“I never did believe the rumors,” Lacey said. “It’s a way of filling a void. The human mind doesn’t like unanswered questions. The instinct is to fill the unknown gaps with something, anything, even if it’s bizarre. That’s why closure is so important. Knowing, even when the truth hurts, you know?”
Angie knew. All too intimately.
“How well did you know Jasmine?”
She gave a shrug. “As well as most people. Jaz had a way of being super friendly to everyone but at the same time not really letting anyone in. Sophie was very close to her, though, and Mia.” She nodded to the pic. “The three amigas, we used to call them.”
“Does Mia Smith still live in town?”
“She’s Mia Monroe now. And yes. She owns a boutique near Chinatown called Candescence. She studied law and went straight into clothing design. Go figure.”
Angie thanked Lacey and reminded her to pass a message to Sophie to call upon her return.
“Oh,” Lacey said, halting Angie once more. “Mia and Jasmine kinda fell out shortly before that river trip. I remember now—I haven’t thought about it all for such a long time.”
“Fell out? How so?”
“Big argument about something. I mean, really big. They’d had their spats, but this one? It was for real.”
CHAPTER 18
Maddocks poured hot water over a tea bag. He set the mug of steeping tea on the small galley table in front of Holgersen. The quirky detective had come to visit Maddocks at his yacht. It was 8:30 p.m. on Monday night, and Maddocks had just returned from his law enforcement seminar. He’d showered, fixed himself a double whiskey, and was settling in to read some case files when a bedraggled Holgersen had come knocking on the hatch of his schooner.
“Thanks,” Holgersen said. He began dunking the bag of green tea in and out of the hot water, presumably to make it steep faster. Maddocks watched him. It was dark, raining, and windy out, and the old schooner rocked gently on a swell, hanging lanterns outside swinging in the mist. Jack-O snoozed on the sofa.
“You sure you don’t want something stronger?” Maddocks said, holding up his glass. “Got some good whiskey.”
“Nah. Had two beers at the Pig already.”
Maddocks sat opposite his detective and took a sip of his drink. “So what’s on your mind? What brought you all the way down to the marina?”
He inhaled. “Jeezus, boss, what in the hells do you want from me? What you looking for in Harvey Leo?” His gaze locked with Maddocks’s. “What fucking game you playing with me here?”
“You got something?”
Holgersen looked away, chewing on whatever was bothering him.
“Okay. So maybe Leo’s showing a particular interest in some particular cold cases.”
Maddocks’s pulse quickened. “What do you mean, ‘interest’?”
Holgersen dumped his tea bag on a saucer with a small spatter of water. “You gonna tell me what you’s looking for specifically?”
“Tell me what cases, Holgersen. Tell me how he’s showing interest.”
The detective ran his tongue over his teeth. “First day on the cold case job, and he’s chosen to siphon off dead tweaker cases—them homeless kids who’s ended up overdosed or who’s died from exposure or things like that. But there’s been some suspicious circumstances around their deaths, so files were opened, but nothing came of them.”
“All female vics?”
“Some male kids in there as well.”
“And he’s prioritizing these cases?”
“No way, José. He’s spiking them. Claiming them’s lost causes. Just junkies and a waste of our time.” Holgersen brought his mug to his mouth, sipped. “Leo reckons ever since pig farmer Pickton started hunting and killing street workers in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside, every missing or murdered street person is now seen as a potential serial killer vic. He said it’s overkill. Waste of our time.”
Maddocks eyed Holgersen. “Leosaidthat?”
The detective began shuffling in his seat as this question hung between them.
