Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [9]
Andrew’s mouth twitched which was like an electric shock to the pelvic giggle nerve. I had to look away not to pee my pants.
“We understand Juliana and Stephanie were friends?”
“She was new, we were just getting to know her. But she seemed like an awfully nice girl. That’s one of the things I am so proud of with Stephanie. The way she reaches out to other kids.”
“Can we talk to Stephanie?” I asked.
“She’s in her room. With the Boyfriend.”
Mrs. Kent could not help rolling her eyes.
“It’s very important that you not discuss Juliana’s disappearance with anyone. If there are rumors in school and it hits the media, her life could be in danger.”
The mother wore Levi’s and a plaid shirt; agile and loose in the body. Her face was pert, small gold-rimmed glasses, red hair cut radically short like a man’s, and I thought Miss Stephanie lucky to have a cool mom, wondering if Juliana liked it better here, the artsy Craftsman feel of red maple trim mixed with severe white walls, earthenware dishes still on the table and the lingering scent of curry, as opposed to the repressed tension of her parents’ disordered home.
“You have my word,” promised Mrs. Kent. “This is just so terrible. It could happen to any of us.”
A hip-hop bass was coming from behind Stephanie’s closed door, which had pearly plastic whorehouse beads hanging in front of it. I knocked and there was no reply. I knocked again.
“Give them a break, they’re getting dressed,” Andrew said.
Finally a female voice called, “Come in!” with exaggerated brightness.
I opened the door and poked my head through the chattering beads.
“Ana Grey with the FBI. This is Detective Berringer, Santa Monica police.”
Andrew said, “What up?”
Stephanie and her friend were lying together, fully clothed, on top of her bed. They did not jump up in embarrassment or even look surprised but regarded us with a low-grade curious disdain.
“What up wit’ you?” replied the boy, whose name was Ethan.
“We need to talk to you about Juliana Meyer-Murphy. She didn’t come home last night. Any help you can give will be very much appreciated.”
The girl sat up, hooking long blonde hair behind her ears. She wore skintight jeans with a snakeskin pattern and a short top that revealed a flawless abdomen with navel pierce.
The room smelled like burning raspberries.
“Is Juliana all right?”
“She’s still missing.”
“Really?”
Stephanie sat up straighter, surprised.
“We’re hoping she’s all right.”
“Me, too. Definitely.”
But Stephanie’s hands were laid along her thighs so the elbows stuck out and the thumbs pointed down. In the Comprehensive Coding System for Emotional Recognition, should we be taping this interview and running it through a computer, we would call it a backward sign, like nodding yes when saying no. It meant there was some emotional leakage in that heartfelt answer.
“You guys are friends?”
“We chill.” She glanced at the boy.
“We don’t know her all that well,” he added.
Andrew was leaning against the wall, arms folded. He had made himself very still.
I sat down on the desk chair in front of a computer where instant messages were popping up like pimples.
r u down for cj’s?
when?
you are all a bunch of fucking gangsta homosexuals!
“You know this person?” reading the screen name. “Sexbitch?”
“Not a clue.”
Stephanie jumped up and pumped the keyboard, fast, to get back to her screensaver, which turned out to be a blue mushroom. Thinking better of that, she shut the thing off completely.
There were a lava lamp and enormous plastic daisies and all sorts of furry accessories that shouldn’t have been furry, such as an orange furry phone. We let the music thump along until the tension in the room built nicely, and then I reached over and cut the sound with the touch of a button.
“So what do you want to talk to us about?” Stephanie asked.
Now they were both sitting apprehensively on the edge of the bed.
“Juliana was supposed to meet you the day she disappeared. What can you tell us about that?”
“We were going to do