Close to Home

by Lisa Jackson

  “I’ll need a list of all her friends, anyone you can think of, and your neighbors and relatives. Does she have a boyfriend?”

  “She’s only fifteen!”

  “Fifteen-year-olds have boyfriends.”

  “I told you she was a good girl!”

  Bellisario nodded. “What about Tiffany’s friends? Were there any other girls or boys at her house?”

  “Not that I know of, but she’s got an older brother . . . oh, what’s his name, it escapes me right now. Seth! That’s it. Goes to a community college around here, I think, I don’t really know.”

  “Seth lives around here?”

  “I don’t . . . yeah, maybe. Seems that I saw his car when I dropped Candice off.” His expression darkened. “You don’t think . . . that the boy?”

  “I’m just gathering information, Mr. Fowler,” she said. “Did your daughter know Rosalie Jamison?”

  “Of course not. That girl was bad news.” Then he heard himself and said more quietly. “At least that’s what I’d heard, but no, I don’t think Candice had ever met her. She certainly didn’t say so. I never heard her name until she went missing, and then, of course, we talked to both our girls . . .” His voice faded to nothing, and he bit his lip as if the severity of the situation was too much to handle. “These kind of things don’t happen to good people. We go to church! We give to charity! We . . .” He looked to Bellisario for reassurance, but she could give him none.

  “What you can do to help me is give me a list of the people she knows and is in contact with, and especially if she had any trouble with other kids or at school.”

  “No, I told you, she’s a . . .” He stopped himself and, with a sigh, began writing down the names of friends and acquaintances, checking his cell phone’s contact list for numbers. As he was writing, a woman appeared in the doorway. Tall and thin, her ashen face a mask of sorrow, she stared at Bellisario with stricken eyes. At her side was a girl of about ten, and the woman was clutching the kid’s shoulders as if she were afraid the girl was about to be pried away from her.

  Bellisario stood and offered her hand across the desk with its piles of folders and two empty coffee cups. “Detective Lucy Bellisario.”

  The woman’s grip was limp, as if even finding the strength to shake hands was impossible. “I’m Reggie,” she said in a monotone, “and this is Emily.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Bellisario said. “Would you like to take a seat?” she invited, taking the girl’s smaller hand in her own and giving it what she hoped was a reassuring shake. She indicated the other guest chair, but Mrs. Fowler shook her head.

  “I’d—I’d rather stand,” she said, still clutching her daughter.

  Though she thought it would be better if the young girl weren’t included in the conversations, Bellisario understood the parents’ desperate need to hold her close. “Does Candice have a cell phone or any kind of mobile device on her?” she asked.

  “What fifteen-year-old kid today doesn’t?” Fowler glowered at the list he’d been writing as if somewhere in the names of people he barely knew was a kidnapper. “But she’s not answering, and we’ve called the cell phone company, she’s on our plan, but . . .” He shook his head sadly, rolling his eyes upward to look at his wife. “She’s not answering,” he said again in a softer voice.

  His wife dropped a hand on his shoulder. “I know.” Tears filled her eyes.

  For the next hour, Candice Fowler’s parents held themselves together enough to answer the rest of Bellisario’s questions. Len Fowler sold insurance, was an independent agent who had “no enemies, none!” Reggie worked part-time keeping her husband’s books and volunteered at the school and at Second Chance Animal Shelter, or S.C.A.R., which Bellisario had always thought was a weird acronym, but kept her opinions to herself. Candice had been active in the school band and wanted to become a nurse someday, they said, Reggie dabbing at her eyes. They gave Bellisario everything they knew about Candice’s routine, her teachers, her extracurricular activities, her friends, her enemies, her social media accounts. Bellisario asked if Candice had been acting strangely, if there was any trouble at home or at school. Of course not, in both cases, they assured her. Did she know Bobby Monroe, who had been a boyfriend of Rosalie Jamison’s? Candice’s parents shook their heads, but met each other’s gazes as if they were each silently asking the other about the name.

