Jeffery Deaver - Speaking In Tongues

“Howdy.” Oh, the cop’s disappointed face said, so she’s the ex. Giving her up was one bad mistake, mister. The detective glanced at Tate. “So, Counselor, your daughter’s up ‘n’ late for lunch, that right?”

“Been over two hours,”

“You’re fretting too much, Tate.” He poked a finger at him and said to Bett, “This fella? Was the sissiest prosecutor in the commonwealth. We had to walk him to his car at night.”

“At least I could find my car,” Tate shot back. One of the reasons Konnie loved Tate was that the lawyer joked about Konnie's drinking;

he was now in recovery-no alcohol in four years-and not a single soul in the world except Tate Collier would dare poke fun at him about it. But what every other soul in the world didn’t know was that what the cop respected most was balls.

Bett smiled uneasily.

Tate and Konnie had worked together frequently when Tate was a commonwealth’s attorney. The somber detective had been taciturn and distant for the first six months of their professional relationship, never sharing a single personal fact. Then at midnight of the day a serial rapist-murderer they’d jointly collared and convicted was sentenced to be “paroled horizontal,” as the death row parlance went, Konnie had drunkenly embraced Tate and said that the case made them blood brothers. “We’re bonded.”

“Bonded? What kind of pinko touchy-feely crap is that?” an equally drunken Tate had roared.

They’d been tight friends ever since.

Another knock on the front door.

“Maybe that’s her,” Bett said eagerly. But when Tate opened the door a crew-cut man in a cheap, slope-shouldered gray suit walked inside. He stood very straight and looked Tate in the eye. “Mr. Collier. I’m Detective Ted Beauridge. Fairfax County Police. I’m with Juvenile.”

Tate led him inside and introduced Beauridge to Bett while Konnie clicked the TV’s channel selector. He seemed fascinated to find a TV that had no remote control.

Beauridge was polite and efficient but clearly he didn’t want to be here. Konnie was the sole reason Megan’s disappearance was getting any attention at all. When Tate had called, Konnie’d told him that it was too early for a missing person’s report; twenty-four hours’ disappearance was required unless the individual was under fifteen, mentally handicapped or endangered. Still, Konnie had somehow “accidentally forgotten” to get his supervisor’s okay and had run a tag check on Megan’s car. And he’d put in a request for Jane Doe admissions at all the area hospitals.

Tate ushered them into the living room. Bett asked, “Would you like some coffee or…?“ Her voice faded and she laughed in embarrassment, looking at Tate, undoubtedly remembering that this had not been her house for along, long time.

“Nothing, thanks, ma’am,” Beauridge said for them both.

In the time it had taken Konnie to arrive, Bett had called some friends of Megan’s. She’d spent the night at Amy Walker’s. Bett had called this girl first but no one had answered. She left a message on the Walkers’ voice mail then called some of her other friends. Brittany, Kelly and Donna hadn’t seen Megan or heard from her today. They didn’t know if she had plans except maybe showing up at the mall later. “To, you know, like, hang out.”

Konnie asked Tate and Bett about the girl’s Saturday routine. “She normally has a therapy session Saturday morning,” Bett explained. “At nine. But the doctor had to cancel today. His mother was sick or something.”

“Could she just’ve forgotten about coming here for lunch?” “When we talked yesterday I reminded her about it.”

“Was she good about keeping appointments?” Beauridge asked. Tate didn’t know. She’d always shown up on time when he took her shopping or to dinner at the Ritz in Tysons. He told them this. Bett said that she was “semigood about being prompt.” But she didn’t think the girl would miss this lunch. “The three of us being together and all,” she added with a faint cryptic laugh.

“What about boyfriends?” Konnie asked.

“She didn’t-” Tate began.

Then halted at Bett’s glance. And he realized he didn’t have a clue whether Megan had a boyfriend or not.

Bett continued, “She did but they broke up last month.”

“She the one broke it off?”

“Yes.”

“So is he trouble, you think? This kid?” Konnie tugged at a jowl. “I don’t think so, He seemed very nice. Easygoing.”

So did Ted Bundy, Tate thought.

“What’s his name?”

“Joshua LeFevre. He’s a senior at George Mason.” “He’s a senior in college?” Tate asked.

“Well, yes,” she said.

“Bett, she’s only seventeen. I mean-”

“Tate,” Bett said again. “He was a nice boy. His mother’s some executive at EDS, his father’s stationed at the Pentagon. And Josh’s a championship athlete. He’s also head of the Black Students’ Association.”

“The what?”

“Tate!”

“Well, I’m just surprised. I mean, it doesn’t matter.” Bett shrugged with some exasperation.

“It doesn’t,” Tate said defensively. “I’m just-” “-surprised,” Konnie repeated wryly. “Mr. ACLU speaks.” “You know his number?” Beauridge asked.

Bett didn’t but she got it from directory assistance and called. She apparently got one of his roommates. Joshua was out. She left a message for him to call when he returned.

“So. She’s been here and gone. No sign of a struggle?” Konnie looked around the front hall.

“None.”

“What about the alarms?”

“I had them off.”

“There a panic button she could hit if somebody was inside waiting for her?”

“Yep. And she knows about it.”

Bett offered, “She left the house keys here. She has her car keys with her.”

“Could somebody,” Konnie speculated, “have stole her purse, got the keys and broken in?”

Tate considered this. “Maybe. But her driver’s license has Bett’s address on it. How would a burglar know to come here? Maybe she had something with my address on it but I don’t know what. Besides, nothing’s missing that I could see.”

“Don’t see much worth stealing,” Konnie said, looking at the paltry entertainment equipment. “You know, Counselor, they got TVs nowadays bigger’n cereal boxes.”

Tate grunted.

“Okay,” Konnie said, “how ‘bout you show me her room?”

As Tate led him upstairs Beauridge’s smooth drawl rolled, “Sure you got nothing to worry about, Mrs. Collier-”

“It’s McCall.”

Upstairs, Tate let Konnie into Megan’s room then wandered into his own. He’d missed something earlier when he’d made the rounds up here: his dresser drawer was open. He looked inside, frowned, then glanced across the hall as the detective surveyed the girl’s room. “Something funny,” Tate called.

“Hold that thought,” Konnie answered. With surprisingly lithe movements for such a big man he dropped to his knees and went through what must have been the standard teenage hiding places: under desk drawers, beneath dressers, wastebaskets, under beds, in curtains, pillows and comforters. “Ah, whatta we got here?” Konnie straightened up and examined two sheets of paper.

He pointed to Megan’s open dresser drawers and the closet. “These’re almost empty, these drawers. They normally got clothes in them?”

Tate hesitated, concern on his face. “Yes, they’re usually full.”

“Could you see if there’s any luggage missing?”

“Luggage? No… Wait. Her old backpack’s gone.” Tate considered this for a moment. Why would she take that? he wondered. Looking at the papers, Tate asked the detective, “What’d you find?”