the public. Now with the disappearance of Abigail Correia, the lack of media attention and limited money and resources dedicated to searching for the missing girl can be characterized as nothing but inept and cruel.”

The rest of the article was a scathing review of how the cases were being handled. “Inept and cruel? Such professional reporting.”

“Who’s this Vincent Hawkins?” Daniel narrowed his eyes at the paper.

Sully’s usually cluttered table had been cleared to accommodate five wine glasses sitting in a straight line. Each contained enough red wine for three to four tastings.

She looked at the wall that once had pictures of fishing gear and insect traps. Posters of wine sweetness and boldness charts, a list of vintage wines, and a table of grape varieties had replaced them.

She didn’t complain—the room smelled much better, the fusty smell of fish traded for the subtle aroma of blackberry, leather, and chocolate. It was also better than the smell of Scotch.

“Open up, Micky! I know you have my booze in there.”

“I don’t! I swear!”

“I need my scotch! Open the door! You ungrateful little––”