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“We’ll be careful,” Alvarez said.
“Fine.” He blinked, fighting tears. “Then get on with it.”
“Did she have a laptop or tablet?” Alvarez asked.
He nodded, walking to the nightstand and opening the top drawer. A small, silver laptop was tucked next to a box of tissues, some open packs of gum, and change.
Pescoli asked, “What about credit cards?”
“She would borrow ours if she was going shopping, but no, she didn’t have her own. I told this all to the officer when I gave the missing persons report.”
Alvarez nodded. “Thanks.”
“I just want you to know she was a good girl. Good. Despite all this talk about her being pregnant.” His voice cracked.
Pescoli had thought he might stick around, but he held on to the doorframe for a second, then, with a sad shake of his head, said, “You get the guy who did this. You get Donny Justison.”
“We’re not sure who did this,” Pescoli said.
“Justison,” he repeated, then left them alone. They looked through her closet and bureau, the nightstand and the bed, underneath the mattress and box springs, even searching for hidey-holes in the walls or floor.
Other than the laptop, they found nothing that would help. They took the computer with them, leaving the Montclaires to their grief.
“It never gets any easier,” Alvarez said as she climbed behind the steering wheel and started the engine.
“Never.” Pescoli slid into the passenger seat, buckled in, and stared out the window. “Justison place?”
“Let’s see what Donny has to say.” She threw a look toward the house, where, through the picture window, she could see Destiny’s folks seated on the couch, close together. “The Montclaires, or at least Glenn, think he’s the doer.”
“Early days yet.”
“I want to know what his alibi is. Wish we had a time of death.”
“Yeah, stop by Midway okay? I’m starving.” And that was the truth. At least it felt that way. Ever since she’d learned she was pregnant, she couldn’t inhale enough food and it was a problem. But not one she could solve today.
Alvarez made the stop, and inside the small burger joint with its 1950s motif, they found a table near a bank of windows. A long L-shaped counter guarded the area leading to the kitchen, and a handful of patrons were sitting on stools, while other diners filled the tables scattered between the counter and windows.
A tall redheaded waitress with a bad attitude and a name tag that read MISTY took their orders. Pescoli asked for a cheeseburger and a sparkling water while Alvarez settled on a chicken Caesar salad, dressing on the side, and an iced tea with lemon.
While waiting to be served, Alvarez and Pescoli talked over the case and the suspects, and then Alvarez went over the autopsy. “No water found in her lungs, so she probably wasn’t killed in the creek. Her hyoid bone was crushed, consistent with strangulation, and the only thing of any significance was a tiny bit of what looks like latex found under two of her fingernails.”
“Latex?” Pescoli repeated, then thought about it, how Destiny had probably been trying to pry the killer’s hands from her neck. “As in gloves?”
“Maybe. The lab is looking into it. The pieces are tiny. But definitely latex as opposed to nitrile or vinyl.”
“Or cloth or leather.”
“Uh-huh,” she said as a sizzling noise emanated from the kitchen, as if a fresh batch of sliced potatoes or frozen shrimp or the like had been lowered into the deep fat fryer.
“Could be a break?” Pescoli asked.
“All of the hospitals, clinics, dental offices, you name it, use latex gloves. You can pick up a pack at your local supermarket, or drug store, or online, so they’re easily attainable.”
“Still . . . it’s something.”
“Yeah.” Alvarez nodded. “Something. I hope.”
Misty returned with their orders. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked without a lot of enthusiasm.
