“Well, at least we’ll know that any DNA we find is for us. That’s all I have for you now,” Karr said, switching gears abruptly, “but I’ll be in touch when we get those labs back.”
As they walked back to the car in the sunshine that was warming the cold morning into day, Ellie thought about the last hour of Chelsea Hart’s life and the fear and pain she must have experienced. Then she pictured Chelsea two hours earlier, smiling, dancing, and telling her best friend that she was having the best night ever.
CHAPTER 10
CHELSEA HART’S FAVORITE MOVIES were Run Lola Run, The Notebook, and The Princess Bride. Her favorite books were Wuthering Heights and The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Her favorite drink was called an Angel’s Tip, a mix of dark crème de cacao and heavy cream that she swore prevented hangovers. She wanted to meet Ellen DeGeneres and Johnny Depp.
She had ninety-two friends.
Ellie scrolled through Chelsea’s MySpace profile one more time as she snacked on spoonfuls of the Nutella spread she kept in her top desk drawer.
“You sure you don’t want any?” she asked, extending the open glass jar in Rogan’s direction.
He glared at her. “Are we going to continue this ritual every afternoon? You offer me that funky stuff you call food, so I can say, No, thank you?”
She pulled the jar back and removed a healthy spoonful. “Seems rude not to offer.”
“You can offer it to me today, tomorrow, and every day ’til I retire, and I promise I will always decline. So consider yourself excused from all social obligation when it comes to that stuff.”
That was fine with Ellie. No sharing meant more for her.
Chelsea Hart’s top MySpace friends were Stefanie, Jordan, and a Mark whom Ellie assumed was her boyfriend, Mark Linton. She listed as her heroes “my parents, friends, and random-ass people I meet everyday.”
Ellie clicked on the link that read “My Pictures.” The majority of the photographs depicted groups of teenagers clustered together, arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling for the camera. Chelsea was in the middle of most of the clusters. Stefanie was almost always close by.
An entire photo album was devoted to a white-and-brown English bulldog that was apparently named Stacy Keach. Another contained pictures of Chelsea in various high school theater productions-God-spell, A Chorus Line, Into the Woods. Another of Chelsea in a purple-and-gold track uniform. Ellie stared at the intensity in Chelsea’s face-a perfect blend of happiness, pride, and pain-as she pressed through the ribbon across a finishing line, and she wondered how a girl like this had wound up drunk, alone, and on crystal meth in New York City.
“We need to get hold of Chelsea’s parents,” Ellie said. “All I did was Google the name Chelsea Hart, and her MySpace page popped right up. Once the news hits, every member of the press will be scouring this for all the details about Chelsea’s personal life. They need to pull it down.”
“They’ve got to be on a plane by now. When I talked to them this morning, they sounded like they were literally going straight to the airport once we hung up.”
“Knock, knock.” Jack Chen rapped his knuckles against an imaginary door. “Detectives, there’s a couple here to see you. They say they’re Chelsea Hart’s parents?”
“Talk about on cue.” Ellie gave a mock shudder. “Creepy.”
Rogan’s phone rang. He held up an index finger toward her before answering. “Rogan… Correct. That’s my case… Yes, I believe they just walked into the precinct a second ago… That goes without saying… Of course… I’ll be sure to tell them you called.”
He returned the handset to its cradle. “Amend that to really fucking creepy. That was the mayor’s deputy chief of staff. Apparently, they want to be certain that we give the Harts our closest attention.”
They were on their way to the front of the squad room when Dan Eckels popped his head out of his office. “A word with you two?” he said, waving them over.
“The vic’s parents are up front, sir.”
“I just got a call from the assistant chief. The Harts have already been in contact with the mayor’s office.”
“We know, sir. We don’t want to leave them waiting.”
“Right. You’re taking them to interview three?”
“Assuming it’s empty,” Ellie said, still following Rogan.
“I’ll sit in.”
“Of course. Whatever you want.”
PAUL HART HAD thinning brown hair, ruddy skin, and an extra twenty pounds on his large frame. He wore a light blue crewneck sweater over a collared shirt and navy blue dress slacks. His wife Miriam wore a long black jersey dress that could have been selected either for mourning or simply as a wrinkle-free travel outfit. She had chin-length light gray hair that had probably once been blond, and she seemed unconcerned with her red, puffy eyes or makeup-free face.
They were probably just hitting fifty, married more than twenty years, and walked into interview room 3 holding hands. Even on the most difficult day of their lives together, the Harts carried themselves like good people.
Rogan took care of the introductions and gestured for the couple to be seated next to each other. He took the chair on the other side of the table. Ellie and Eckels stood against the window of the interview room, creating the impression of more privacy.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Rogan said. “We weren’t expecting you until later tonight.”
“We made some calls on the way to the airport,” Miriam said. “A friend is a friend of a friend of the CEO of Centennial Wireless. They had a private jet waiting for us at the Fort Wayne Airport.”
“The people close to us are doing everything they can.” Paul gave his wife’s hand a squeeze. “We’re at least fortunate in that respect.”
Were Ellie in their position, she did not think she would be able to find anything to be thankful for. She was constantly amazed by the variation in human responses to misfortune.
“It’s as if we had this entire network of people working the phones for us while we were coming to terms with all this on the plane,” Miriam continued in businesslike fashion. “It turned out that Paul’s brother-in-law was fraternity brothers with someone in your mayor’s office. He made some calls, and now we’re supposed to speak this afternoon with some volunteers with the Polly Klaas Foundation-you know, just to help us navigate the system and figure out what we need to do.”
“They’re an excellent organization,” Ellie said, wondering if her words sounded as hollow as they felt.