Liv studies the file for most of the trip. Usually she talks about what she’s reading, bounces thoughts off me. Not today. Today she’s oddly quiet. For the most part, she’s been that way all week. I wonder again if the doctor said more than she’s telling.
“Dana was the only victim from Belle Meade,” I say, in the hope of nudging her into the conversation.
Liv closes the file and stares straight ahead. “Her parents still live in Belle Meade. So do her two brothers. But she never went back after she left home for college. If her address is any indication, she lives frugally.”
“The Pontiac registered to her is nearly as old as she is.” Nothing wrong with that. I hung on to my first car until I was thirty, and it was well on its way to that milestone, too. “You’re right, she’s either not making a whole lot of money, or she chooses to be tight with what she does make.”
“It’s possible she and her parents had a falling-out,” Liv offers.
“Or maybe she likes to travel and spends all her money on vacations?” I regret that Stella and I didn’t travel more. We always put off those plans. Maybe next year, I’d say. She would agree, though I suspected she just went along with whatever I thought. The job always took priority, and the next thing we knew it was too late.
“She has no kids, no husband,” Liv remarks, sounding more like herself now.
“She owns her own business,” I add.
That out-of-character silence returns, hangs in the air as I take the turn for Powell Avenue. I glance at Liv, but she’s staring out the window.
“I find it strange there was no true pattern to Fanning’s choice in victims. At least, not one the investigation discovered all those years ago,” I say as I slow for a crosswalk. “The age range was unusuallybroad. Hair and eye color didn’t seem to matter.” I shrug. “No order to the when or the where he chose to strike. No set MO for how he made the abduction or for what happened after. Well, other than the fact that all his victims were left alive—as far as we know, anyway.”
I frown, thinking back to the rabid news coverage of the trial. “Even after he was sentenced, he refused to talk about what drove him, what made him do the things he did. Most of them talk eventually. But not Fanning. He never said a word.”
More of that heavy silence crowds in as soon as I stop talking. I glance at Liv to make sure she’s still awake.
“He chose what he wanted in the moment,” she says, her voice distant, as if her mind is elsewhere. “They were all beautiful to him.”
I nod slowly. “Did you read that somewhere in the file?”
She jerks her head toward me, blinks as if she just realized I was in the car with her. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“What you said about him thinking they were all beautiful—did you read that in the file somewhere?” I don’t remember seeing it.
“I must have.”
I brake for the traffic signal, my blinker on for the final turn. A frown lines her face, as if she’s trying to recall where she read the conclusion. “This would be a lot easier if I’d worked the case,” I admit, “but I was in the hospital having my appendix removed. Stack and Quinn caught the case.”
“Detective Quinn,” she says. “Maybe I read something to that effect in his notes.”
“Maybe so,” I agree, though I’m reasonably confident I reviewed all his notes, too. I could have read over that particular comment. After a while, it all blurs together.
Quinn died five years ago, shot at a domestic violence scene. Left a wife and three grown kids behind. I wonder sometimes, if Stella had been able to have children, whether we would have filled the empty rooms of our home. We talked about adopting, but the timing never seemed to be right, and then we were old.
Where the hell did the years go?
Reeves Accounting is open. The Grand Am, with its faded white paint, sits in the lot. Inside, there’s no one waiting in the lobby, but the receptionist informs us that Ms. Reeves has a client with her and that it might be a while. I tell her we’ll wait.
Liv picks up a magazine and thumbs absently through it. She pretends to look at the pictures, but I know she’s not. She’s soaking up the vibe of the place. The fresh paint on the walls, the stacks of current magazines on the tables. Newly upholstered chairs, the industrial-style tile polished to a high sheen on the floor. Even the receptionist’s desk looks shiny and new. A jungle of plants stands in front of the big plate glass window. The neighborhood might be low rent, but the suite of offices is well done and immaculately maintained.
Twenty minutes later the door opens and the client exits. The receptionist goes into her boss’s office for a moment and then returns, leaving the door open.
“Ms. Reeves will see you now.”
“Thanks.” I give her a nod and follow Liv into the plush office.
The office is carpeted and decked out. Expensive drapes. High-end upholstered wingbacks. The woman, Dana Reeves, is dressed professionally in a gray suit and pink blouse. Her dark hair is cut short. She’s gained a considerable amount of weight since she renewed her license four years ago.
“I’m Detective Newhouse,” Liv says, “and this is my partner, Detective Duncan. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Reeves gestures to the chairs in front of her desk. “I’m always happy to help Metro. Please, make yourselves at home. Would you like water or a coffee?”
