Death Before Facebook

Butsy for not taking care of her, upset that she could do nothing herself.
    “Well, it was about that time. I remember because we were listening to her sing.”
    “Where?”
    “Had to be the Dream Palace. I can see it so well in my mind’s eye—that bar that ran the whole length of the room, the pinball machines. I was with Pearce and he was drunk. He started bragging about being with her. Then he turned up later as Geoff’s friend—from that computer network.”
    “The TOWN. Are you on it?”
    “Hell, no, I haven’t got time for something like that. I know Cole and Geoff loved it.” His voice dropped: “And Lenore, of course.”
    “How did you know Pearce in 1967?”
    “Hanging out. We sat on many a bar stool together. That was it—our whole relationship. We never called each other up, arranged to meet, anything like that. We just both used to hang.”
    “I don’t know, Butsy, you don’t impress me as much of a hanger-out.”
    Finally, at long last, he picked up the kid, not that it helped—she screamed louder than ever.
    “That was before I found Jesus.”
    This, Skip thought, would probably be a good time to leave.
    On the way to her car, it came to her how very much she didn’t want to talk to Pearce right then. She was about as out of sorts as it was possible to be, now that Caitlin’s plight had become the whipped cream on an already nightmarish night and day. She tried to shake the depression brought on by the little girl’s wails in that darkened house, her own decision to close herself off, and the hurt in her throat that decision had caused her. For Skip, that was a signal her mind was out of tune with her heart. It was the second time in an hour she’d felt it, a nail through the larynx.
    Here in Geoff’s old neighborhood, she found herself once again sitting in her car, staring out the window. If Pearce was the lover—and not Butsy—why had Marguerite lied about it? Could she still be in love with Pearce, still be seeing him?
    It was possible.
    Since Butsy only knew him casually, Marguerite probably didn’t know the two were acquainted, therefore had thought it safe to give Skip Butsy’s name. She had to know he’d deny it, but so what? He’d appear to be lying to save his ass (which might be more than simply appearance), and also, she might have some reason to frame him. Maybe his business deal with Cole hadn’t worked out.
    Pearce had never produced an alibi for the time of Geoff’s death—indeed, had implied he’d been with a lady. Since Cole had been in Baton Rouge at the time, perhaps Marguerite could alibi Pearce if need be.
    But why didn’t she marry him?
Because he was already married
. The reason she gave for not marrying Butsy.
    Hell. Honey Diefenthal had told her Pearce had a thing for Marguerite. His own ex-wife!
    “Listen, I was just wondering about something. Do you think Marguerite and Mike Kavanagh might have been involved before Leighton was killed?
”
    Skip remembered how Honey cocked her head as she answered:
“Well, I never got that impression. Honestly, I’d be more inclined to suspect Pearce of being involved with her.”
    Damn, damn and damn! All roads led to Pearce, but she didn’t have a shred of evidence on him.
    Her head hurt. She’d already searched his damn house. What was next?
    Caitlin.
    Maybe she’d go back to the office and bat around ideas with Cappello. And she could call Kit about Caitlin. Maybe there was something she could do to help her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
     
    THE WOMAN WHO ANSWERED Kit’s phone pissed her off: “She’s not here.”
    Not, “I’m sorry, but she’s stepped away from her desk.” Not “Can I tell her who called.” Just four abrupt words, like she couldn’t wait to hang up and get back to goofing off.
    Skip was sufficiently irritated to pull rank. “This is Detective Skip Langdon, NOPD. Can you tell me where she is, please?”
    Long pause. “I’m sorry, Officer. I really don’t know where she is, and… well, I don’t know if…” She stopped in mid-sentence, evidently trying to decide whether to say more.
    Skip caught something in her voice that she hadn’t at first: Anxiety, she thought.
    “You sound worried.”
    “No, she has to be somewhere. She hasn’t left the building—her purse is here and all. It’s just that… she isn’t any of the places she’s supposed to be.” She caught herself. “I mean, that I’d expect her to be.”
    “What’s your