  “I’ve never heard of him,” Len said.

  “She never mentioned anyone named Bobby or Bob or Robert that I can remember,” Reggie agreed, then lifted her shoulders, “These days, there’s so much online stuff going on that I might not know.” She swallowed hard at the realization there could be so much about her daughter and her acquaintances she might be unaware of.

  “How about someone named Leo? You mentioned online. Maybe a chat room or Facebook or something?”

  Mrs. Fowler shook her head, then glanced down at her younger daughter. “Emily, did Candice ever mention anyone by those names, Leo or Bobby?”

  The younger Fowler girl, hanging close to her mother, shook her head slowly side to side.

  “Candice doesn’t know anyone associated with Rosalie Jamison!” Len insisted, getting more defensive by the second. He acted as if Bellisario were trying to put the blame on him and his wife for their daughter’s disappearance. Fortunately, Reggie, the calmer of the two, laid a hand on her husband’s and reminded him that the police were “only trying to help.”

  Some of the starch left Len’s spine, and he slid back down in his chair again. He asked about the investigation into the disappearance of Rosalie Jamison, but Bellisario was tight-lipped, not wanting to jeopardize or compromise the case they were building, though there wasn’t much, and even bringing up Bobby Morris’s name was a shot in the dark. All that Bellisario had found on Morris was that he might be a small-time marijuana dealer, though there was no real proof of that either, just unsubstantiated rumors. None of the leads in the Jamison case had panned out. The area where the detectives thought she may have been abducted showed no disturbance, no sign of any kind of struggle. In fact, the entire distance between the Columbia Diner and Rosalie’s home gave no clues as to the whereabouts of the missing girl.

  Even dogs had been unable to track her off her beaten path. It was as if she had found a secret portal and stepped into another universe.

  Or, more likely, a vehicle being driven by someone she knew.

  That was the kicker. Though Bellisario’s theory was unproven, she believed in her gut that Rosalie knew her kidnapper, that she’d somehow gotten into that vehicle willingly. Hence the mention of Bobby Morris. The boyfriend in Denver had yet to be identified, and Bellisario believed he might not even exist. She’d begun to think of him as Leo the Illusion.

  But if Rosalie knew her abductor, maybe Candice did as well, and that could work in their favor, help narrow their net.

  Either way, it looked as if Candice Fowler could be another victim. Bellisario did what she could for the panicked Fowler family, and, once they’d left, she coordinated with Turner in Missing Persons, who had already put out an AMBER Alert. She only hoped that America’s Missing Broadcast Emergency Response would help and that someone would call in with information on Candice and/or Rosalie, and kick-start the investigation.

  “There’s nothing!” Candice, in that little girl’s voice that grated on Rosalie’s nerves, yelled. It had been light for a few hours, and still the captive in Lucky’s box was as useless as ever.

  “You’ve looked all over the stall?”

  “I already told you!” she whined.

  Rosalie’s head was pounding from trying to deal with this . . . this girl, for lack of a better term. They’d been shouting back and forth, time ticking by, as Rosalie had tried to cajole, instruct, and wheedle Candice into some kind of action. She rubbed her side where she’d hurt it in her last unproductive attempt at escape. “There’s got to be something. A hook? Uh, a nail? Maybe a loose board?”

  “I already told you.
There’s nothing.” Sniffling again. “I’m cold.”

  “Wrap the sleeping bag around you.”

  “It’s dirty.”

  Rosalie sighed, realizing the girl needed time to adjust, to understand the gravity of her, of their situation, but they just didn’t have that luxury.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Didn’t they leave you food?”

  “I hate sandwiches! It looks like it’s from a convenience store case. All wrapped in plastic. It is!” She sounded positively mortified, and Rosalie closed her eyes as she leaned against the wall trying to think, to find a way to break out of this damned cell. “It’s past its pull date!”

  “He probably got it on sale.”

  “Ick!” she said, her voice high again, signaling she was about to break down once more. “I want—”

  Don’t say “My mommy,” Please, just don’t!

