Speak No Evil Read Free Page B

Saturday.”
    “Online? As in, computer?”
    “Yep. That’s how they met—through a computer class at UCSD.” Concern laced Dean’s voice. “Something’s weird about this, and since the girl’s basic description matches your Jane Doe, I thought you might want to follow up with her family.”
    “And the guy?”
    “Steven Thomas. I’ll send up a folder with all the information.”
    “What’s the girl’s name?”
    “Angela Vance. Goes by Angie.”
    “Thanks Dean. I’ll let you know what happens.”
    Carina had just finished telling Will about the call when a secretary dropped Dean’s folder on her desk.
    She opened the folder. No photo. Angela “Angie” Vance, eighteen, blond hair, brown eyes, approximately five feet five inches tall, and 115 pounds. Her Jane Doe was five feet four and a half and 120. Angie was a freshman at UC San Diego with an undeclared major. She lived with her mother and grandmother downtown.
    “What’s wrong?” Will watched her closely.
    “What’s this Thomas guy’s interest in a girl half his age? He told Dean they were friends from school, but . . . ”
    She logged onto the DMV database and pulled down Angie Vance’s driver’s license photo. She stared at the bright smile and short brown hair. Her vic had longer, blonder hair, but the photograph had been taken more than two years ago. Carina’s chest tightened. Women change their hair color all the time. The face matched their victim. She showed Will and he concurred. Angie Vance could be their vic.
    “I’ll run Thomas,” Will said.
    “Let’s do it from the road,” Carina said, jumping up and throwing her light-weight blazer over her black T-shirt. “I want to check out Angie Vance’s house and see if we can get a recent picture of her before we talk to her mother.”
    Angie lived in a small, postwar bungalow in North Park, an old neighborhood in Central San Diego. It was noon on Monday and Carina suspected no one would be home; she was wrong. Angie’s elderly grandmother directed them to Angie’s mother, Debbie, who was working as a waitress at Bud’s Diner near the highway. Grandma also supplied a recent photograph.
    During the short drive to the diner, Carina stared at the photo. It was of mother and daughter, both wearing burgundy sweaters that offset their fair skin. Debbie Vance had brown hair and Angie extensive blond highlights. The older woman had been pretty in her day, but in the picture she looked a little gray and worn, though happy. Her daughter was beautiful, with long shiny hair, curled for the photograph, eyes tastefully made up, and a warm and inviting smile.
    Now Angie was dead. Jane Doe and this pretty girl were one and the same. Carina closed her eyes, putting herself in Debbie Vance’s shoes. Knowing exactly how the woman would feel when told someone she loved was dead. While Carina was pleased to have a quick identification of the victim, she dreaded having to break a mother’s heart.
    The call on the radio confirmed it. The coroner ran Jane Doe’s fingerprints in the system. Nothing in the criminal database, but the Department of Motor Vehicles popped up with her driver’s license. Angela Vance.
    Bud’s Diner looked like a greasy spoon on the outside, but once they stepped through the doors the rich aroma of a real country breakfast—sweet syrup, salty potatoes, sizzling bacon—reminded Carina that she hadn’t eaten.
    “Take any table,” a waitress said as she poured coffee with one hand and put down a plate of butter-drenched waffles.
    “Is Mrs. Vance available?”
    The waitress looked up with a frown, but didn’t need to say anything.
    “I’m Debbie Vance.”
    Carina might not have recognized the short, chubby woman of about forty, her cherubic face bright from the heat of the kitchen. But the warm smile was the same as the photograph. Debbie Vance came around from behind the counter. “And you are?”
    “Detectives William Hooper and Carina Kincaid, San Diego Police