I thanked her and watched her go, all too aware that controlling her had been very, very exciting.
Too exciting.
Chapter Eighteen
I sipped on my water and considered what I’d learned.
Jasmine Calcutta’s statement lined up perfectly with what she had given the police. After all, like Henry Gleason, I’d witnessed her experience firsthand.
And what had I witnessed?
Lucy had been nervous, that much was certain. She had looked over her shoulder more than once. She had looked for a camera, too. She hadn’t ordered an iced mocha, but I knew that, too. She had told Henry she wanted an iced mocha, and had come in and ordered a water. The iced mochas were, in fact, a ruse. Almost immediately, Lucy had gone straight to the restrooms.
Had she actually made it to the restrooms? Did she meet someone, say, in the short hallway?
There was no way to know, since Jasmine’s memory stopped just as Lucy entered the short hallway to the restrooms.
I drummed my long, pointed nails on the mostly clean table. My drumming was a tad louder than I’d intended it to be, so I stopped. Damned, big-ass nails. Finally, I got up and headed to the bathrooms. Knowing they may have been Lucy’s final destination, I decided to investigate the bathrooms anew, with renewed vigor and interest.
Lucky me.
There was little spirit activity at Starbucks, outside of the occasional grandparent or parent or friend swinging by a loved one to say hi. Murders and suicides tended to result in real hauntings. Although violent acts didn’t result in hauntings, they almost indelibly left their imprint on the environment.
But I saw nothing. No chaotic, staticy energy. Nothing. Normal energy. Peaceful energy. Starbucks energy.
Whatever that meant.
One thing was certain: no violent act had been perpetrated here. No one had been killed or raped or beaten here, as far as I could see.
Although this Starbucks was a little older than others, it still had that hip, industrial, modern vibe that people loved so much. That Starbucks feel, if you will.
The hallway was short, lined with wood paneling and photographs of Huntington Beach Pier. There was a broom closet that had, yes, a broom, a mop and a bucket in it, along with a water heater. No room for a female adult, even a small female adult like Lucy Gleason. I shut the broom closet door and moved on.
To my right was the men’s restroom. Directly ahead was the women’s. I tried the handle to the women’s, unlocked. I stepped inside, feeling more excited than I should have about going into a public bathroom.
* * *
The bathroom light turned on automatically.
I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. The bathroom, of course, looked exactly the same as it had last time. But she had come here last, dammit.
Here, in this bathroom. I was sure of it.
I had seen it!
I noted the shining metal trashcan, the low, sleek toilet, a sink, a mirror and a baby-changing station. I unlatched the baby-changing station, opening and closing the plastic tray. It worked as it should. There was nothing hidden behind it, no secret panel.
With that thought in mind, I checked the mirror carefully; it, too, was sealed to the wall. I could pry it loose and give a look behind it, but what good would that do? The sucker had been on the wall for a long time.
I turned in the small circle. Outside of disappearing down into the toilet, I was at a loss.
Stumped.
Confounded.
I hated that.
I sighed, looked at myself in the mirror, and saw mostly nothing. I had added some quick foundation this evening, eyeliner, just enough so that I would show up in most reflections, most mirrors, most security cameras. However, I could see where I had missed some spots. An empty spot was there on my forehead, as if I had a hole in my head.
I held up my hands...and couldn’t see them. I pressed them against the cold mirror, and neither a smudge nor a fingerprint remained.
This was, of course, nothing new to me, other than another reminder to how far I had slipped from the realm of normal...to that of the paranormal.
I sighed and considered where the devil Lucy had gone, and decided to head for the men’s bathroom next.
Might as well.
Chapter Nineteen
“Someone’s in here,” called a man’s voice when I tried the handle and found it locked.
Feeling awkward, I leaned a shoulder against the wall opposite the door, folded my arms and waited. While I waited, a middle-aged guy stepped into the hallway, whistling to himself. He stopped whistling, looked at me, looked up at the nameplate on the door, and frowned.
“The women’s is broken,” I said.
He nodded and slid into line next to me.
“Is it going to be bad in there?” I asked.
He was a balding guy with a nice build. He wore a Lakers tank top and basketball shorts. He chuckled and said, “It’s hit or miss.”
“Literally,” I said.
He grinned. “Something like that. But it’s Starbucks, so...”
“So, it’s Starbucks clean.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“Neither do I.” And since I had nothing better to do, I took a shot in the dark, which might not be any different than what was going on in the men’s bathroom. “Weird about that girl disappearing here.”
“Oh, right. Heard about that.”
“Apparently, she was last seen going into the bathroom.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Okay, now you’re freaking me out.”
I laughed. “Sorry.”
“I’m just trying to take a piss here.”
“Me, too. But girls call it peeing.”
“Yeah, right. Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”
“Just busting your balls, bub. So, what do you think happened to that girl?”
“I would say the husband did her in.”
“Except the husband never came inside, and she was last seen inside.”
“Last seen by who?”
I nodded toward the counter. “One of the girls working the cash register.”
“I dunno, man.”
“Woman.”
“Well, either way, it’s a fu—freakin’ mystery.”
“If you were hired to look into it, where would you begin?”
“Why are you asking?”
I showed him my private investigator’s license, complete with a face doused in makeup. “That’s why I’m asking.”
“Oh, shit. You’re a private cop?”
“Yup.”
“And you’re looking into this?”
“Yup.”
“You really don’t have to use the bathroom, do you?”