by R. H. Herron
Steiner didn’t flinch, though. “Whose weed?”
“Harper’s.”
“How did you smoke it?”
“What?”
“Joint? Vape? Bong?”
Yeah, they just carried bongs around in their purses. “Vape.”
“Okay. Then where did you go?”
“We got some chips at a liquor store.” It sounded stupid when she said it out loud. Got high, bought some snacks. So teenaged. So predictable.
“Then?”
“We went to the party at the squat.” Kevin’s mouth, Harper dancing as everyone watched. “I don’t remember.”
“Okay.”
Jojo’s throat was tight. “But—”
“It’s really okay, Jojo. Let’s try a different angle. Have you checked your cell phone for messages you might have forgotten sending or receiving?”
“Yeah. Nothing.” Just a lot of texts to Harper, unanswered.
“Did you go through your pockets?”
Jojo stared at him. “I didn’t even think about that. They kept my clothes at the hospital.”
Mom leaned forward and said quietly, “I asked ID. There was nothing in your pockets.”
Steiner said, “What about your bag? What were you carrying last night?”
Jojo lifted her black shoulder bag. “Just this.”
“And you’ve gone through it?”
Dumbly, Jojo shook her head. Her bag, like her pockets, hadn’t even occurred to her. She scooted forward in her chair so she could set the bag on top of the desk. She scrabbled inside it, pulling items out at random. Her phone. Empty water bottle. Two packs of Doublemint gum, both opened. Seven pens. Her notebook. Four tampons, which she did not put on the table. Two chargers, one that went to her phone, the other one Harper’s, because Harper never remembered to bring an iPhone charger anywhere she went and her phone was constantly dead. A bruised apple that was damp and soft on one side.
And a white phone.
“Holy shit.”
“Whose is that?” Mom’s voice was reedy.
“Harper’s.”
Steiner reached for it.
“No.” Mom lunged forward and grabbed the phone, dumping it into her purse. “Sorry, Nate. We’re going to look at it first.”
“It has to go to evidence.”
“It will.”
“Come on, Laurie. You know this. You might lose fingerprints.”
“Break time.” Mom stood. “Come on, Jojo.”
“Wait. Laurie, I’m doing your daughter a favor here. Just chatting. No lawyer. Don’t push it, okay?”
Mom whirled on him then, one finger pointed directly at him, her eyes blazing. “Are you threatening us that you’ll start treating her like a suspect?”
Steiner went rigid. “There was a murder not ten feet from her.”
“And she was unconscious.”
He gave a hangdog look but said, “Still have to clear every possible angle.”
What did that mean? Jojo’s heart did a backflip into her stomach.
“So she is a suspect.” Mom slammed her hands against the tabletop. “Are you arresting my daughter, Nate?”
TWENTY-ONE
LAURIE WAS READY to get Jojo out so fast that Steiner wouldn’t even have a chance to grab his flex-cuffs. She’d pull Jojo’s arm, kick open the door with her foot, and in twenty seconds they could be through the lobby and out the front door.
But Steiner said, “Of course not. She’s not a suspect, but she has to keep her nose clean. Just in case. Don’t be like this. Give me the phone, and I’ll get a forensic dump and grab the prints on it.”
Laurie stayed still.
Steiner said, “Damn it, don’t compromise this case. You’re a dispatcher, remember? Not a cop.”
Laurie shoved it at him. “Fine. Take it.”
“I’m happy to return it after I pull the data. Then I’ll put you in charge of getting it back to her parents, okay? In case anyone else tries to get hold of her.”
Laurie tried not to huff as Steiner left the room.
Jojo said nothing.
They sat in silence for fifteen minutes. Jojo didn’t even try to talk. Laurie sat as still as she could, clasping her hands so tightly her knuckles hurt.
When Steiner came back and handed the phone to her, Laurie said, “We’re taking a break.” She didn’t give Jojo a chance to say no.
It was Saturday, so there was no one staffing Omid’s admin’s desk, no one to stop them. Laurie fumbled with the key ring. There, the big heavy one. Other rooms in the department had coded entry pads. The chief’s office, though, only had two official keys, Omid’s and his admin Marge’s. When Omid had taken the promotion, though, he’d paid a hardware-store buddy to make a copy for Laurie, giving him a hundred-dollar tip to ignore the “Do Not Duplicate” instruction. Just in case, Omid had said, giving it to her.
In case of what?
In case of whatever.
In case of now.
Laurie closed the door behind them. The blinds that looked out into the meeting area and at Marge’s desk were already shut, as were the blinds over the exterior windows. It was dim, the fluorescent lights taking long seconds to warm up. The room smelled like Omid, like his Old Spice deodorant and Proraso shaving cream. His desk was uncharacteristically messy—papers strewn over the surface and an empty coffee cup resting on its side.
He’d run out of the office to save Jojo, and he hadn’t come back yet. Laurie’s heart twisted with a sharp pain she didn’t see coming—Omid was in the hospital. He could have died. How close had she come to losing him?
To losing both of them?
“Mom, do they think I’m a suspect?”
Her breath still traitorously shallow, Laurie said, “No.”
