Girl Missing, #1

by Kate Gable

  “Where is the ladder?” I ask.

  “Excuse me?” He turns to face me.

  His short, cropped hair is completely flat on top giving his head a strange rectangular look. His face is freckled and his demeanor is cocky, well above his rank. Pay grade and arrogance typically have a positive correlation, but this guy is an outlier even for that range.

  “There must be a ladder, right? Especially if we suspect that this was a suicide.”

  I use the word we intentionally, pausing to enunciate it. It's one of the tricks of the trade. If I say you, it's an accusation, which can possibly be taken personally. If I say we, then I'm referring to no one in particular and everyone is at fault.

  “There is no ladder,” the skinny deputy says, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to another.

  “That would make it difficult to have been a suicide then,” I say quietly.

  I am sure of this fact, but I have to play these little games of semantics in order to keep everyone's egos in check.

  “The rope was tied up on that branch.” I point. “I'm not exactly sure how far off the ground it is, but this girl could not climb up there without a ladder or help.”

  “So, this is a murder?” Lenore asks.

  “Looks like it.” I nod.

  I jot down a few notes in my notebook and take a few more pictures with my phone. The photos help me remember things, small details, something that I might overlook.

  I scan the scene again.

  Is there anything in her pockets? Did she have a phone?

  I won't know the answers to any of these questions until the scene is properly processed and that's not my job.

  Despite all the advances in technology, my job remains pretty straightforward. I ask people questions and I make sure the answers make sense. When they don't, I ask more questions.

  Taking a few steps away from the body, I point my phone at the bystanders congregating around the yellow Do Not Cross tape. I zoom in and take a close-up shot of each one.

  2

  I stay at the crime scene for a while, interviewing the bystanders, watching all of the data collection and trying to figure out where to go from here. With any dead body, the first thing to do is to identify her.

  We have to know who she is, what she was doing here, and who her family is in order to start to put together answers to all of the different questions. Until DNA is collected and the media is alerted, very little can be done. In this case, the media doesn’t have to be notified. A few news vans arrive and I start to give them the basic rundown of what we have.

  It's well into the evening by the time everything is done and after a whole day of subsisting on crackers and bad coffee, I yearn for a warm meal and a shower. My phone vibrates in my back pocket.

  “Hey, do you mind if we cancel tonight?” I ask.

  “Yes," Sydney replies in her wry, no-nonsense voice.

  "I'm really beat. It's been a long day."

  “Oh, come on," she pleads. “It will be fun. Just two drinks.”

  I shake my head no, but I say yes. I always say yes to her. Sydney and I have been friends for a couple of years and we clicked right from the beginning. There are not that many people in the Los Angeles Police Department who I can say that about.

  I meet her at our usual hangout, a dark, dingy bar not far from the police station on Wilcox Avenue. This place is typically frequented by cops in between shifts. It’s a place to blow off some steam before going home to their families.

  Our jobs are stressful, but not in the usual way. Your adrenaline isn't pumping all day long; instead, there's this low-level feeling of anxiety that courses through every hour of every day. This is especially true for deputies on patrol.

  Since I’ve become a detective, that feeling has somewhat moved into the background. My job now is to ask questions. Talk to people. Make them comfortable with me so that they will open up.

  Frankly, I like it a lot more than what I used to do: driving around in a patrol car, pulling people over for speeding or blowing through red lights. You never knew who you were going to encounter or what was going to happen. Most of the time it was angry people running late to work but, on occasion, it was someone with fifty pounds of methamphetamines or a bag full of assault rifles in their trunk and no interest in getting arrested.

  I arrive at the Tavern, with its warm wooden floors and soothing dark walls, and spot Sydney sitting at the bar on the far end. It's in the middle of a shift change so this place is not exactly full. That’s just the way I like it.

  Sydney has short dark hair and wide-set almond eyes, a perfect complement to her olive skin. She studied psychology at UCLA and got her Master’s in criminal science. Then she went to the police academy. It's not exactly the most conventional path to becoming a cop, but then again, she's not exactly the most conventional girl.

  Sydney has two sleeves of tattoos representing all of the most meaningful things in her life: favorite trips, inspiring quotes, and beloved pets. When she reaches over to get the bartender's attention, I glance at the one at the nape of her neck. A tall, elegant palm tree stands swaying in the wind, reaching up to her hairline. Sydney is originally from Minnesota and that palm tree represents her new life here in this land of sea and sand and a goodbye to her life back home.

  My martini is ready just as I sit down.

  “A girl could get used to this kind of service,” I joke and she laughs, tossing her hair from one side to the other.

  “Why do we keep coming here?” I ask. "Aren't there any non-cop bars around?”

  She puts her arms around me and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  “He's not coming here tonight.”

  I roll my eyes and say, “I'm not talking about him.”

  “Yes, you are,” she challenges me. "You love the Tavern. Why would you suddenly want to go to a new place?”

  "I'm just sick of… cops. I think I need to get some new friends.”

  “You can try, but I'm not sure that anyone else will put up with your crazy hours.”

  “What are you talking about?” I gasp demonstratively.

