Perfect Girls: An absolutely gripping page-turning crime thriller Page 20

  ‘Why?’

  Harland shrugged. ‘Cadence is always in some sort of trouble with the authorities.’

  ‘And you don’t know where?’

  ‘I do not. I haven’t heard from her in over a year. But my best guess would be she’s back in Daytona Beach. She lived there for a while when she first left home.’

  ‘Any idea where?’

  ‘The boardwalk area, most likely. That’s a favourite spot for criminals to hide out. Although…’ she met Rachel’s gaze with a slight smile. ‘Apparently the crime rate there is not as high as it is here in Baltimore.’

  * * *

  There were no available flight connections to Daytona on Tuesday evening, so Rachel was forced to stay on at the airport motel until Wednesday morning. Four days of her leave remained.

  As she handed over her credit card to yet another ticket sales clerk to purchase yet another flight, she made a quick mental calculation of how much she had spent on this investigation so far. At least £2000, if she included the transatlantic trip, her share of the five-star San Francisco room, the car hire charges and petrol. The Madras vehicle relocation. She would not be able to claim any of it back on expenses, as she had done with her visit to Los Angeles. But she was so close now. She could feel it.

  In Daytona, Rachel followed Harland’s advice and headed for the beach. She had envisaged a more exotic version of Blackpool, but this was a beach resort on a stupendous scale. Twenty-three miles of white sand fringed by ice-cream-coloured high-rise hotels, amusement arcades, funfair rides and water parks. She had no idea where to begin looking for her criminal needle in a holiday playground haystack, but decided to begin with a door to door on the main drag, focusing on the seedier, less glossy reaches of Atlantic Avenue. She called at tattoo parlours, sports bars and gaming arcades, but with only a name to ask for, her efforts met with limited response.

  Only one man in a pool bar claimed to know Cadence Rowe. He asked to see a picture for confirmation.

  ‘This is the only one I have, but it’s not recent.’

  The teenage photo left him sucking his teeth.

  ‘Yeah, that could be her. But I don’t know where she’s at now.’

  The temperature was well over thirty degrees Celsius and it was very humid. After a couple of hours, Rachel was sweaty, exhausted and no further forward. Time to regroup.

  * * *

  After she had indulged in a long cold shower and a long cold beer, she stretched out on her hotel bed with her laptop and searched for The House of Spirits. She was taken to a website with a blood-red background and a slide show of images featuring skulls, animal bones, shrines, blank-faced dolls and pentagram symbols.

  The House of Spirits is led by master occultists and obeah priests, and has gained worldwide recognition for our work with Voodoo, Black Magic and Pharaonic witchcraft. We offer our members assistance with ritual castings, calling on the sacred spirits to harness the power of the universe and lead them down the path they desire.

  For a fee, members could gain access to a list of secret rituals and prayers, purchase ‘powerful’ bracelets, rings and amulets or ‘special’ books. Without paying the membership fee of $400 and a processing fee of $50, Rachel was unable to penetrate these offerings any further. But the page featured clickable links to all major social media networks. So far, so not secret. This was a mere commercial exercise, and about as arcane as any other organisation with an online presence.

  And then it occurred to Rachel that she was missing a very obvious trick. Just because Perez had failed to find an official record on his government databases, that did not mean Cadence had no digital footprint. If Rachel could find The House of Spirits on Facebook, then perhaps Cadence had done the same and friended, commented on or liked their site. She opened Facebook and typed in ‘Cadence Rowe’.

  A profile popped up. Kaydance Rowe.

  Rachel stared at her screen, then slapped her forehead with her palm. Of course. She had been spelling it wrong. She had copied it down in her notebook exactly as Rainey had said it: C-A-D-E-N-C-E, and that was also how she had written it in her email to Mike Perez. So he in turn had been searching for someone who did not exist.

