The Lost Girl (A Mickey Keller Thriller Book 1)

by Alan Jacobson

  Pretty damn smart on her part. A woman screaming that her daughter was kidnapped and pointing at a male carrying a young girl was powerful. Who wouldn’t help? Never mind that the situation was the complete opposite—she was the perpetrator and on the wrong side of the law. He was acting in the girl’s best interests.

  Keller heard a noise to his left and twisted to get a view—and saw two men approaching, one with a bat. The other—outfitted in firefighter turnout gear—was carrying an ax.

  This had gotten out of hand.

  Before he could react, he saw a blur in his peripheral vision and collided with something or someone. Melissa flew from his arms as he slammed into the asphalt, his left shoulder absorbing the impact and his temple striking something hard.

  Keller shook his head and got to his feet, a bit woozy but mentally intact enough to be oriented to time and place.

  Melissa! He swung his gaze around—causing some dizziness—and saw her on the ground, a couple of men attending to her.

  He started in her direction but was sucker punched from behind. He swung an elbow blindly, hitting something squarely, before repeating the move toward the other side and rotating around, hands fisted and ready for battle.

  People grabbed at the back of his jacket, but he yanked himself free, only to have others latch on. He twisted, dropped, and rolled, then got to his feet again and saw a mass of bodies approaching. He knew when the odds were getting insurmountable.

  “My baby,” Robbins screamed.

  No one was going to believe him. Sorting this out would require time and extensive explanation, identification and background checks. And when they examined the girl, they might detect remnants of BetaSomnol, a controlled substance he had secured without a prescription. It was time to retreat, regroup, and live to fight another day.

  He half ran, half lunged down the street, hoping to find some darkness where he could hide—or, better yet, get back to his car.

  He glanced over his shoulder to check on Melissa’s status, but all he could see was one large male pursuing him—and a crowd surrounding the girl.

  Dammit. He hoped she was okay. He thought of an acronym every military person knew well: FUBAR. Fucked up beyond all recognition.

  At the moment, as much as he hated to admit it, that description was spot-on.

  37

  “Oh my god.”

  Amy came upon Melissa, laid out prone on the ground. “My baby. Is she okay? Is she—”

  Amy’s voice caught. She could not go through this again. Please tell me she’s alive, please tell me I didn’t kill her.

  Did I just say that out loud?

  “You her mother?”

  “I—yes. Yes. Is she okay?”

  It was one of the firefighters. A woman. “She’s breathing. We need to stabilize her spine. I called an ambulance. It’ll be here in a couple of minutes.”

  Amy’s vision closed in around her. Her head got heavy. And she crumpled to the ground.

  She felt someone sitting her up. She was on the asphalt in the middle of the street, a crowd surrounding her. A police officer was making his way toward her.

  “What happened?” the cop asked.

  “Man tried to kidnap her daughter,” the firefighter said. “Someone tackled him, the girl flew from his arms, hit her head. Ambulance is en route.”

  He asked Amy if she was okay, then gathered more information from the woman tending to Melissa.

  The cop turned to those surrounding them. “Anyone see this guy, the kidnapper?”

  Amy got to her knees and moved to Melissa’s side. Felt her face. Still warm. Saw her ribcage moving. Breathing. Thank God.

  Multiple people began rattling off physical characteristics of the kidnapper. Some could only provide details of his clothing.

  It was dark.

  It all happened so fast.

  Too many people got in the way.

  I was scared and worried about the girl.

  Not surprisingly, some of the descriptions were contradictory.

  The officer absorbed it all, then grasped the microphone clipped to his jacket to call it in. “Suspect is about six feet with a brown goatee, wearing a dark jacket. Black or navy. May be leather but could be wool like a pea coat. Glasses. Dark-colored baseball cap. No identifiable logo but someone thought it could be the LA Clippers.” He swung the transceiver away from his mouth. “Anyone see a weapon of any kind? Knife or gun?”

  All indicated they had not.

  “Does fighting experience count,” one of the men asked, “like maybe martial arts?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  The guy shrugged. “Just, I dunno. Had a confidence about him. A purpose to his movements. And he seemed to drop and roll to give himself some space from the people closing on him. Kinda like he had practice.”

  The officer relayed that information and recorded the names and contact information of the witnesses.

  Amy wanted to speak up, to tell the police she had seen him before, at her apartment, almost four hours north of here. But she could not. She needed to be gone from here as soon as possible—without answering too many of the officer’s questions.

  “You’re the mother?”

  Amy looked up and nodded. She got to her feet, but before the cop could ask any follow-up questions, a siren blared in the near distance.

  “Okay, everyone,” he said, turning around, “let’s open up the street for the ambulance to get through.”

  Two female paramedics jumped out and began assessing their patient. A spine board was brought over and an IV started. They loaded Melissa into the back.

  “Can I ride with her?” Amy asked.

  “Of course,” one of the women said. “Climb in.”

  “I’ve still got some questions,” the officer said. “And I need your contact information.”

  “Can we do this some other time?” As in, never? “I can drop by the station tomorrow.”