  “—to go home.”

  “Me too,” Rosalie said, surprised at how warm and fuzzy life with Mom and big-bellied Number Four appeared now that she was locked in this drafty old barn with Candice. “The only way we can go home is to escape. They’re not going to let us go. Don’t you watch any cop shows? They never let the victims go once they’ve seen the killer’s faces.”

  “Killer?” Candice squeaked.

  “The bad dude. Killer. Robber. Whatever.” Rosalie was thinking fast, trying not to panic the weaker girl, who was her only hope to break free. “So even if they don’t kill them, they never let the victims escape. They can’t. Or else they would be ID’ed and the police would catch them.”

  “Oh, no . . .”

  “So we have to outsmart them.”

  “Do you think we can?”

  “Yes, but we’ll have to be clever . . . and really brave.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “If you want to go home, then you have to work with me. That’s the only chance you’ve got.” Rosalie’s patience was wearing thin, and her throat was raw from screaming. Dear God, if the bastard had hidden a camera or microphone anywhere in here, they were dead meat. But, she figured, they were already, and if there had been a camera or any kind of security device, she was pretty sure she would know it by now. “So, the big guy, he doesn’t trust me anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, he never did.” She really didn’t want to explain about her failed attempt to escape, because she didn’t want to scare the girl any further, didn’t want her to consider the fact that whatever they attempted had a slim chance of working, but she figured it might come up. The big guy and Scraggly Hair might talk about it, so she hastily explained what she’d done and how she’d ended up back in her stall. “So you have to lure him in. Okay? He thinks you’re”—wimpy; he thinks she’s a wuss, And he’s right—“meek, so use that to your advantage, and when he’s not looking, make a run for it, but, here’s the important part, you need to lock him in there, so he can’t catch you, and then you can set me free.”

  “I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . . what about his friend?”

  Oh, geez, was she going for it? Rosalie couldn’t believe it. “Well, of course you can only do it if whoever shows up is alone. So far the littler guy, he’s never come by himself, but the big guy has.”

  “So—you want me to trick him and lock him in.”

  “That’s right, but we’ll have to be fast. He has a cell phone, so he’ll get help soon.” Rosalie already knew there were others involved, like some kind of conspiracy, it seemed. So timing was everything . . . well, and getting one of the men into the stall alone. “And you’ll have to play your part. Act scared.”

  “I won’t have to act.”

  “Okay. Good. You can do it, Candice. If you get the chance.” But Rosalie wasn’t so sure; she just knew she couldn’t come up with another option. “So start with a weapon. Anything that will do damage.” What were the chances of her being able to pull this off, a captured girl concerned about expiration dates on the jail food she was offered?

  She fingered the pieces of the nail clippers and thought about tossing them to Candice, but she might miss, and really, what were the chances that the meek girl in the far stall could really gouge out a guy’s eyes or try to puncture his jugular or kick him in his balls?

  She didn’t even answer herself. She already knew the odds were infinitesimal.

  “So buying me a beer was just a ruse to get some free legal advice,” Tom Yamashita said as he shrugged into his jacket. He was seated across the table at Clipper’s, a local pub that featured a bevy of microbrews indigenous to the area on tap and was decorated with pictures, sculptures, and models of all kinds of sailing vessels. Located on the crest of one of the town’s hills, the tavern smelled of beer and was outfitted with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the roofs of buildings built lower down on the hillside, offering up a panoramic view of the wide Columbia River and its northern shore in Washington State.

  “Not free advice,” Clint said, scraping his chair away from the table. “Bill me.” He downed the last of his pale ale and fished in his pants for his wallet. “I just wanted some advice—and fast. This kind of blindsided me.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “So, thanks.”

