“Yeah?”

“At a bus stop at night. It’s not far from where I live. I seen this girl sittin’ on the bench. She never goes on the bus, and I never seen her comin’ off the bus, either. She just sits there. Like, I’m not saying she’s homeless. And I’m not saying she’s preggers. But she is fat and dressed weird. Just sittin’ on the bus bench, readin’ the same book. I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks … maybe longer. I was wonderin’ if like … you know, something happened to her.”

“Like what?”

“Hey, you’re a cop. This far east … it ain’t Beverly Hills, you know. Lots of hustlers and lots of poor slobs.”

“Hey, Carisse, I know who you mean.”

I turned to the sound of the voice. This one had short black hair, white foundation, and black lipstick and eyeliner. She wore a black dress that fell past her knees. Her boots disappeared under the ragged hemline. I thought the Goth look was long gone, but I guess I was wrong. She stuck out her hand. “Rhiannon … like the witch in a Fleetwood Mac song.”

Carisse rolled her eyes. “It’s really Roseanne—”

“It’s whatever I want it to be, be-ach.”

“Hold on!” I broke in. “Let’s keep it friendly.”

“Fine!” Rhiannon clutched her books to her chest and regarded me with wounded eyes. “I think I seen her, too. That homeless girl. She carries a purse made outta shells.”

Carisse nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

“I didn’t know she was pregnant.”

“I’m not saying she was pregnant, only that she was fat and was readin’ this book.”

I said, “Do you remember the title of the book?”

Carisse shook her head. “You know, she didn’t look like she was really readin’ it. Just like … looking at the pictures.”

“Why don’t you think she was reading the text?”

“’Cause she was moving her lips as she went through the book … like turnin’ the pages way too fast. And mumblin’ as she turned the pages. Like talkin’ to herself.”

“Can you describe her?”

“She had a pink face and she was fat,” Carisse told me.

“She was Caucasian, then?”

“Yeah, she was real white … like pink.”

“Something’s wrong with her.” Rhiannon twirled an index finger next to her temple.

“And she talked to herself?” I repeated.

“I dunno,” Rhiannon said. “Never got that close.”

“Like I said, she mumbled,” Carisse told me. “She dressed weird, bundled up in layers of clothing. You could tell she was hot. She was sweating. Her face was covered in sweat … kinda piggish looking … real pink, you know.”

I nodded encouragement. “Eye color, hair color?”

“Blondish hair,” Rhiannon volunteered.

Blondish hair. For Rhiannon to have noticed blond hair at nighttime, it must have meant that the woman was very blond. Also, it meant something else to me: that the woman’s hair was relatively clean. Even blond hair gets dark when it’s dirty and greasy. Neither girl mentioned anything about her smell, usually the first thing people noticed when dealing with the homeless.