“But he said—”
“They don’t.” If any of her cops spent even a half second wondering if Jojo had killed Zachary Gordon, Laurie would personally detach their nuts from their bodies. “You were there, so they have to say that. But you’re not a suspect.”
“But you said—”
“Enough. Don’t worry.” Laurie dropped onto the dark orange couch she’d helped Omid pick out. She waved Jojo next to her.
Her daughter thumped down, her purse clutched tightly between her hands.
“Can I have that charger, please?” Laurie pressed the ON button again and again, but the phone was obviously long dead.
Jojo handed it over wordlessly, and Laurie plugged it in.
The phone gave a jolt, vibrating to life.
“Mom.”
Laurie looked up. “Yeah, baby?”
Jojo shook her head. Her cheeks were pale. “Nothing.”
A lock screen came up, a picture of Harper making a duck face. Who made their own photo a lock screen? “Do you know the code?”
“Here.” Jojo took the phone out of her hand. “I have thumbprint access.”
Laurie felt a thud in the middle of her belly. The girls were so close again, and she’d never known. What else didn’t she know about her daughter?
Jojo held the phone so that both of them could look at the face of it. Text after text rocketed past, coming to life.
From Jojo: Where are you?
What’s going on?
I don’t know what happened.
You have to answer me.
ANSWER ME.
From the boyfriend, Ray:
Where you at? Call me.
Come on. Why don’t you call me back?
Laurie reached to click on his contact info, but there was nothing else in it—no last name, no address, no other social media accounts. She shot a look at Jojo, who just shook her head.
From Pamela: For the love of God, call us back.
We’re out of our minds.
&n
bsp; Harper, I’m losing it. Call me.
Nothing from Kevin Leeds.
“What was the last text she sent?”
Jojo clicked. “Looks like . . . to Ray.” She held out the phone.
Meet us at the side of the house—in the yard.
Laurie felt her breath catch in her chest. “‘Us.’ That’s you and her?”
“I guess.”
“Did you meet up with Ray?”
“We were supposed to, yeah.”
“But you don’t remember.”
Jojo shook her head. She squinted as if she had a headache. “I got in his car with her. But I can’t remember what he looks like or—” She made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. “God, I’m so stupid.”
“Okay,” said Laurie. “It’s okay. Let’s keep looking. Can you see who she called last night?”
Jojo’s fingers flew over the screen. “No one.”
Well, teens didn’t call anyone, ever. “What about her e-mail? Facebook? Snapchat?”
“Hang on.” Jojo pulled up app after app. “Nothing in e-mail but some school stuff. Last Snap was to me, but it’s gone. Doesn’t look like she downloaded it.” Her daughter’s cheeks colored.
“What about Facebook?”
“Mom.” In Jojo’s voice was what she wasn’t saying: Facebook is for the olds. But she pulled it up.
There were dozens of messages, but only eight unread ones.
“Okay.” Jojo flicked them open. “These two are just some jewelry company she was messaging about some earrings.”
Harper and jewelry. “What about the others?”
“One from her dad from two days ago.” Jojo grimaced. “A cat GIF.”
“And?”
“Five from . . . Wait, Jack Ramsay? Like, Captain Ramsay?”
Laurie tugged the phone from Jojo’s fingers. “Huh?”
There he was. Jack Ramsay’s wide-jawed face looked at her from the tiny avatar. Confusion made Laurie’s thoughts sludgy. Jack Ramsay had retired the year before, on his fiftieth birthday. He lived on the east end and had broken up with his third wife a few months ago. She and Omid had had him over for dinner twice since his retirement. He’d been excited about his new speedboat. “What the hell?”
I need to see you.
Harper, this isn’t a joke.
I’m getting desperate.
Don’t do this.
You need to come to my house ASAP. I’m not kidding around. We could be in a lot of trouble.
Jojo wriggled and reached for the phone. “I don’t get it. Why is he messaging her?”
Laurie kept her grip tight as she scrolled backward. “I have no idea.” There were dozens of messages, going back six months or more.
You’re like a flower. A perfect flower.
Laurie’s stomach tightened painfully.
From Harper: Well, you’re like a gray-haired sugar daddy, and I like sugar and daddies and gray if it’s like fifty shades of it.
TWENTY-TWO
LAURIE TURNED THE phone so Jojo couldn’t read it.
“Mom, let me have it.”
“No.” She could outstubborn her daughter any day.
“I have to see it, too. You know that, right?”
Her daughter’s voice was stern. She was right, damn it.
“Jesus, okay.” She leaned against Jojo’s small shoulder. “Did you know about this? About him?”
Jojo shook her head. “Scroll back some more.”
Laurie turned a gasp into a cough. A picture of Harper in a cheesy red negligee, the kind Frederick’s of Hollywood sold, the kind that was scratchy and uncomfortable. The image showed only Harper’s upper half, nipples clear through the red mesh.
“She sent this to him? To Captain Ramsay?” Jojo’s eyes were huge.
“You really didn’t know?”
She shook her head harder. “Uh-uh.”
Laurie believed her. She stood, putting the phone in her pocket.
“What are you doing?” Jojo sounded scared.
“Taking you home.”