  The officer frowned. “Meet you at the hospital.”

  Amy grabbed the side rail handle of the ambulance and lifted herself up.

  Can’t wait.

  38

  Loren Ryder was sitting at her cubicle in C15, commonly referred to as Child Crimes—or the more formally named Violent Crimes Against Children Unit—of the FBI’s San Francisco Division. She worked out of the Oakland Resident Agency, a satellite facility across the Bay Bridge that, despite its name, employed a whopping two hundred federal law enforcement officers. Some RAs, as the resident agencies were known in Bureau-speak, were home to a single agent, while others had five or even ten. The expansive territory covered by the Oakland RA’s jurisdiction, however, necessitated a substantial complement of men and women occupying more than three full floors of the large office building.

  Loren found herself staring at a photo from her San Leandro case: a missing three-year-old, his beautiful nutmeg complexion contrasting sharply with the bright yellow background. She shook off her funk and completed the FD-302, a form used for recording interviews and other investigative activity.

  She realized it was getting late—Zach would be starting to make dinner about now so that when she walked in, she would have enough time to wash up, set the table, and corral the kids into the dining room.

  The sun had set a while ago and some of the agents were preparing to wrap things up for the day. Loren was always one of the last to leave. Not because she loved her office—she cared for and respected most of the people there, even though the work itself was emotionally difficult—but she felt a certain level of responsibility to do everything she could to find the missing children. Knocking off before six seemed like giving them the short stick. All in her squad felt the same way.

  As she set the photo back in the San Leandro file, she heard her colleagues, Jimmy Hill and Tran Minh, welcome an investigator from Oaklan
d PD’s Special Victims Section, part of the Vice/Child Exploitation Unit.

  Another new case. Another missing kid. Does it ever end?

  She knew the answer to that question, and it was not anything she wanted to think about.

  “Elvis Courtland,” a man with a moderately deep voice said.

  “Elvis your real name?” Hill asked.

  “Actually, it is. Parents were fans.”

  “Have a seat,” Minh said with a chuckle. “You’re new to Oakland. I know a lot of the investigators. Never seen you before.”

  “Moved from Nashville. Worked there fifteen years, then the wife got a job at Facebook. Bam. Life turned upside down.”

  “I’ll give you what we’ve got,” Hill said.

  Loren spaced out, her mind periodically picking up a detail here and there…

  Young blonde girl about five years old

  Loren pulled out a report from the investigating San Leandro detective and re-read the original complaint.

  Au pair from Germany befriended thirty-something woman

  Loren logged onto her system and pulled up the case.

  Abducted from Lake Merritt area

  She opened the photos of the street where the child was last seen and clicked through them, hoping to catch something she had not previously seen.

  Suspect met au pair at the lake

  Loren made a note to re-interview the contractor who worked on the house prior to the child’s disappearance.

  Suspect identified as Amy Robbins

  Loren sat up straight. Suddenly all nerve endings were awake, her hearing tuned to what was being said in the adjacent cubicle.

  “What do we know about this Robbins?” Courtland asked.

  Hill: “Haven’t had a whole lot of time to drill down. Suffered a tragedy years ago. Child and husband killed in a car crash. Deceased daughter fits general description of abductee, Melissa Ellis.”

  Loren closed her eyes. Jesus Christ, Amy.

  “I don’t know if your lieutenant told you, but complainant said an OPD detective came by asking questions. Didn’t get his name. But the au pair said he visited her too, and said his name was Carr. About six feet, athletic, had this scar that cut through his left eyebrow, causing a small bald spot there.”

  Loren’s jaw dropped. That description sure sounded like someone she knew. The general physical characteristics could describe millions of men but for the nearly unnoticeable facial blemish. Still, was that possible?

  “Parents were not the ones to report the child missing,” Hill said.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Suspicious,” Hill said, “I know. Got a list of questions for the Ellises. Wanna come along with us?”

  The creaking sound of a chair moving. Then Courtland’s voice: “Hell yeah. They know we’re coming?”

  “No.” Hill laughed. “Absolutely not. Something’s off if they don’t call the police when they realize their daughter’s missing. Au pair thinks there’s child abuse. Mother.”

  “Let’s do it,” Courtland said.

  “Gotta grab our jackets and we can head out.”

  Loren pulled her phone from her pocket. She brought up Amy’s number, then stopped with her finger poised over the green call icon. Is this the right move? What the hell’s going on here? Doesn’t sound like Amy. Gotta be mistaken identity.

  And then it hit her. The au pair, the blonde girl at the lake. Loren was there when Amy met them.

  Holy shit. This is not good.

  Amy, what’ve you gotten yourself into?

  39

  Keller walked into the Starbucks off Morro. The café was a large open space, and as he entered and took in the layout, he realized he would have been better served by going into the two-story bookstore across the outdoor mall.

  He ditched his hat, fake beard, and glasses—which were now bent and scratched—then turned his coat inside out, transforming the brown exterior into a blue shell…chosen specifically for reasons such as this. He grabbed a copy of USA Today off a nearby table, ordered a tall coffee, and casually sat with his back to the windows thumbing through the business section.

