Amanda stood at Evelyn’s front door with a bottle of wine in her hand. It wasn’t the cheap stuff, but she was uncertain whether or not price had anything to do with taste. As with many things, she was out of her element. Especially when Kenny Mitchell opened the door.
A smile spread across his mouth. His teeth were perfect. His face was perfect. There wasn’t anything about him she would change. Not that Amanda would be given the chance.
He said, “Amanda. Great to see you again.” He leaned toward her, and without thinking, Amanda pulled back.
“Oh,” she said, then leaned back in, looking more like a pecking duck than a grown woman. The moment could’ve been made more awkward, but Kenny laughed as he put his hand to her face and kissed her cheek. She could feel the rough texture of his skin, the prickly hairs of his mustache. His other hand rested lightly on her arm. A rush of heat went straight through her.
“Come in.” He held open the door. Amanda walked into the house, feeling instantly enveloped by the cool air. “It’s nice, right?” Kenny took the bottle of wine from her. Every move he made had a certain kind of grace, like an athlete on the field. “Ev’s in back putting down the kid. I’m afraid that odor you smell is from me and Bill trying to cook supper. May I bring you a glass of wine?” He looked at the bottle and gave a low whistle. “Classy stuff. Maybe I’ll keep it for myself.”
“That’s fine,” Amanda said, not sure which question she was answering. She looked down at the floor, surprised to see that her feet were still there, that she wasn’t melting into a bubbling pool of adolescent giddiness. “Whatever you like.”
Kenny seemed not to notice, or maybe he was used to women acting so foolishly around him. He pointed down the hallway. “First door on the right.”
Amanda felt his eyes on her as she walked down the hallway. Oddly, she thought about Juice, the things he’d said about her bottom. Amanda bit her lip. Why, of all the things the pimp had said, had that particular one stuck in her head? Surely, Kenny wasn’t like that. He wasn’t craven or crude. Neither was Amanda, which didn’t explain the obscene images that were flashing in her mind as she gently knocked on the bedroom door.
Evelyn whispered, “Come in.”
Amanda pushed open the door. Evelyn was sitting in a rocking chair. Zeke was in her arms. His head was flopped back. His arm hung down to the side. He was towheaded with pink cheeks and a button nose. It wasn’t surprising that Evelyn had such a beautiful baby. Or that his nursery was so playfully decorated. Fluffy white sheep were painted on the light blue walls. His crib was a glossy white. The yellow in the sheets matched the carpet, which in turn matched the glowing nightlight that provided the only illumination in the room.
“You look nice,” Evelyn whispered.
“Thank you.” Amanda self-consciously patted her hair. She’d washed it four times in an attempt to remove the odors from the jail, then dabbed some Charlie on her wrists and neck for other reasons. “Do you want me to help in the kitchen?”
“No, it’s Bill’s night.” Evelyn groaned as she leveraged herself out of the chair. She cradled Zeke as she carried him to the crib. He flopped onto the mattress like a rag doll. Evelyn pulled up the sheet and tucked it around his narrow shoulders. Her fingers brushed back his hair. She leaned down and kissed his cheek before indicating they should leave.
Instead of heading toward the kitchen, Evelyn took Amanda into the next room. Her dress was a short blue crinoline that rustled as she walked. She turned on the overhead light, revealing an office. Two desks were on opposite walls. Both were very tidy. Amanda guessed the black metal desk belonged to Bill Mitchell. She doubted he was using the elegantly curved white rococo desk with pink glass knobs. Evelyn’s spiral notebook was neatly lined up to the edge. A grocery list was beside it. Most remarkably, their earlier project was displayed on the wall. Evelyn had used thumbtacks to pin up the various pieces of construction paper.
“I thought it would be easier this way.” Evelyn rolled Bill’s chair over for Amanda. She sat down at her desk and opened the top drawer. “I found these at the Five.”
Amanda took the licenses. Lucy Anne Bennett. Kathryn Elizabeth Treadwell. Mary Louise Eitel. Donna Mary Halston. Mary Abigail Ellis.
She studied the photos carefully and set aside two of the Marys, leaving Donna Mary Halston. “This one looks like Kitty and Lucy.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“He has a type.” Amanda had never considered such a thing, but of course it made sense. Men always had certain types they were attracted to. Why would murder be any different?
Evelyn said, “They all look so normal. You’d never guess what they were doing.”
Amanda stared at the girls’ photographs. They did look normal. There was nothing to suggest that they were prostitutes, nothing to indicate they had sunk to the lowest levels of depravity in order to feed an addiction.
Most striking was their similarity. Long blonde hair. Blue eyes. Tall and slim. Lush lips. Expressive eyes. They were not just pretty, but beautiful. “They all list the same address,” Amanda noted. “Techwood Homes. I can call back Pam Canale and see if she can trace the apartment to a roll number. I have a feeling it belongs to Kitty, but it wouldn’t kill us to be certain.” An idea occurred to her. “We could take these license photos to Techwood tomorrow. Like you said, it’s ninety percent black there. Three white girls would stick out.”
“That’s good. You hold on to them.” Evelyn grabbed her notebook off the desk, but didn’t open it. “I checked all the missing persons files at the rest of the precinct. There was nothing for Lucy or Jane, but I found one for Mary Halston. She has a sister who lives in Virginia who’s been looking for her for almost a year.”
“We could call her.” Amanda tucked the licenses into her purse. “I’m sure she’d talk to us.”
“We’ll have to do it from here. If we call long-distance from the station, they’ll have our hides.”
Their hides were already in enough jeopardy. “Did anything else stick out?”
“I checked the DNF.” She looked down at the notebook. “None of them seemed to match our case. But all those missing girls, Amanda. At least twenty of them, and no one thought to do anything but shove them in a file at the back of the cabinet.” She slowly shook her head. Amanda felt ashamed for having told her about it in the first place.
Evelyn continued, “They’re dead, or they’ve been abducted, or hurt, and no one cares. Or at least no one knows to care. They must have families who are looking for them. But there are hardly any missing persons reports on black women. I guess their families know it doesn’t matter. At least not …” Her voice trailed off as she opened her notebook. “I wrote down their names. I don’t know why. I just thought that somebody should. Somebody has to acknowledge that they’re gone.”
Amanda looked at the long list of women’s names. All dead. All tossed into files that no one ever looked at.
Evelyn let out a long sigh. She put the notebook back on her desk. “How was the jail?”
“Disgusting.” Amanda dug around in her purse, though she hardly needed to refer to her notes. “Juice confessed to killing Lucy Bennett, but only to avoid the death penalty.”
“Did no one explain to him that we’re no longer allowed to execute people?”
“They said they’d bring it back for him.”
Evelyn nodded. “I suppose that’s a smart move on Juice’s part, then.”
“If you want to spend the rest of your life in prison.” Amanda opened her notebook. “He confirmed Kitty is Andrew Treadwell’s daughter.”
“Well.” She smiled smugly. “Our black sheep theory was correct.”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath for a commendation,” Amanda advised. “Here’s the best part: Juice said that Hank Bennett came to see him a week or so before Lucy disappeared.”