by Chris Culver
“That’s bullshit,” I said, shaking my head.
“That’s life.”
“I don’t buy it,” I said, crossing my arms. “If Christopher is a serial rapist, why did he keep our stuff? That’s stupid.”
She tilted her head to the side. “He might be stupid.”
“You’re the sex crimes detective. If Christopher is stupid, and he got away with raping fourteen girls, what does that make you?”
She held my gaze. “I’m sorry for what happened to you. If I could take it away, I would, but I can’t. This is something you’ll deal with forever. I know a counselor who’s helped a lot of young women in your position if you’d like to talk to her.”
I looked out the window so I wouldn’t have to meet her gaze. “Counselors can’t help. I’ve talked to enough social workers and psychologists and counselors to last a lifetime.”
“You want to talk to a friend?”
“I don’t have friends,” I said. “I don’t need them.”
“That’s too bad,” she said. “I like talking to my friends.”
“Good for you,” I said. She smiled as she stood.
“Come on, kid,” she said. “I’ll walk you out.”
I followed her out of the office and to the elevator.
“So what’s the plan now?” she asked as we waited for a car to arrive. “You’ve got a couple of years of high school left. Are you going to college after that?”
“I was going to, but Christopher Hughes fucked that up. Now I’ve got to start over and plan something new.”
She looked as if she wanted to ask me something else, but our elevator car arrived before she could. I got on and hit the down button, hoping she would stay on her floor. She followed me in.
“I’ve got to escort you to the door,” she said. “This is a secure building.”
I said nothing until the doors closed. We were alone.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“A perfect pina colada would be nice.”
She wanted me to laugh, but I didn’t.
“What do you want with me?” I asked. “Why are you following me and asking me questions?”
“We clarified that,” she said. “I’ve got to walk you outside. Then you’re on your own.”
“I’m used to being on my own.”
“I’ve learned,” she said. “So what are you doing after high school?”
I didn’t want to answer, but the doors opened on the floor beneath us. A bunch of people got on, so I had to step closer to her.
“I’ll join the Navy. I’ll be in there for four years, and then I’ll go to college once I’m out.”
“That’s a good plan,” she said, nodding. I waited for her to continue. She didn’t.
“But what?” I asked. She looked at me and raised her eyebrows as if she were unsure about something. “That’s a good plan, but what? What else do you want to say?”
“You won’t join the Navy,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ll go to college. Then you’ll become a cop.”
I laughed. “Because your detective work is so inspiring?”
“Well, that would flatter my ego, but that’s not why I said it. You think like us. You’re sixteen, and you’re already as cynical as every other miserable asshole in this building.”
Two people laughed, but none of the other passengers looked at us. I ignored them all until we reached the bottom floor. The doors opened onto the lobby, and everybody got out. I stayed put, so Julia put her foot in the doorway to keep the elevator door from closing.
“I know what you’re doing,” I said.
“Trying to kick you out of the building?”
“Trying to make me like you.”
She snorted. “If that’s how you interpret this, maybe you should join the Navy, sweetheart.”
“Yeah,” I said, walking out. “Maybe I should.”
She let me cross the lobby and get to the front doors before she called out.
“Hey, Joe,” she said. I turned around and crossed my arms so she’d know I wasn’t interested in talking to her.
“What?”
“I’ll keep in touch.”
“Terrific,” I said, trying to keep the hope out of my voice. She smiled and then turned toward her elevator. I walked out of the building. Julia must have called ahead because a uniformed officer was waiting for me outside. He drove me back to school. I should have spent the rest of the day stewing on the police department’s failure to protect me and Megan, but instead, I thought about Lieutenant Julia Green. I liked her, which didn’t make sense. It didn’t matter, though. She’d forget me. Everybody else did.
Only, she didn’t.
She called me that evening at the girls’ home to ask how I was doing. I told her I was fine, and then I hung up. She called again two days later and asked the same question. Once more, I told her I was fine, and then I hung up. On Saturday, she came by the youth facility I was staying in and picked me up. I had dinner at her house. Her husband made hamburgers, and I played tag with her kids. Three months later, she and her husband became my foster parents.
Some people were lucky. They met their families the day they were born. It took sixteen years of pain and hardship to find mine. When I walked into Julia’s office, I hadn’t known what she’d become to me, but meeting her was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I loved her with everything I had, but I couldn’t get over my bitterness no matter how hard I tried.
Because meeting her had come with a price no one should have to pay.
19
Before I made it home, Trisha, my station’s dispatcher, called my cell. I wanted to pretend I hadn’t heard the phone ring, but she wouldn’t have called without reason. Since I hated talking while driving, I pulled off the road near a copse of trees. The sun was still up, but the shadows were growing longer, and a cool stillness was settling in to replace the day’s warmth.
“Trisha, yeah,” I said, leaning back. “What’s up?”
“I’m sorry, but I need you to head back in. It’s not an emergency, but it’s important.”
I groaned and shut my eyes as I leaned my head back. “What happened?”