  As he sipped his drink, he considered his options. The safest move would be to leave town and reduce the odds law enforcement could locate him. Explaining and proving that he was not the criminal party would take time—time he did not have. What’s more, the girl was injured after he drugged her and ran through a crowded street. An argument could be made for reckless child endangerment.

  Alternatively, he could attempt to obtain a status on Melissa. He only got a glimpse of her before he had to flee, but she was still and lying face down. Not good, and that concerned him…not only because he was responsible for bringing her home, but because she was in his arms when she got injured. He failed to protect her. He had her against his body. A helpless little girl. He found himself shaking his head and clenching his right fist.

  Keller took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and cleared his mind. He needed to let it go, focus, and figure out a path forward.

  A moment later, he heard a commotion outside when a patron opened the door and a cool breeze rushed in. He looked up and saw two of the men he had fought with, looking for him, rubbernecking their heads with a cop following closely behind them.

  Keller was confident he no longer fit the description of the perpetrator they were looking for, but he had to busy himself to maintain his air of confidence. He pulled out his phone and began a search of area hospitals.

  He had a job to do and retreating—playing it safe—was not a viable option.

  40

  The siren rose and fell in a rhythm as the ambulance raced through the streets en route to the hospital. Amy held Melissa’s hand as the paramedics took her vitals and completed their assessment.

  “Is she going to be okay?”

  “I’m going to leave that to the doctor to answer,” the woman said as she placed a stethoscope on her chest. “Your daughter took a nasty blow to the head. Vitals are stable, but she’s in shock. Possible concussion. More than that, the doc’s gonna have to determine.”

  As they approached the emergency room entrance, Amy realized she was going to need a plausible story. Who was she? Christine Ellis? Amy Robbins? Someone else altogether? Melissa did not have any ID, and Amy could claim she had lost her wallet in the pursuit. They had no reason to search her. She could create an alias and hope that they did not have time to figure it out before Melissa was discharged.

  The last time Amy had seen the inside of an ER, it was in a state she cared not to revisit. This was a different magnitude—she had not been through a trauma herself, her daughter and husband were not seriously injured…but a little girl she cared about deeply, who might be her biological daughter, was in this facility because of actions Amy had taken. That weighed heavily on her. She had to make this right.

  To do that, she would have to lie and deceive and keep her distance from law enforcement.

  As the ambulance’s rear doors opened and Melissa was offloaded, Amy reached into her purse and yanked all the ID and bank cards from the zippered compartment, then shoved them into her underwear. There were only two dollars left in her wallet, which she ditched in the ER waiting room trash can.

  Amy was mesmerized by the sudden, orchestrated activity surrounding Melissa. Doctors and nurses moved in coordinated chaos. She was drawn back to that rainy, fateful Boston evening. And as hard as she tried to push the memories away, they kept dominating the scene in front of her, like a sheet draped over the stage play unfolding before her. She sensed her grip on reality slipping away.

  Amy fought to stay in the here and now, to see Melissa and not Lindy lying helpless on the bed. White coats moved in and out, orders given, and instruments and devices passed about.

  A bloody sponge dropped to the floor.

  Amy’s
gaze dropped as well, watching as a shoe stepped on it. Red liquid pooled beneath it on the tile, running slightly toward her.

  “Miss,” a woman said by her ear. “Come with me. Let the doctors do their thing.”

  “No,” Amy said automatically, the words not truly registering.

  “C’mon.” A tug on her shoulder. Gentle, nonthreatening.

  Amy allowed her torso to be turned. She headed away from Melissa, swinging her head to give a final look as she trudged away.

  “I’m Catrina. I just need to get some information while they work on your daughter. That is your daughter, right?”

  “Huh?” Amy took in her face: creased and lined, a middle-aged woman staring at her, awaiting her response. “Sorry. I’m…” She looked back over her left shoulder but could no longer see the area where Melissa was being treated.

  “Let’s start with something easy. Your name.”

  “My…” She turned again and glanced back from where she had come.

  “Your name. First name?”

  “Um…sorry. I’m not…not feeling so good. Can I…” Amy took a seat where she was, on the floor.

  “Miss? Are you okay?”

  Amy lay back and rested her head on the ground. Staring at the ceiling. She just wanted to close her eyes and go to sleep. The stress of the past few days, the guilt and emotions of the past hour…

  “I need help here,” the nurse yelled into the hallway.

  Amy let her lids shut and she heard voices but was not able to respond. She let things happen somewhere in the background, off in another room. For now, she just needed to rest.

  41

  Loren sat there a long moment after Hill and Courtland left. The man that the au pair and bakery owner described sure sounded like Mickey Keller.

  And that was not a good development.

  Loren had worked with Keller when he was an LAPD detective and she was a new agent assigned to the FBI’s Los Angeles Division. She found him a skilled investigator but had handled only a couple of complex cases with him. They had a solid professional relationship based on mutual respect. He saved her bacon on one occasion and never made a big deal out if it—which she appreciated.