  And now, here was Kaydance Rowe’s own page. A pouting, scarlet-mouthed selfie, which if you squinted slightly could almost have been Phoebe Stiles. A few dozen friends who favoured poses with aggressive dogs, gangster jewellery and guns. And in the list of friends was Harland Rowe, whose photo was just a blank avatar, and whose account settings were private.

  Kaydance’s geographical location was given as Florida, so she could indeed be in Daytona. The remainder of her content was also hidden by the privacy setting, but someone with Mike Perez’s technical skill might be able to unlock it.

  Excited, Rachel grabbed her phone and tried calling his number, but it went straight to voicemail. It was late afternoon in Florida, so would be lunchtime in California. She tried again, repeatedly, but his phone appeared to be switched off. She turned back to her laptop and emailed him.

  From: Rachel Prince

  To: Mike Perez

  I screwed up monumentally. It’s not Cadence Rowe, it’s KAYDANCE Rowe. Can you search again for me? Thanks so much. R.

  Her phone rang, and she grabbed it. Lindsay calling, the display informed her.

  She cut the call and sent her sister a text instead.

  In the USA. Back Sunday, will call then x

  Unable to settle, she opened Contacts and tried Rob’s number, but it rang out. She emailed him the same message that she had sent to Mike Perez about the Caydence/Kaydance error, opened the bottle of wine in the minibar and sat on the balcony overlooking the vast expanse of beach, waiting for either Rob or Mike to get back to her to her. At this stage it didn’t matter which one did so first: she needed all the help she could get.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The man in the bed stirred and rolled over onto his back, kicking the covers to one side. He was completely naked, his genitals brazenly exposed below the white tan line where his shorts normally began.

  Rachel looked at him as she towelled her hair, trying to remember what his name was. Don? Dan? Dale? He did definitely tell her when they met in the cocktail bar near her hotel, but by then she’d chased down a beer with most of the minibar wine and two margaritas, and hadn’t been paying much attention. He was meant to be her holiday distraction. A small compensation for having the willpower to resist Rob McConnell, but of course it hadn’t worked that way. It never did.

  And now that she was sober and a headache was squeezing her temples, she was full of regret and just wanted him gone. Rachel prodded his bare foot. ‘Hey!’

  He stirred slightly, but did not wake up.

  Her phone rang shrilly, and this time he opened his eyes. Rachel looked down at the display. Rob.

  The nameless man opened his jaw as though he was about to speak, and she had a flash of memory from the night before. He had a loud, strident voice. She clicked Accept, simultaneously positioning herself by the side of the bed and holding her hand over his mouth. His eyes flashed with surprise.

  ‘Morning!’ Rob sounded cheerful.

  ‘Morning to you too.’ Rachel released her palm from Don/Dan/Dale’s mouth and motioned to the door, indicating that she would like him to leave. Then she took the call outside on the balcony.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ Rob asked, picking up the screech of the sea birds harmonising with the wail of a car alarm.

  ‘Florida. Daytona Beach to be precise.’

  ‘Fancied a little R & R before you left, huh?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Rachel peered through the French windows. Don/Dan/Dale had disappeared, but she couldn’t tell whether he was in the shower or had set off on the walk of shame. Where had he dropped his clothes the night before? But no, that was a detail she couldn’t remember.

  ‘In that case, it’s a question of d’you want the good news or the bad news.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Rachel cautiously.<
br />
  ‘The good news is I’ve located Kaydance Rowe for you.’

  Rachel punched the air silently.

  ‘The bad news is that she’s not in Florida. She’s in Maryland.’

  ‘Wait, what?’ Rachel attempted to re-run the conversation with Harland Rowe, but her pounding head was not cooperating. ‘Rob, I don’t want to be rude, but can I call you back when I’ve showered and I’m on the other side of a cup of coffee. It sounds like I need to focus.’

  ‘I’m in meetings all day, which is why I’m calling so early. I can easily email you what I have. Which is not a whole lot, but it’s possibly significant.’

  ‘Okay. But let’s try and talk again after I’ve seen the email. Thanks so much Rob.’

  ‘We still friends?’