  "You’re unreliable. You’re always late. Sometimes you don't show up at all.”

  "Is it my fault that I'm on call? It's not like I can say, ‘hey, why don't you kill that guy at noon, because I have plans tonight?’”

  “Man, wouldn’t that be nice?” Sydney ponders and we both giggle.

  I take a sip of my martini and look around again. Even though she is certain that Thomas Abrams won't show up tonight, I'm not so sure.

  I keep turning on my stool and glancing over at the door. It hasn't been that long since our breakup. He works in my precinct and I've done a pretty good job avoiding him at work. The few times we’ve spoken, it has been all business, but you can't exactly do that in a place like this.

  The Tavern is small. I'd be surprised if more than fifty people fit in this place. The ceilings are low and the bar top is tall. There are not enough stools and most of the time, we all huddle around each other. This probably wouldn’t work in many other places, but the clientele here spends twelve hours a day in a car, so standing is a nice reprieve.

  I ask Sydney about her day and she is excited to report that it was rather uneventful. Sometimes it's nice to have days like that. Even weeks. They make up for the flurry of activity that accompanies the rest of the time.

  When we order a second round of drinks, I tell her that this is my last one and that I have come to a decision.

  Inhaling the last of her beer by tipping her head and placing the glass at an almost ninety-degree angle, she asks, “That decision is?”

  “I'm not dating any more cops.”

  She laughs.

  "I'm serious," I insist, secretly wondering if this decision is just like the one I had made earlier where I promised myself to run three miles a day. It's a lofty goal, but so far all I could manage was two miles, walking about half of the distance.

  “So, who are you going to
date then?”

  A tall guy with piercing green eyes and a strong jaw walks up to us. He bends down and gives Sydney a kiss on the cheek.

  "Hey there.” She whips around and kisses him on the mouth. Draping his arm around her shoulder, Patrick Flannery orders a beer.

  They have been together for almost a year and just recently got engaged. Their wedding will be next June and I have already been pressed into service as the maid of honor.

  "You two need to get a room,” I say, my voice tense with jealousy.

  “We will, right after I finish this beer," Patrick says.

  Sydney nudges him as if she's embarrassed, but we all know that nothing could be further from the truth. Playing with his tie, she twirls the end around her finger.

  “Hey, be careful there or I'll have to iron this thing again.”

  "I can do it for you.”

  "Not in a million years. Have you seen this girl with an iron?” he asks me.

  “Listen, can we just all agree that the most important thing that the academy taught us is how to iron the perfect crease?” Sydney asks.

  “Probably second only to how to apprehend criminals,” I say.

  “You two just don’t get it,” Patrick says as Sydney and I laugh. He is the type of guy who is very picky about his clothes and likes everything his way.

  He straightens his tie and we continue to joke around. Unlike the majority of us, Patrick isn’t employed by the LAPD or the sheriff’s department. He works in communications at the FBI.

  A call came in two years ago for a welfare check and Sydney was the one assigned to it. A wife had gone missing and her ex-husband had no idea where she’d gone.

  Nothing seemed suspicious at first. Nice neighborhood. Nice husband. Appropriate emotions of concern.

  When they tried to bring him in for more questioning, he went on the run, running down one of the neighbors in the process. They caught him and found three hundred pounds of explosives in the back of his car. The FBI was called in and Patrick was one of the people involved in speaking with the media. That's how they met. He took Sydney’s statement and then asked her out for dinner. They spent the night together and they haven't been apart since.

  I know that I said that I was going to go home soon, but after a few drinks, I find myself lingering even after Sydney and Patrick leave.

  I don't know what I'm doing here. Am I seriously waiting for Thomas to show up? Why?

  I can do so much better. I know that of course, but with the alcohol coursing through my veins, I can't help but miss him.

  "Is this seat taken?" someone asks, sliding onto the stool next to me without waiting for my answer.

  I spin around to face him, leaning against the back of the stool.

  “Can I buy you another drink?” he asks, pointing to my empty glass and then holding up two fingers to the bartender.

  “Are you in the habit of asking questions that you don't want answers to?” I challenge him, narrowing my eyes.

  “Sometimes, when it feels right,” he says, leaning closer. He runs his finger along his strong jawline and, for a moment, I lose myself in his sparkling blue eyes.

  “Are you a body language expert then?” I ask, propping my head up with my hand and staring at his thick lashes. Those can’t be real, right?

  The bartender, a fast-moving spry woman with the no-nonsense look of an experienced teacher, brings us two martinis.

  “You a big martini drinker?” I ask, looking him up and down.

  Black leather jacket. Black slacks. Black shoes. The charcoal button-down shirt is open at the top. No tie.

  “Sometimes," he says.

  When I don't move or say anything else, he raises his glass.

  "Can I propose a toast?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head, smiling just at the corner of my lips.

  I want to deny it and I want to fight against it, but I like this. I like this dance, this tango, this back-and-forth. I like being wooed.

  “I promised myself that I would only have two drinks and I already had them,” I explain just as the expression on his face starts to fall. “If you had waited for my answer, then you wouldn’t be out fifteen dollars.”

