Page 17 of Draven

“Let me ask the questions,” Draven says. “I want you to watch and assess her body language.”

“Okay.”

Draven makes a fist and raps on the door twice. A few seconds later, Sally appears. A flicker of recognition lights her eyes at seeing me, and her smile is welcoming.

“Detective Rhodes. How lovely to see you again.”

“Ms. Fowler.” I gesture to Draven. “This is my… associate. Um, Mr. Draven. Do you have a minute to speak with us?”

“Of course.” Ms. Fowler gives Draven the once over. “Anything to help our hardworking police force. Do come in Detective, Mr. Draven.”

“Just Draven, ma’am.”

I roll my eyes, glaring at him. Could he not have just gone along with it? I’ve never found out why he only goes by a single name, and back in the day, I’d been too in awe of him to ask.

Sally squints. “Like Madonna? Or Cher?”

I suppress a snort of laughter.

Draven’s lips twitch in amusement. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Well I never,” she says, leading us down the hallway and into a cozy kitchen—the space instantly dwarfed by Draven’s tall, broad frame.

“Do have a seat,” Ms. Fowler says. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” I say. “I’m afraid we can’t stay long.” I’m already crossing the line by being here. If my boss finds out, I’m toast.

A flicker of disappointment flashes over the woman’s face, and I get the distinct impression she’s lonely. A quick glance around shows no signs of family. There are no pictures of kids or grandkids on the walls, or childish drawings pinned to the fridge.

“A piece of cake, then? Or a cookie?”

“Ma’am, we’re here about the missing persons’ cases,” Draven says, barreling straight in. He clearly hasn’t picked up on her situation.

I kick out at his ankle. He ignores me.

Ms. Fowler sighs. “Terrible business,” she says, flicking a crumb from her blouse. “Just terrible. Have you found them yet?”

“Not yet,” Draven says. “Ma’am, we have a query with your statement.”

“Oh?” She clutches a silver cross hanging around her neck, zigzagging it back and forth along the chain. It’s a clear sign of discomfort, but that could just be because of Draven and his blunt manner. “What would that be?”

“You said you saw the woman, Darla Adams, being forced into the back of a blue van, correct?”

“Yes.”

Draven briefly looks down at the sheath of papers in his hand, but his actions are for effect. He already knows her statement by heart.

“And you identified a Caucasian man with spiked, blond hair, and a second man, who you thought to be Hispanic, correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And you saw all this from outside the pharmacy on Bolder Street. You clearly saw the victim leaving the bakery and being taken by the men?”

“Yes. I’ve already told the nice detective all this.” She shoots a wavering smile at me, Draven’s direct questioning making her uncomfortable. I lean closer, noticing the woman’s fingertips plucking at her skirt, her rapid blinking, dilated pupils—all telling signs of her growing anxiety.

“I’m aware, ma’am,” Draven says. “But it’s important we get everything absolutely right. These women’s lives could depend on it. How are you so certain you were outside the pharmacy?”

She rubs her hands down her legs, smoothing her skirt. “Because I’d called in for my heat patches.” She gestures to her lower back. “I suffer terribly with back pain, you see, and those patches are a lifeline. I stepped outside, stopped to put my purchases in my shopping bag, and that’s when I heard a kerfuffle across the street. I looked over and saw the woman being snatched.”

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