Josh: What’s— Mario: （interrupting） You tell someone. Here’s where I’m going, here’s how long I’ll be. You call’m. Okay, I’m going in. Okay, I’m out. Everything’s cool.
Skylar: Yeah. It’s like, if you are even one second late . . .
Mario: Come running. So you gotta have someone you trust, someone dependable.
Skylar: My homegirl Kimmie. Shoutout to YOU, Kaykay! I love this girl so much! She takes care of me. We go back, man. Forever!
Josh: She’s your safety?
Skylar: And more! My absolute bestie. I totally love this girl.
I hit the pause button. Meredith Birch had claimed she was Skylar’s safety, but Skylar was saying her safety was someone named Kimmie. I wondered if “forever” meant Visalia. I hit play.
Josh: Is she hot like you?
Skylar: （laughing） Hotter!
Josh: Give us a couple of titles. How can the listeners check her out?
Skylar: No, no, no—she’s not in the business. She’s a good girl. I was the bad girl. Ohmygosh, we’re the Odd Couple.
The interview lasted another nine minutes. I set the veggies aside, took the laptop back to the couch, and reread the articles about Skylar I’d bookmarked.
Besides having a sister and riding horses, details about Skylar’s family and childhood were scarce. She was bored, dyed her face green to freak people out, and everyone thought she was crazy. She had quit school halfway through the eleventh grade, hitchhiked to L.A., and lied about her age to get a job stripping. None of the articles mentioned someone named Kimmie or the names of her family.
I pulled up the Visalia directory, and found six Bohlens: Anna P., Emma L., Gene R., George A., Kandace, and Richard L. The directory didn’t list cell numbers, so thousands of Bohlens might live in Visalia, but they wouldn’t be listed unless they had a hard line.
I called Anna P. first. Her phone rang so long I was about to hang up when she answered.
“Yes, hello?”
Her voice was strong and breathy, as if she’d run in from outside to answer. She sounded like someone in her fifties, which meant she could be Skylar’s mother.
“My name is Cole. I’m calling from Los Angeles regarding a Rachel Belle Bohlen.”
“Uh-huh. That isn’t me. My name is Anna.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you. Would you happen to know of a Rachel Belle?”
“Well, let’s see—”
She made little mumbly sounds, somewhere between humming and talking to herself.
“No. I don’t think so. What is this regarding?”
“She’s applied for a position with the Los Angeles Police Department, so we do a little background check.”
“Oh, uh-huh, well, I don’t know her.”
“If Bohlen is your married name, maybe your husband knows her.”
“He’s dead.”
“Sorry, Ms. Bohlen.”
“I’m not. He was an awful man.”
Emma L. didn’t answer.
Gene R. sent me to voice mail. I didn’t leave a message.
I dialed George A. next. George answered on the third ring, and stopped me when I mentioned her name.
“Not interested. I got nothing to say.”
George A. hung up. I debated whether to call back, and decided against it. At least I’d found someone who knew her.
Kandace Bohlen’s number led to another voice mail. This time, I left my name and number, and told her I’d like to speak with her about Rachel Belle Bohlen. She would call back, or she wouldn’t.
Richard L. was last. A young woman answered on the second ring, yelping out a hello in a cheery voice. She sounded like a teenager. I heard background voices, but they were probably on television.
I said, “Hey. Don’t hang up, okay? Picture me begging.”
This was me, laying on the charm.
She giggled.
“Who is this?”
“Every Bohlen I’ve called hangs up. Be a rebel. Resist the urge. Pretty please?”
“Who is this? Did Ronnie put you up to this?”
“Actually, no. I’m calling from Los Angeles. I need information about a Rachel Belle Bohlen.”
She didn’t respond. In her silence, the background voices were loud.
I said, “I take it you know her?”
Her voice was completely different when she answered. Hushed and low, like she didn’t want anyone to hear.
“Is she okay?”
“So far as I know. May I ask your name?”
“I can’t really talk.”
Her voice was so muffled she might have had a blanket over her head.