  “Any time.” Tom stood and zipped up his jacket. The son of a farmer in the area, he was a couple of years older than Clint, had gotten a scholarship to Stanford, become a lawyer, joined a prestigious firm in San Francisco, and then decided big-city life wasn’t for him. His wife, the mother of his two young sons, had agreed. So he’d hauled his family back to Stewart’s Crossing and hung up his shingle while still managing the family orchards, becoming the town’s favorite farmer/lawyer. Squaring a trucker’s cap onto his head, he joked, “You remember that I charge double on Saturdays, right?”

  “And you remember that the next time your tractor breaks down and you need to borrow mine, it’ll cost ya triple?”

  Tom’s smile stretched a little wider, showing even, white teeth, with a hint of gold near the back of his mouth. “Fair enough, man.” They shook hands across the table littered with empty glasses and the remains of what had been burgers and fries in plastic baskets. “I don’t think I told you anything you didn’t already know. If this kid is yours and you want to claim her, you’re going to want a paternity test and to file for at least partial custody. Father’s rights and all that. It’s best if Sarah’s on board, of course, costs less if we don’t have to have a lot of court appearances. Work it out with her, if possible, and it should be smooth sailing.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll start putting things together Monday,” Tom promised and sketched a good-bye.

  “Thanks,” Clint said, but Tom was already gone.

  After leaving enough cash for the meals, beers, and tip, Clint made his way to the wide front door, which was swinging open again. Four men that he didn’t recognize wearing jeans, plaid shirts, and jackets shoved their way inside. There had been a time when he’d known most of the citizens of Stewart’s Crossing, but those days had long passed, he reflected, as the men—a couple of them older than he was, the others maybe his age—bellied up to the bar. He shouldered open the door once more, and a cold wind from the east hit him as he headed out.

  The day had turned wintry. A light mist was falling, puddles forming on the sidewalk and streets, the temperature dropping. The Beast was parked a couple of blocks down the hill, wedged between other vehicles that ranged from motorcycles and small sedans to a huge van hauling Idaho plates.

  Windsurfers, he thought; the area was one of the best in the world for a sport that used large sailboards for skimming across the water, propelled only by the wind racing through the gorge. The van, equipped with racks, would be able to carry all the paraphernalia sailboarders needed. They were a fast-growing segment of the population in an area once known mainly for its fertile farmland.

  And so it goes, he thought, things change all the time. Wasn’t he experiencing a major alteration in his life? A day a
go he didn’t know he had a daughter. Now, once again he was a father, this time to a near-grown woman he didn’t know. Sarah was right. He needed to change that fact, and fast. He’d taken the first step of setting up the legal boundaries of custody and responsibility with Tom. He wondered how Sarah would take the information that he’d gotten a lawyer involved and decided, as he yanked open the door of his truck, that he didn’t give a damn. He’d unwittingly waited seventeen years; now things were going to be done his way.

  Or not? Were Sarah’s reasons for not telling him about Jade valid, or just excuses? He’d been so into her when she was in high school, the out-of-step girl who was funny, beautiful, and smart. But things had moved too fast, and he’d had issues at the time about being tied down, so he’d dated others, gotten involved with Andrea, and, other than the brief affair with Sarah during a period when he and Andrea had broken up, never looked back.

  Or so he’d tried to convince himself.

  Now, as his breath fogged in the cold air, he second-guessed himself. Maybe he didn’t know about Jade because he hadn’t wanted to admit he had a daughter. Maybe he’d convinced himself Jade was McAdams’s kid because he hadn’t wanted the responsibility of a child.

  Would it have been better if he’d known the truth?

  Would he have embraced fatherhood and marriage or, as Sarah had suspected, felt trapped and bitter and ended up resenting his family?

  “Damn it all to hell,” he said as he neared his truck.

  It wasn’t just cut-and-dried, and his feelings for Sarah were a mess. One second he wanted to throttle her, the next pull her to him and kiss her so hard that the rest of the world faded away. She had always gotten under his skin in a very sexual way, but they’d been young and randy, and now . . . now he was already fantasizing about her. He’d watched the way she handled her daughters and that jerk of an ex-boss or boyfriend or whatever Evan Tolliver was, and he’d liked what he’d seen.