A school ID card lay on her desk. It gave her name and birthday. She was all of fifteen years old.
It was not the room of a typical teenager. There was nothing of the sweet jumble of jeans, sweaters, sneakers, photos, posters, stuffed animals, and heart-shaped makeup kits of my niece’s room. Nothing personal here. Nothing childish. There was something very adult about this place, something that said this little girl had put her toys away a long time ago.
Such a lucky girl, whispered that inner voice. I rubbed my temples and tried to repress a shudder.
Bates gestured to the window. “She didn’t go easy, but I don’t think she fought either – didn’t have time. Probably taken by surprise.” He nodded toward the blood on the walls. “Looks like she was driven back and then fell… or was pushed. Of course, it’ll be a few days before we know if the blood is hers.”
A search warrant was obtained. Lee and I walked the scene, beginning with her bedroom. He went through her desk. I checked the night table, looked under her pillow, her mattress, her bed, all the usual places. Bates continued his work, systematically checking for trace evidence, fingerprints, a weapon, etc. Lee left to check the roof, and a minute later a uniform ducked in to say, “We got a guy here, says he’s the father.”
“Bring him in,” I said.
He was in his late forties, had short gray hair and thick bags under pale-blue eyes.
“I’m Detective Stone.” I flashed my shield.
“What happened here? Who are you people? Where’s my daughter? Where’s my Chrissie? Downstairs, they said… They tried to tell me that…”
I stepped outside into the hallway. There’s no way to sweeten bitter news. I’ve found that it’s better not to try. He put a fist to his mouth to stifle a groan.
“Mr. Snow, we need to know where you were when it happened.”
He was mute with shock.
“Mr. Snow?”
“Downtown,” he whispered. “I wanted to buy her a sweater. I didn’t see anything I liked, so I came back and… I don’t believe this. It can’t be real.”
Lee returned and answered my unspoken question with a shake of his head. Nothing on the roof.
“Mr. Snow, why don’t we step inside?” I led him into his own kitchen. He sat hunched at the table. Lee followed and leaned against the countertop, and I continued the questioning. We got a description and explained that we’d have to seal the apartment.
“When can I see her?” he asked. “Downstairs, they wouldn’t let me. They…”
“You can see her later, sir.” I watched that sink in, then asked, “Where’s Chrissie’s mother?”
“We’re divorced.”
“You got custody?”
“No. Chrissie and her mother fought all the time, and that man Angela married… Chrissie hated him.” He clasped his hands to control their trembling. “Chrissie moved here only last September.” A bittersweet smile touched his lips. “She said she was going to take care of me. Can you imagine? She was a child, but she was going to take care of Papa.”
Papa will take care of us if we take care of him. Just give him what he needs, and we’ll be fine.
“How’d her mother feel about her moving here?”
The sweetness left his smile, leaving it bitter. “She was against it.”
“Did anything happen to precipitate Chrissie’s moving in with you?”
“No. I would’ve taken her sooner, but… I was in prison.”
Lee and I exchanged looks.
“When did you get out?” I asked.
“In August. I told Chrissie to wait until I got settled and found a job. But she wouldn’t.”
“How’s it been?”
“Rough. I can’t find work.”
“What do you do?”
“Bookkeeper.”
“What’d you get sent up for?”
“Embezzlement.”
Well, that explained that.
I asked him about enemies. Did Chrissie have any?
Snow blinked to hold his tears. “Why would anyone hurt her? She was a great kid.” He put a hand over his eyes and sobbed.
“We’d like you to take a look at her room, sir. Tell us if anything’s out of place,” I said.
“Sure,” he whispered, and dragged himself to his feet.
Bates was still at work. He glanced at the father and gave a polite nod, then kept on working, dusting for prints.
“Mr. Snow, did Chrissie keep a diary?” Lee asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You never seen her scribbling in something?” I asked. “When I was a kid, all my girlfriends kept diaries.”
“Did you?” Lee asked me.
“No… but I was a tomboy. So what about it, Mr. Snow? Did she have one?”
“I told you, I don’t know. She was more of a computer person.” He nodded toward the PC and webcam on Chrissie’s desk.
“Maybe she had a blog,” I said. “One of those online diaries. My niece has three of them.”
“How things change,” Lee said. “When I was growing up, a girl would kill you if she caught you reading her private stuff. Now, they put it out there for the world to see.”
“It’s called ‘hidden in plain view.’” To Snow: “We’re going to have to take the computer.”
He nodded.
“This thing’s pretty expensive,” Lee said. “And the cam’s not cheap either. Mr. Snow, how could you afford this if you don’t have a job?”
“Angela married a rich man. Chrissie had the computer when she moved in. She has a friend – Claire. They were always working on it.”
“That reminds me,” I said. “We’ll need the names of her friends.”
“Other than Claire, try Abigail and Susan. I don’t have their numbers, but they go to Chrissie’s school. The teachers’ll know.”
We found Chrissie’s cell phone in her backpack. Numbers for Abigail Dixon, Susan Bradford, and Claire Wilkerson were on her speed dial.
IT WAS EARLY evening when we went to the Dixons’ Upper West Side condominium. By then, we’d knocked on every door in the Snows’ building and gone up and down their street, checking every business, looking for witnesses. We’d stopped by the hotel too and showed Chrissie’s picture around. Nobody knew anything.
The Dixons had a palatial living room, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Riverside Drive. Their multimillion-dollar layout was a far cry from the Snows’ tiny low-end rental.
Abigail was sixteen, tall and curvaceous, with dark, watchful eyes and even, white teeth that flashed when she spoke. Also sixteen, Susan was similar in build, but neither were her eyes as dark nor was her smile as bright as Abigail’s. Both favored plucked eyebrows, crimson lipstick, and crimson fingernail polish. The hair, the makeup, the nails: all perfect.
Claire was another story. She was flat-chested, narrow-hipped, and makeup-free, with wire-rimmed eyeglasses and frizzy red hair. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick and her eyes were puffy from crying.
Abigail’s mother hovered in the background, every now and then disappearing into the kitchen, where she was baking muffins.
“Did Chrissie seem worried to you?” I asked the girls. “Or frightened?”
They exchanged looks. Abigail answered, “We don’t think so.”
“Did she mention being threatened by anyone? A boyfriend, maybe?” Lee asked.
Claire started to speak but stopped at a look from Abigail.
“Yes?” I prodded.
Claire bit her lip and looked away.
Abigail’s mother spoke up. “Girls, please, if there’s anything you know, then you sh – ”
“We don’t know anything, Mom, so just stay out of it.”
Abigail’s mother blushed, glanced down, and did as her child had told her to. She piped down and backed out of the room. Lee’s face expressed my thought: Who is in charge here?