She was lying on her back in the window seat, her long legs bent, her bare feet pressed against the wall. She was pretty, with a wild mop of dark brown hair, and had on footless leggings and a man’s dress shirt. White wires were plugged into her ears.
The girl startled when she saw us, straightened her legs and sat up, and pulled out her earbuds. She was thin — too thin.
She said, “Who are you?”
As I did the introductions and told her why we had come, I looked the girl over. Even from fifteen feet away, I could see that Kristin Beale’s pupils were dilated.
I also took in the state of the room.
Kristin’s side had a post-tornado, morning-after look. The floor around her unmade bed was strewn with clothes, books, and candy wrappers.
The other side, Avis’s side, was as tidy as a banker’s desk. A pillow on the bed was embroidered with the letter A, and there was a picture of the Richardson family on her dresser.
Avis’s closet was open. I quickly went through her clothes and saw that she had them in two sizes. Size eight and extra large.
Her computer was turned off on her desk, untouchable without a warrant.
“Is Avis okay?” Kristin asked, in a tone that told me she didn’t care at all.
“She’s with her par
ents,” I said. “She’s doing okay, but she’s been through an ordeal. Kristin, has Avis called you or written to you? We’re trying to find her baby.”
“Baby? I don’t know anything about a baby.”
“Avis was nine months pregnant,” I said. “You saw her every day. Unless you’re blind, you must have known she was pregnant.”
“Well, I didn’t,” the girl said. “She was a pretty good eater and she didn’t work out.”
Turning to Conklin, I said, “You know, Inspector, I’m getting sick of these kids lying their faces off.”
“I don’t think they understand that we are homicide cops,” he said. “Maybe they think that because they go to a rich kids’ school, they’re outside of the law.”
The girl was staring at us now, eyes going back and forth between us and darting to a spot on the floor. I followed her eyes to a pile of laundry and saw the corner of a plastic bag under a sock.
I said to Conklin, “You’re right. They’re spoiled. They’re living in a separate universe. A universe where this,” I said, toeing the sock aside, “a few ounces of marijuana, isn’t illegal. But, of course it’s possession of an illegal substance, and in this case, given how much you have here, Kristin, I’m thinking it could even be possession with intent to sell.”
“That’s not mine. I never saw it before.”
I had to laugh. Two feet from her bed and she’d never seen it before.
“I say it’s your grass and that your urine is going to show that you’ve been smoking it.”
I reached under my coat for my cuffs, and the girl backed up.
“Kristin Beale, you’re under arrest for possession of narcotics.”
“No … what, are you — kidding? I’ll get kicked out of here. Okay, okay, okay. Like, what do you want to know?”
“Where is the baby?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who is the father of Avis’s baby?” I said.
“She never told me. I am telling you the truth.”
“Someone got her pregnant,” said Conklin.