I took a breath before speaking. “Let’s take things one at a time,” I suggested. “When did you last hear from your daughter?”
“Thursday night.”
Four days ago.
“You can file a missing persons report any time,” I said.
He frowned. “No cops. That’s why I need you.”
I could already guess his reasons, but I had to ask. “Why not call the police?”
He grimaced. “Young lady, do you read the papers? Or do you just surf the Web for funny cat photos and weird celebrity news?”
I let that condescending remark slide. Blaine seemed like the kind of guy who confuses taunting with being assertive. Besides, even though I had just turned thirty, I’ve been told I look seventeen, which doesn’t help.
“I know who you are,” I said in an even tone. “I know you were released from prison last year.”
“Then you should understand why I would rather not have the police involved in my personal business.”
I nodded. Being a convicted drug dealer must complicate one’s life. Cry me a river.
“Assuming I agree to find her, any guesses about where your daughter may have gone?”
“I have no idea.” A vertical line creased the space between his brows. “She could be anywhere.”
Blaine had no clues about his daughter? Not exactly Father of the Year material. “So . . . she’s never expressed a desire to leave the area?”
He waved a hand. “She’s mentioned wanting to see the Southwest, but I doubt that she actually went there.”
“How can you be sure?”
“She’s determined to graduate from the Maryland Institute College of Art and has already wasted a lot of money on classes there.”
“You don’t pay her educational expenses?”
“I told her if she insisted on going to art school, it would be on her own dime.” Blaine pursed his lips. “She can’t tap her trust fund, except for emergencies. Art school doesn’t qualify.”
Asshole, I thought. I resisted the urge to point that out. “How about her friends? Have
you tried talking to them?”
“I have no contact with the people she hangs with now.” A wistful tone crept into his voice. “Her best friend in high school was Katie Saunders. I don’t know if they’ve stayed in touch.”
“How about guys? Any special ones in her life?”
“She sees so many boys I can’t keep track.” The wistfulness was gone and his tone was flat.
Not helpful. Maybe Katie would know more.
I pressed on. “What about social media? Is she on Facebook or Twitter?”
Blaine scowled. “I don’t post or tweet or snaptweet or whatever they’re doing these days. I leave the social media work to my partner.” He waved a hand, as if swatting flies. “My daughter works at a coffee shop near the school. Cafe Latte or some such. I can’t recall her saying anything unusual or dropping any hints that would help you find her.”
“How do you know she’s missing? Have you been to her home?”
Blaine’s expression turned stiff, his lips pressed thin. “We usually talk every Friday or Saturday, except for this past weekend.”
I pondered the non-answer. Was he deliberately evasive or simply obtuse?