“Who uses prepaid phones?” I wondered aloud.

“Teenagers whose parents are limiting their calls—and criminals. But in my experience, mostly criminals in the drug trade,” Patricia replied.

I looked out the window and watched as an empty freighter, riding high in the water, its black bottom paint exposed, slid silently yet swiftly down the river. When I looked back across the table Patricia was waiting for me.

“I made a few more inquiries after that, but the decision had been made by the powers that be that they didn’t want the waters muddied. ‘It was a suicide, Detective, leave it at that.’ But to tell you the truth, Kennesaw—I also have some doubts,” she concluded.

I nodded my comprehension as my mind took in the possibilities of what she had just told me.

“What do you think of it all now?” I asked.

“As you said while we were standing on your dock after I had taken your statement: ‘It’s bad juju.’ More than that, at this time I have no idea. But I’m no longer so sure that it was a suicide,” she said, pushing an imaginary lock of hair back from her forehead, in what I knew was a gesture of exasperation.

Our food arrived just at that moment. Patricia assured the waitress that we needed nothing else and we were left alone once again. I leaned over to take in the delicious aroma arising from the large bowl, and as I picked up a spoon I said, “There’s more to tell.”

We ate steadily, and between mouthfuls, I told Patricia of my strange trip yesterday, and of the impressions I had taken away. She listened carefully, her eyes holding mine so as not to miss any of the unspoken meaning, and I thought, not for the first time, that this woman sitting across from me was a formidable police officer.

When I had finished my tale and our bowls were empty we both dabbed our lips with our napkins and sat back in the booth. I glanced outside and saw that the rain was falling heavily now—the drops so close together they appeared as long continuous streaks, bouncing from the tops of cars in the street and pounding a dimpled face on to the moving surface of the river.

“Where do you look next?” Patricia asked, bringing me back from my reverie.

“I need to speak to the Willis girl—Sandy,” I said, looking again at Patricia. “And tomorrow evening, I’m going to church—to a Wednesday-night prayer meeting, in fact, to meet that preacher I told you of. He may just have a little insight into Tonya’s state of mind before she left home.”

And then, as an afterthought, I asked, “Want to come with me?”