  “Eh,” he waves, “it’s a small price to pay to talk to a woman like you.”

  Woman.

  I like that he referred to me as a woman instead of a girl.

  It’s not that the term girl is offensive. In most cases, it’s not. It’s just minimizing and, in a place like this, in this job, it's important that I don’t allow myself to be minimized any more than I already am.

  “I’m Luke,” he says, extending his hand.

  No more lines. No more jokes. No more playing around.

  Suddenly, I have an inexplicable urge to kiss him. I practically have to purse my lips together to stop myself from just reaching over and grabbing him by the back of his neck and pulling him closer to me.

  “I'm Kaitlyn," I say, shaking his hand.

  His grip is strong, but there is no posturing.

  It's not overtly and comically powerful, the way that some cops’ handshakes are in an effort to encapsulate their entire ego into that one squeeze.

  Luke finishes his martini and leans so close to me that I can smell the vodka on his breath. I glance down at his mouth and watch as he slowly moves his tongue over his lower lip. When he looks up, his eyes practically imprint on mine.

  "Do you want to get out of here?” he asks and I can't say no.

  3

  I follow him outside. I'd be lying if I said that it's against my better judgement. It's not.

  He's cute and he's not a cop. I did say that I wasn't going to sleep with any more cops, right?

  He grabs my hand right outside the bar and pulls me underneath his arm and gives me a tight squeeze. At first, this simple act catches me by surprise, but I don’t pull away.

  I look up at him, his arm still draped over my shoulder, and our lips touch. Did I kiss him or did he kiss me? I can't tell who made the first move, all that I know is that I need this moment to last as long as possible.

  Our cars are parked in the lot around the corner. The small lot near the Tavern was packed as always and I had to find a spot on one of the side streets, after scanning a complicated No Parking sign to make sure that I didn’t get towed.

  When I click the button to unlock my car, Luke puts his arm around me and presses me against the door. He kisses me again. His hands make their way liberally around my body, eventually landing on my neck.

  When I kiss him back, he mumbles, “Your place or mine?”

  I try to pull away, but I can’t force myself to stop.

  “I live just a few blocks away," he says and kisses me again.

  He wants me to leave my car here, but then I would need a ride back and suddenly, it’s all becoming very logistically complicated.

  “No, I'll drive," I say.

  I wait for him to argue but he doesn't. I like that. He doesn’t argue over things that don’t matter.

  I climb into my 2015 Toyota Prius, the car that I have just finished making payments on, and drive a few streets following his Honda CRV. He wasn’t lying when he said he lived close. It's barely four streets away.

  “Why didn’t you just walk?” I ask, getting out of my car.

  “I was driving home and saw the parking spot. I was just going to pop in and say hi to a few people, but then I saw you sitting at the bar and I had to know your name.”

  I roll my eyes.

  He pulls me into his arms.

  “Does that line work on every girl you bring home?" I ask, folding my arms across my chest and pressing the lock button in a demonstrative fashion, almost as if to punctuate the question.

  “Yeah, I would have to say it has worked a few times.” Luke smiles and a dimple forms in the middle of his cheek.

  When he takes a small step closer to me, I can smell the breath mint that he had just popped into his mouth. I stare into his eyes and wait for him to mak
e the first move, but he just lets his arms relax by his sides and waits.

  I reach up and press my mouth to his. His lips are soft but strong, confident. Instead of rushing to get to the naked part, he takes his time and enjoys the moment. Then he pulls away, grabs my hand, and leads me to his apartment.

  It’s located on the second floor and the front door goes straight inside.

  An older woman in a nightgown sits in a flimsy chair right in front of her open window, next to his front door.

  “Hello, Mrs. Yandoli,” Luke says, holding my hand and giving me a little squeeze. “How are you tonight?”

  "The heater isn’t working again,” she mutters, picking at her stringy hair that’s pulled into a tight bun on top of her head.

  “Give me the name of the guy and I'll give him a call for you.”

  “I already did. They were supposed to come today, but no one showed up.”

  It's dark and the open hallway is poorly lit. Then something catches my eye and I see an outline of something underneath her nose. It takes me a moment to realize what I’m looking at, an oxygen tube. Mrs. Yandoli finishes one cigarette and immediately lights another, before turning around in her squeaky chair and grabbing the handle of the tank to roll it a little bit closer to her.

  "How about this?” Luke suggests. “I look around for someone and I'll give them a call for you. I'll do it first thing in the morning.”

  “Really?” Her eyes light up. “I'd really appreciate it.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you so much."

  Luke unlocks his door, grabs my hand, and pulls me inside.

  He kisses me again. Hard. He presses me against the wall and I kiss him back, burying my hands in his thick dark hair.

  He tugs at my jacket and pulls it off of me. Then he slides his hand under my shirt. I continue to kiss him, but he senses that something is off.

  “What's wrong?” Luke asks, keeping his mouth on mine.

  “Nothing,” I mumble and kiss him again.

  We make our way down the hallway to his bedroom. It's dark and the room is a kaleidoscope of shadows.