  ‘Possibly. Maybe.’

  * * *

  From: Robert J. McConnell

  To: Rachel Prince

  Re: Kaydance Rowe.

  Now we have the correct spelling, I’ve managed to track her to an address in Madison, Baltimore (attached). It’s worth noting that the property is owned and run by a charitable housing project, as part of a re-entry program. In other words, it’s a place that gives accommodation to ex-offenders. Although it’s the last known address, there’s no way of knowing if Rowe is still there. But if I know you, you’ll want to check it out anyway.

  I’ve also accessed her records and she has quite the rap sheet for someone so young. A cross-check with CODIS database is ongoing, so I’d advise holding off until I have results. Best, Rob.

  * * *

  Rachel digested this as she sipped a double espresso in the motel coffee shop. Don/Dan/Dale had departed without the need for an awkward goodbye, and Rachel had just checked out. She was steeling herself to drive to the airport as soon as she had finished her breakfast. The last time, she told herself. This is the last internal flight I’m going to take. We’ve narrowed the list of suspects to one, and I’m possibly, maybe, about to bring her in.

  There was another email in her inbox, from Mike Perez. He too had been able to track Kaydance easily once he had the right spelling. He forwarded a copy of her State of Maryland driver’s licence, showing an angry but still beautiful Kaydance scowling at the camera. It recorded a Baltimore address, though not the same one that Rob had found. Either way, it looked like a return to Baltimore. Rachel shut her laptop, shouldered her bag and prepared to take what she hoped would be her final domestic flight.

  * * *

  The Francis Merritt Residential Re-entry Center was in a run-down suburb on the eastern edge of the city.

  ‘You sure you want to go there?’ the car rental clerk had said dubiously, when she asked him to show it to her on the map. He looked her up and down, frowning. ‘I have to tell you, it’s kind of rough. Tourists don’t go there.’

  ‘That’s okay; I’m not a tourist,’ Rachel said pleasantly. Now that she was here, against Rob’s advice, she could see exactly what he meant. The wide streets had an impersonal air, their pavements ill-kempt and lined with boarded-up row houses. On a fenced basketball court, teenagers stopped their game and stared at her as she parked. Rachel had watched a few episodes of The Wire, and this could easily be a scene from that show.

  The centre was in a modern low-rise block opposite a second-hand car lot. It smelt of cheap carpet and had jarring fluorescent lighting. There was an overweight woman with bobbed steel-grey hair and winged glasses sitting behind the reception desk.

  ‘May I help you?’ she asked, cocking her head to one side to reinforce her helpfulness.

  Rachel flashed her warrant card. ‘I’m looking for a Kaydance Rowe. Is she a resident here?’

  The woman checked a clipboard. ‘Yes, she is. She’s room eighteen. Would you like me to show you where that is?’

  ‘Yes, please, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Surely,’ said the woman pleasantly, squeezing out from behind her desk and beckoning Rachel to follow her down a long corridor lit by flickering, buzzing fluorescent bulbs. They stopped outside number 18, and the woman knocked on the door. ‘Kaydance?’

  There was no response.

  ‘Kaydance, somebody to see you dear.’

  The woman opened the door and stuck her head in. ‘Looks like she’s not here.’ Before she closed it, Rachel got a full view of the chaos inside. A grimy, unmade bed was strewn with clothes and at its centre was an overflowing ashtray and a plate of congealing food. The floor was a mess of shoes, make-up, coins, used tissues and dirty underwear.

  ‘She may be in the recreation room,’ the woman told her, pointing to the far end of the corridor. Rachel followed the noise of a blaring TV and raised female voices. A handful of residents, who all seemed to be dressed in sweats, were watching the TV. Several were smoking. There was a pool table in the corner, and a game was in progress, amidst much swearing and dispute.

  ‘Kaydance Rowe?’

  Kaydance was among the spectators, but Rachel spotted her before she moved free of the group. Her beauty was just about discernible, but dulled by her unwashed hair, nicotine-stained fingers and the prominent pentagram tattoo on her neck. She stepped forward from the group of pool spectators.