“Got a missing-persons case. She’s sixteen, and she disappeared Monday. I’d give it to Harry, but he’s busy with the Megan Young case. With the fair going on, it’s a zoo here, and I need a detective. You’re it.”
I rubbed my eyes and nodded. As much as I wanted to go home, unexpected calls were part of the job.
“All right. Give me fifteen minutes. I’ll be back.”
“Thanks, Joe. I’ll let the family know you’re on your way.”
I hung up and then sighed. So much for my relaxing night with a drink. I called Susanne, my neighbor, and waited through six rings for her to pick up. Her voice sounded high and inquisitive. We only spoke for a few moments, but she agreed to feed and water Roger. Susanne had a strict no-dog-inside policy at her house, so he wouldn’t stay the night with her, but she’d take good care of him until I returned.
I drove back to town. Already, there were lines outside the restaurants and bars as tourists waited for tables, while families carrying picnic baskets and foldable chairs made their way to the park. A young woman wearing a Waterford College T-shirt played the violin on the sidewalk. Her case was open in front of her, and a small group crowded around her to listen. The sound of a bluegrass band warming up floated on the breeze.
I parked outside my station and rubbed my eyes, wishing I were at home. Every police department in the world took missing-persons reports, and the vast majority of them worked themselves out when the missing person came home from his vacation, business trip, or extended stay at a friend’s house. Missing young people were problematic, but nothing Trisha had said concerned me too much. I wouldn’t be looking for an eight-year-old who got lost while hiking with her family; my missing person was a sixteen-year-old young woman. More than likely, she was at a friend’s house.
Even still, I’d do
my best to find her. Her mom and dad deserved that.
When I got inside, Trisha smiled at me and then pointed to a middle-aged couple sitting on chairs in the waiting room. None of the drunks had vomited in my absence, so the place didn’t stink. Just a whiff of beer and body odor. It reminded me of my college dorm when my roommate came home late on Friday nights.
I walked to the couple with my back straight as I tried to project a reassuring, calm demeanor.
“I’m Detective Joe Court. My dispatcher told me your daughter is missing.”
“Yes,” said the woman. She was in her mid-forties and had brunette hair held back by a tie. She was tall and had an athletic frame. There were crow’s feet around the corner of her serious, blue eyes. A pink handkerchief twisted between her right index finger and thumb. She was nervous, but she was trying to keep herself together. “We’re worried.”
“She disappeared Monday. We hoped she’d be back by now, but she’s not here. Our lawyer said we should talk to the police.”
The speaker was her husband, I presumed. He was about the same age as his wife, and he wore a white button-down shirt and black slacks. Similar to the woman beside him, he was tall and thin. He looked like a basketball player, albeit one with thinning blond hair and fine lines around his lips. He looked as if he smoked. Smokers always got wrinkles around their lips at young ages.
Interesting that they had contacted a lawyer before they contacted the police. I didn’t see that too often and didn’t know what it meant in this case.
“Okay,” I said, nodding and taking a step back. “Let’s go talk somewhere a little more private.”
They followed me through the bullpen and to the conference room. Surprisingly for a police station, our conference room was the most comfortable room in the building. It had a tall, coffered ceiling and elaborate moldings around the door. There were no windows, but the previous owners had painted the ceiling a cheery blue and hung huge bronze pendant lights on chains, giving it a much airier feel than it otherwise might have had.
I gestured to the conference table. The couple sat down, and I sat across from them. First thing, I introduced myself again and got their contact information. They were Jane and Michael Maxwell, and they lived in a prosperous part of town popular with upper-middle-class men and women who worked in St. Louis but wanted a country home. I wouldn’t have wanted the commute, but the home they bought for half a million dollars here would cost them two or three million just thirty miles north. Plus, our schools were good. I understood the appeal.
“So, Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell, tell me about your daughter. What’s going on?”
“She didn’t come home after school on Monday,” said Jane. “We thought she had gone out with friends. They did that if one of them had a bad day. I called and left a message, but she didn’t answer.”
I took notes and then glanced up.
“When you called, did her phone ring, or did it go straight to voicemail?”
Jane shook her head and blinked before shrugging. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“It tells me whether her phone was on,” I said. “If it’s on, we can track her with it.”
“It went straight to voicemail,” said Jane. “But that’s not surprising, either. She turns it off at school, and she might have forgotten to turn it on again.”
“Sure, I can see that,” I said, trying to avoid letting my skepticism enter my voice. I looked down at my notes. “And what’s her name?”
“Paige Olivia Maxwell,” said Michael. “Olivia was my mom’s name.”
“And she’s sixteen years old, right?” I asked, glancing up again. Both parents nodded. Paige’s age made this difficult. If she had been eleven or twelve, I would have called every officer in the county to look for her. At sixteen, I needed to take a different approach. “How’s your marriage?”
Jane didn’t seem to react, but Michael shook his head and closed his eyes.
“Our marriage is none of your business.”
I glanced at him and smiled, but I didn’t allow it to reach past my lips.
