dead. They often end up dead, actually. Some of them just stay missing. Some of them show up after a while, surprised that anybody was worried about them, and nobody bothers to report that. And Iâm not talking only about Massachusetts. We get missing-persons reports from all over the Northeast. They are so out-of-date and incomplete itâs a joke. If somebody turns up alive, or if their body is found, in, say Vermont, we might never hear about it.â
âIt sounds hopeless,â I said.
âYeah, well, we do what we can, we really do,â she said. âI want to know about this girl as much as you do. Iâm just trying to be straight with you.â
âSo what can you do, then?â
âWeâll circulate her picture among the precincts, see if anybody recognizes her or can match her up with a photo or a description. Weâll check the FBI databases. If she ran away, or however she disappeared, if it was fairly recently, say a week or two, chances are pretty good that weâll identify her. The longer sheâs been gone, the worse the odds get.â
I looked out my office window. A foggy kind of gray darkness had settled over the city. There were orange haloes around the lamps that lit the plaza. They reflected in the slushy puddles and glowed on the piles of dirty old snow.
When I turned back, I saw that Lt. Mendoza was frowning at me. âYouâre really upset about this, arenât you?â she said.
I nodded. âI am. It feels personal. My dog found her. I carried her into my living room. I couldnât tell whether she was alive or dead. I canât think of her as some statistic. The place where I found her in the snow, there was a bloodstain. I should have noticed it, figured it out.â
âYou did all right, Mr. Coyne. Donât blame yourself.â
I shrugged.
âSo have you thought about why she picked your backyard toâ¦â
âTo die in, you mean?â
She nodded.
âIâve thought about it,â I said. âI donât know. I assume it was just that my gate was open so she wandered in.â
âRandom, you think.â
I nodded. âI guess so.â
She reached down for her attaché case, set it on her lap, and opened it. She took out a plastic evidence bag and put it on the coffee table in front of me.
I bent to look at it. It contained a small sheet of square notepaper. Printed in childlike block letters on it in dim but readable pencil were the words: â77 Mt. Vernon St.â
I looked up at Mendoza. âWhy didnât you show this to me before?â
âI wanted to hear what you had to say first.â
âYou suspect me of something?â
âI suspect everybody of everything.â
I frowned at her.
She smiled quickly. âRelax.â
I touched the plastic bag with the scrap of paper in it. âWhereâd you get this?â
âIt was in the girlâs pocket.â
âItâs my address.â
âYes.â
âSo she didnât just end up in my backyard randomly,â I said. âIt was her actual destination.â
âSo it would appear. It would appear that she was looking for you. She went to Mt. Vernon, climbed up your hill, found your place, number seventy-seven, walked around to your back alley, opened the gate, went into your backyardââ
âAnd died,â I said.
Mendoza nodded. âAnd died. Yes.â
âShe didnât knock on my door or anything,â I said. âI might not have heard her, but my dog wouldâve. He wouldâve barked at the door. Iâdâve heard him bark.â
Mendoza gave me a soft smile. âSure,â she said.
âI donât know why she had my address,â I said. âIâm positive I donât know her.â
âSuppose you met her, say, four or five years ago.â
âYouâre thinking, she was a child then, a young woman now, and sheâd