“But my statement. I wasn’t done, was I?”
“That can wait.” Though Laurie hated like hell to admit it to herself, Harper was more important right now. Jojo was physically okay. She was safe. Harper wasn’t.
She should tell Steiner; she should divulge this. But this couldn’t be what it sounded like. Ramsay was an old friend. He’d saved Omid’s ass one time when a suspect went sideways on him on Webster Street. Maybe he’d talk to her.
Jojo began, “Steiner said that—”
“I don’t care what he said. You’re not a criminal, nor are you a real suspect. He can’t keep you here. You did nothing wrong. He can come to the house if he needs more.” Laurie knew exactly what their rights were. “After I drop you off, I’ll go to Ramsay’s house. I’ll sort this out.” Yeah, right.
Jojo narrowed her eyes. “Take me with you.”
“No effing way.”
“Do you think he has her? Do you think Harper is there with him?”
If she were, Ramsay wouldn’t be sending such frantic messages. The last had come in just an hour ago. “No.”
“Then it’s safe, right? Take me. Maybe he’ll tell me something he wouldn’t tell you.”
Laurie balled her hands into fists. This wasn’t happening. “Honey . . .”
“Please don’t leave me alone. I can’t be alone.” Jojo’s voice cracked.
Laurie lost her breath. “Oh, honey.”
“Take me. I’ll stay in the car. Just don’t leave me.”
“Of course. Of course.” She wanted to pull Jojo into her arms, but if she did, Jojo would melt down—she could feel it—and then Jojo would be furious at losing it. So instead Laurie dug out her own cell phone and pulled up Steiner’s number.
Cops lied all the time. Dispatchers did, too. They were trained to. Of course your husband won’t be arrested if he comes to the station to see if he has a warrant.
No, we’re not sending the police, just an ambulance.
If you open the door to talk to the cop, he’ll just take a statement and let you go on your way.
She texted Steiner, Jojo just got her period, probably stress, running out to drugstore, back in a few minutes.
* * *
* * *
JACK Ramsay’s house was an older bungalow on the east end, the cheaper side of the city. He couldn’t afford the monster houses he’d had with any of his three wives—he’d lost one house per divorce—but this place had seemed warm when Laurie visited him a few months before. Even though the garage was leaning and the backyard an overgrown wasteland, the house’s exterior had a rigidity that disguised a soft kindness, like Jack himself.
“Stay here.” Laurie unstrapped her belt.
Jojo said, “Hang on.”
Laurie waited. One beat, then two. “Yeah?”
“What if . . . I mean, I know it’s him, and I grew up with him and everything. But what if he does have her? Do you think, like, Steiner should be here or something? Or someone higher?”
Or Dad? The words her daughter didn’t say rang clearly inside the safe shell of the car. Yeah. Laurie wanted Omid, too.
But she said, “It’s Jack. I’ve known him for twenty years. I’ll be safe with him.”
“Do you think she really, like, slept with him?”
Laurie would lay a million dollars that Harper had. Girls didn’t send those kinds of pictures, nor did they flirt that hard with someone they didn’t want to bag. “I don’t know, sweetheart. But I really want to find out.”
“Can I just come to the door?”
“Don’t you dare move from that seat. You got me?” Laurie used her strongest don’t-fuck-with-Mom voice, and it seemed to work. Jojo melted back into the seat.
; “Yeah.”
Saturday afternoon in this kind of neighborhood meant outdoor action. It meant lawn mowers and weed whackers. Two kids across the street shot hoops, and another kid Rollerbladed by. Laurie avoided the eye of the guy next door who was trimming a camellia. No time for small talk.
She rang the doorbell. A dog two houses down seemed to hear it, barking its head off.
Nothing.
She rang it again.
This time the door was yanked open forcefully. Ramsay’s eyes were bright until they registered who she was. “Oh. Hey, Laurie. What’s up?”
Had he been expecting Harper? “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” He brought her through the living room and into the kitchen. On the large table was a huge puzzle, halfway done. It had to be a two-thousand-piece one, Star Wars–themed.
“Wow,” she said.
Ramsay shrugged. “What can I say? I’m working the Coliseum for A’s games, but I gotta pass the time when I’m not there.”
“How’s retirement treating you?” The words came out of her mouth without her thinking. As if she’d honestly dropped by for a social visit.
“Good, good. Want something to drink? I can make coffee, or I think I’ve got some Coke in the garage fridge.” He waved at the door to the garage.
“I’m good. Listen, Jack, I can’t get into everything that’s going on, but I’m looking for Harper Cunningham.”
Ramsay’s face flickered.
She knew this man. You didn’t work with someone for so long without knowing him better than any short-term wife ever could.
He was scared. That split-second flicker had given him away.
“Who?” he said.
Laurie didn’t have to repeat it. “She’s missing. We’re worried about her.”
He gave up the pretense. “What do you mean, ‘missing’? Where is she?”
“I was hoping you could help me with that.” It was a cop phrase, and it came out of her mouth like she’d never gotten off the street and into dispatch.
“How did you find out I know her?”
“Facebook.”
He blanched. “Oh, God.”
“Jack—” She reached toward him, but he pulled back.