“The truth,” I say, opening the door and meeting his eyes. “You say everyone who looks at me underestimates me. Tell me, Detective. Do you?”
He looks at me stonily, the twitch of his lips to the side his only movement. “You surprise me on a regular basis, Ms. Bond, so yes. I probably do underestimate you.”
“You’re smarter than you look.”
“I think that was a compliment.”
“Oh, it was.” I match the curve of his lips with my own. “My nonna is a pain in my ass, but she taught me several things. My favorite? A smart man, a good man, will always underestimate a woman. Not because he thinks she’s worthless or beneath him, but because he knows she’s on a pedestal towering above him. Remember that.”
I sip my coffee and flick through the papers one more time. It’s an act solely designed to pass the time until the very late Drake Nash actually shows up. Apparently, the good detective isn’t too fond of six a.m. and also does not answer his phone before six thirty in the morning if the caller is Noelle Bond.
That said, he assured me at six forty-five that he would be at my house by seven thirty. It’s now seven twenty-five and I’m reading the notes Dean managed to dig up on Lena’s relationships in college. Except the husband. Because, you know.
In the age where the social media websites are everyone’s personal dictionaries, such a huge life thing doesn’t seem to be documented.
Which tells me that Lena had something to hide.
My phone rings from its hands-free perch on the dashboard. I frown, expecting to see Drake’s name come up, but the number is unfamiliar.
“Noelle Bond,” I answer, staring at the screen.
“Ms. Bond? This is Mrs. Young… Lena’s mother. I’m sorry to call so early.”
I sit up straight. “No problem, ma’am. Is there somethin’ wrong?”
“Oh, no, no. I just wanted to let you know that the police are releasing”—her voice falters—“Lena this morning. Finally. We’re having a funeral—in two days. At the old chapel just off Oak Avenue. I know you were friends…”
Wow. HWPD kept her for a while. I wondered why I’d heard nothing of a funeral.
“Of course, Mrs. Young. I’ll check my schedule and rearrange a few things if necessary so I can be there.”
She sniffs. “Thank you, dear. If you don’t mind me asking, how is your…search…going?”
“Not at all. Unfortunately, right now, I seem to be asking ten questions for every one I answer, but that’s just how these things go.” I open my mouth to offer an apology for that, but it occurs to me that, as her mother… “Ma’am, could I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“I’m headed over to Houston today to talk to some school friends of Lena’s. There’s only one I haven’t been able to find because I can’t seem to find any information on him.”
“I don’t know much about her college years. She was very determined to be independent, as young people are these days.”
“You wouldn’t have any information on her husband, would you?”
“Ryan? Whyever would you need to go to Houston to talk to him?”
“No, ma’am. Lena was married in college. There doesn’t seem to be any record of divorce. She never legally married Ryan.”
Silence.
After a moment, I say, “Ma’am?”
“I-I’m sorry, Noelle. I-I didn’t know. Oh my.” Her voice crack is thick and genuine. “Ryan isn’t her husband?”
“It appears that way, yes.”
“The s-store?”
“Goes to the man I can’t seem to find, I assume. If they never divorced, he’s her next of kin.”
“Are you searchin’ for him today?”
“Yes. I’m gonna do everythin’ I can to find him,” I promise her, glancing up when Drake opens the car door. I glare as he slides in almost sheepishly.
“If you find him, could you pass on my details? I’d like to meet him.”
“Of course. I’ll call you soon.” I hang up and look at the detective hiding behind dark aviator sunglasses, his tan body hugged by a bright-orange polo shirt and dark, tight Levi’s. “Well, good mornin’, Detective,” I drawl. “So kind of you to accompany me today.”
“Late night,” he grunts. “Tried trackin’ down the husband.”
“Any luck?”
“None.” He sighs and takes the coffee cup I hand him. Mercifully, it’s still hot. “It almost feels like the information has been hidden deliberately, ya know?”
“But by who, and why?”
“If I knew, I’d know the husband’s name.” Sarcasm drips from his words. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome. Now, cheer up. I’m not spending two and a half hours in a car with a teenage girl on her period.”
Drake shifts uncomfortably. “Your car is real small, you know that?”
I pause, my hand on the keys in the ignition. I look at him, just able to see his eyes cutting to me through his glasses. Sigh. “Do you want to drive your truck instead?”
“I would prefer to.”
“Fuck me,” I mutter, grabbing my purse from by his feet and shoving all of my things except my coffee and my keys into it. “Well?”
“Well, what? Fuck you? Or driving my truck?” He looks at me over the top of his sunglasses, his eyebrows raised.
“Driving your truck,” I manage through a clamped jaw. “Ya know, this is gonna be real hard if you keep pissin’ me off all day.”
He smirks, unlocking his truck. “I’m countin’ on it.”
It’s way too early for sexual innuendos. Not early in the day, because who doesn’t like morning sex? Just early in the day with Drake Nash. The man from whom judgment lapses are banned.
I set my purse down by my feet and put my sunglasses on. With one hand clasping my coffee cup like the golden life force it is early on a Sunday morning, I belt up and then grab my cell phone, immediately scrolling through my contacts.
“Boyfriend?”
“Nonna wishes,” I snap. “No. I arranged some meetings with old friends of Lena’s last night, but since someone decided to sleep in and be ninety minutes late, I have one to reschedule.”
Drake chuckles as I dial Regina’s number. It goes to voicemail, and I leave a message, asking if she can meet me an hour later still at the cupcake place on Travis Street. When I hang up, I catch Drake’s eyes flitting toward me behind his glasses.
“What?”
“What’s in the folder?”
I sip my coffee. “The bra sizes and ages of virginity losses of all of Lena’s college friends.”
“Marshall?”
I shake my head. “Dean. Marsh is still working on collecting files. And probably playing World of Warcraft.” I shrug. “I’ve lightened the caseload until this is over, and Dean has more than a few computer skills of his own. It wasn’t too hard for him to find out who her classmates were and track her closest ones down.”
“How did he find out who her closest friends are?”
“Do you do any detecting in your job or do you just tell everyone what to do?” I raise an eyebrow. “Social media. It’s basically a public diary for everyone who has time to waste.”
“I take it you don’t use it much,” he assumes, ignoring my jab.
“You’d be correct,” I answer. “Except Tinder. And I’m still debating the effectiveness of that.”
His lips curve up, but he says nothing more. Although I haven’t been particularly active on the so-called dating app, I’ve still seen the messages I’ve been sent by my so-called matches.
And let me tell you, from some of these matches I’ve been sent, I can only deduce that Tinder is either permanently drunk, high, or both.
I run through the schedule I plotted out in my mind. First up if she catches my message: Regina, Lena’s closest friend and roommate of three years. I figured that, if anyone knows anything about the husband— or even anyone who will—she’s my girl.
And given she’s my only schedule because there’s an ex-boyfriend who expressed the same shock as Mrs. Young at Lena’s having gotten married her senior year, I’m really hoping she knows something.