“It tells me about her home life. If you suspected someone had abducted Paige, you would have come on Monday. You came today, though. That tells me her absence didn’t worry you. You think she ran away, and at sixteen, she ran for a reason. I’m trying to figure out what that reason is. If you cooperate, it makes everything easier. Okay?”
Neither responded for a few moments. Then Michael leaned forward.
“Our marriage is fine.”
I glanced to his wife. She sat still.
“Jane?” I asked. Her eyes darted to her husband.
“He’s sleeping with his secretary. Paige knew about it, and she hated him for it.”
“Oh, Jesus,” said Michael, closing his eyes. He stood and then rested his hands flat on the table while leaning forward. “I screwed up, but this isn’t my fault. Don’t you dare blame me for this.”
“Not your fault?” asked Jane. “Your daughter hates you, and so do I. I’d leave, too, if I had anywhere to go. If you kept your dick in your pants, we wouldn’t be here now.”
“If you didn’t nag me so fucking much, I wouldn’t need a girlfriend.”
We had the door shut, so I let them yell at one another for a minute in case one of them yelled something pertinent. Mostly, they traded personal insults. If this thing happened at their house often, I could understand why Paige had left. After a few minutes, I whistled to get their attention.
“Okay, so there’s tension at home,” I said. “Here’s what we’ll do. You will both go to opposite ends of our waiting room. You will refrain from speaking to one another. While in our waiting room, you will both write a list of your daughter’s friends and acquaintances, her email address, contact information, internet passwords, and anything else that could help me find your daughter. You will also detail your whereabouts on Monday from the time Paige went to school until now. Include a list of men and women who can verify your account.
“While you two do that, I will search your house.”
Michael stood straighter and crossed his arms. “Why do you need to search our house?”
“To look for signs of a struggle or signs of a break-in. Most likely, your daughter ran away for a few days. It happens a lot at this age. Ninety-nine percent of the time, the kid comes home safe and sound. If there are signs someone abducted your daughter, this investigation will change, but that only happens if I’m allowed to conduct a search. So do I have permission to do my job and search your home?”
“Yes,” said Jane, nodding.
Michael closed his eyes and held up his hands. “If there were signs of a break-in, we would have seen them ourselves, Detective. You don’t need to go to our house.”
I nodded as if that made perfect sense.
“I appreciate that you’ve looked, but I am a professional investigator. There might be subtle things you missed. For instance, a lock pick will leave scratches on a deadbolt. Furniture that’s been pushed out of place might leave indentions on the carpet. Body fluids often can be seen with specialized equipment even if an assailant cleaned them up. I respect your desire for privacy, but your daughter’s life is more important. If someone abducted her, we need to find out now. If you’d like, I can get a warrant.”
He stood straighter and drew in a breath. “No need for a warrant.”
“I hoped you’d say that,” I said, standing. “Now, I’ll need your address and a key.”
Jane recited her address as her husband removed a key from his key chain. Before handing it over, he looked at me.
“There are business papers in my office I’d like to remain private.”
I considered him for a moment. He was hiding something.
“If it’s legal and unrelated to your daughter’s disappearance, there would be no reason for me to share it with anyone.”
He seemed to accept that because he nodded and gave me his key.
“Thank you,” he said. “Please find my d
aughter.”
“I will do everything I can,” I said. I escorted the couple to the reception area, where I told Trisha what was going on. She gave each of them a clipboard, pencil, and paper. I hoped they wouldn’t kill each other while I was out. I drove my truck to their house north of town. The Maxwells lived in a big brick house in the middle of an immaculate grass lot. Dense forest surrounded the property, giving them some privacy from the similarly sized home next door. The neighborhood had a single exit onto the highway. If someone had abducted Paige, a neighbor might have seen the car.
I parked in the driveway and walked around the exterior of the house, searching for broken windows, doors, or other obvious signs of entry, but everything looked intact. The front and rear doors both had sturdy brass deadbolts free of tool marks or other blemishes, and none of the windows on the first floor were unlocked.
I unlocked the front door and walked inside. The interior was clean and modern. A pink backpack rested on the ground beside the back door. I picked it up and carried it to the kitchen table.
Inside, I found an iPad—password protected—three textbooks, pens and folders, and a daily planner. This was interesting. Paige’s parents said she had gone to school on Monday, but if she had, she would have brought her bag. Why was it here?
I flipped through the planner. From what I could see, she was vice president of the Art Club, she exercised regularly, and she attended after-school practices for the school’s competition government team—whatever that meant.
She had filled out the entire week, including large blocks to go out with her friends on Friday and Saturday night. I wondered whether she would have done that if she planned to run away on Monday. As I closed the book, I noticed a signature on the front page.
Paige Lewis.
She had just written it once on the organizer’s front flap. I pulled out my phone and called Trisha.
“Hey, it’s Joe. Are the Maxwells still there?”
“Yeah, they’re still here,” she said. “I had to put them in different rooms because Michael kept trying to start fights with his wife. I don’t like to advocate divorce, but they seem like good candidates for it.”