  ‘Who’s asking?’ She dragged belligerently on her cigarette.

  Rachel held up her warrant card. ‘I’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s okay.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ retorted Kaydance. ‘I ain’t talking to you. Not unless you got an arrest warrant.’

  ‘I just want an informal chat.’

  ‘Well that’s too bad, because I don’t.’ Kaydance turned her back and motioned to the pool players to continue.

  ‘Kaydance—’

  A tall black girl squared up to Rachel, invading her personal space. ‘She just said she don’t want to talk to you. Now don’t make me show you what that’s about.’ She placed two fingers on Rachel’s sternum and pushed her, reinforcing her message.

  Rachel gave Kaydance a long look, then turned and walked to the reception area, where the grey-haired woman was back at her desk.

  ‘You okay, honey?’

  Rachel showed the warrant card again. ‘Can you look in her record and see how long Kaydance Rowe has been here.’

  ‘Let me see now…’ The woman reached into a filing cabinet. ‘She arrived here at the centre five weeks ago, from MCIW. That’s the Maryland Correctional Institution for Women.’

  ‘And how long had she been in there?’

  The woman chewed her lip as she flicked through the pages of the file. ‘Looks like she served eleven months on a three-year sentence for felony battery. Prior to that incarceration she was out on parole for felony animal cruelty for four months, and then prior to that—’

  ‘That’s very helpful. Thank you.’ Rachel turned to go, then stopped. ‘One other thing, does she ever get any visitors?’

  ‘One woman comes sometimes. Think she’s the only one.’

  ‘Fuller-figured woman with short dark hair and round glasses?’

  ‘Yes,’ smiled the woman. ‘That’s her. Walks with a limp.’

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Rachel needed to run.

  It had always been the most effective way of calming herself and clearing her head. She drove back to the Howard Johnson near Pikesville, where she had booked a room, and changed into her running kit, heading along the highway until she came to a green space. It turned out to be part of the golf course, but there was a trail around its edge that she could pound along. Her headphones were not plugged in for once. She needed to listen to her thoughts.

  Kaydance was not their killer. There was no doubt about that. Even before the woman at the residential centre had confirmed her recent incarceration, Rachel knew it to be true. There was the small matter of the neck tattoo, of course. But one look at her room had been enough. Kaydance was a slob with little control over her own life. Their killer was highly organised, meticulous and clinically clean. And Rob’s check would surely confirm that Kaydance Rowe’s DNA was
one of the nine and a half million offenders on the CODIS database. So she couldn’t have left the traces on the dress, lipstick and shoes, or the match would have been picked up straight away.

  Which brought her back to Harland. She had to be the woman who visited Kaydance, and so she had known exactly where her sister was. Yet she had deliberately obscured this fact, inventing a very plausible wild goose chase that sent Rachel scurrying off to Florida. If Kaydance had been convicted and served time for her most recent crime and been released on licence, why would Harland claim she was on the run? It was a classic obstructive move, one people made when they had something to hide.

  She phoned Rob as soon as she got back to the motel, before taking a shower or even removing her sweaty kit. As he had promised, he took her call. By now her agitation had dissipated a little, and she was able to give a clear and logical timeline of the last two days.

  ‘What we have to do now is go back to the family tree and fill in the blanks. There must be more cousins, half-sisters, aunts of Ethan Rowe that we haven’t accounted for.’

  Rob was silent for a long beat.

  ‘What?’ demanded Rachel.

  ‘I was just thinking. You’ve only got a couple of days before you need to fly back to London. Back to your job. I admire your sticking power, I really do, but realistically what can you do in that time?’

  ‘I could come back to DC now – today – and we could get our heads together. My return flight to London leaves from Dulles anyway, and it’s so close to here. I’ve got a car so it’ll only take me an hour.’

  The pitch of her voice rose to a squeak, and she was aware that this made her sounded desperate. So be it; she was desperate.