Girl Missing, #1

by Kate Gable

“Where are you going?”

  “Stockton. There's a case that my boss is thinking of assigning me to. I'm not really sure about the details. I should be back in a couple of days, I hope."

  “Me, too," I say, picking my clothes up off the floor.

  "Can I make you breakfast?" Luke offers, heading to the kitchen.

  "No, I don't have time. I don't know how long it's going to take me to go up the hill. Weather might be bad, so can the traffic. The sooner I get going, the better."

  "Got it.”

  After getting dressed, I cake my hair in dry shampoo, brush it out, and apply a little bit of eyeliner and makeup.

  I want to jump into the shower, but I'm afraid that I'll be late.

  Instead, I grab my bag and wave good-bye. When I start to walk away from him, Luke grabs my hand and pulls me close to him.

  "I had a really good time last night," he whispers.

  Our faces are so close that our noses are touching.

  I can smell the minty freshness of his newly brushed teeth.

  "Can we do it again sometime?" he asks.

  I want to say no.

  I promised myself that I was no longer going to get involved with anyone in law enforcement, but Luke gives me that look that makes me remember our time together and how much he made me laugh.

  "Call me later," I say, "or text."

  "I'll call," he promises.

  I smile, not wanting to pull my hand away from him.

  I'm glad that he'll call instead of text.

  I reach over to him and give him one last kiss.

  "Talk to you later," he says when I finally pull away.

  "I'll be looking forward to it.” I laugh and so does he.

  Walking out of his apartment, I have a big, wide grin on my face that I can’t remove.

  Surprisingly, the drive to Big Bear takes only two hours as there's very little traffic and the mountain road is free of accidents and tourists.

  Four in the morning is the best time to leave LA, I say to myself. Not wanting to waste time, I head straight to Natalie's house.

  Natalie D’Achille lives in an upper middle-class neighborhood in the newly developed part of Big Bear, at the outskirts. I found her mom's address online.

  The houses here are contemporary, all built in the last ten years or so and resemble what you would call McMansions. They are about 2,500 to 3,000 square foot, three to four bedrooms each with two-car garages.

  Her house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac in a cookie-cutter community of at least forty other houses. Personally, I wouldn't mind living in a place like this. I've always liked the idea of old houses, the character and the detail, but after having lived in one for years and then lived in an older apartment for years as an adult, I've realized that their character is really a big headache.

  There are always things breaking. There are always pipes leaking and sewage getting built up.

  The house that I grew up in has had numerous leaks through the ceiling from various snowstorms, as well as problems with rodents and broken heaters.

  I used to think it was just my house, but after talking to a few friends, I realized that this problem is so much more common than I ever thought.

  As much as I used to look down on people who would move into these cookie-cutter communities when I was a teenager, now I sort of want a house here with tall ceilings, good lighting, relatively modern fixtures, well-sealed against heat, bugs, and the cold, with no worries about the snow ever getting in or the pipes freezing up.

  I get to Natalie’s house right around six thirty and I know that my presence there will be a surprise. That's partly the goal, but still, I'd be lying if I didn't say that I was a little bit nervous.

  The thing is that I'm not a natural at interviewing people, let alone interrogation. I'm not great at confrontations and I think that what makes me such an effective detective is that people sense that and they connect with me.

  I can get people to open up because I'm pushy when I have to be and I'm not when I feel the situation is changing.

  I park my car a little bit down the block and walk up the pristine, freshly manicured street. The lawns here are big, wide, very green, and probably recently seeded.

  The snow has all but melted and it's going to be a warm day in the seventies. The sky is already bright blue and filling my mind with optimism for all of the things that could happen.

  I've always reacted this way to weather. That's one of the reasons why I like living in LA. It puts my mind at ease. The sunny days bring brightness to my life and anytime there's any sort of bad weather, gray clouds, or even a little bit of rain, I feel my mood shifting, becoming more introverted, internal, and dark.

  I double-check Natalie's address on my phone before knocking on the door, using their big brass knocker. There's a camera installed and I'm certain someone is looking at my face right about now. I smile and look as friendly as possible.

  A few minutes later, a woman in her forties, not that much older than I am, opens the door. Her hair is tied up in a towel and she's wearing a bathrobe.

  "May I help you?"

  I introduce myself, making sure to name-check the LAPD to give myself a little bit more authority when I really don't have any. "May I speak to your daughter, Natalie D’Achille?”

  "Oh my God, why?" Her mom gasps, clutching her silk bathrobe, the kind that I thought people only wore in movies. "Does she need a lawyer?"

  "No, no, no. She hasn't done anything wrong. My sister's missing. I'm looking for her. They go to school together. They're in the same grade, Violet Carr."

  I wait for her to register the name and to either nod or shake her head, whether she has heard it, but she does neither.

  She just stands there, staring, looking somewhere behind me.

  "I'm sorry to bother you again," I apologize, "but I just wanted to ask her a few questions about where she was that night and whether maybe she was with her or ..."

  "Okay. Well, I guess there's no problem with that," she says. "Come on in."

  I nod and cross the threshold. She tells me to wait in the foyer as she goes upstairs and yells for her daughter.

  A few minutes later, two boys come down the stairs. They run and skip two steps at a time. They don't notice me until they nearly tumble over me.

  "Hi, my name is Detective Carr. I was wondering if you happen to know my sister, Violet, Violet Carr?"

  "Oh, yeah," one of them says. He's the one with the thicker jowls and the narrower eyes. He introduces himself as Michael. "Yeah, I have art class with Violet."

  “On the night of the eighteenth, she never came home,” I launch right in. “She was supposed to get in by nine and she never did. Her friend Kaylee and her mom dropped her off, but she never got inside, so I'm just trying to ask her friends and anyone who may know her if they might have heard her say that she was meeting up with someone or had any other plans, something that she might not have told Kaylee about."

  They exchange looks and purse their lips, shaking their heads.

  I wait for them to elaborate, but they just shrug and I figure that the conversation is over.

  A few minutes later, Natalie comes downstairs.

  She has long, blonde hair and expertly applied makeup. She looks just like the most popular girl at school looked like when I was her age, confident, aware of her body, and most importantly aware of the way that other people see her.

  I introduce myself and review what I have previously told her brothers. They're all triplets, born the same day, but they could not look less alike.

  Natalie looks like she is at least two years older and acts like she’s a decade older than her brothers.

  She holds her chin up high and her shoulders are broad, exuding confidence.

  That is rare at this age, especially when talking to detectives. As a police officer, I've been taught to notice things; pay attention to the details, and the minutia of life that other people don't see.

  As a homicide detective, payi
ng attention to these things has made me particularly good at my job.

  Like, for example, I know that people treat me completely different when they meet me in the streets with my hair tied up in a loose bun, wearing leggings, and acting like any other woman in her thirties, obsessed with her phone.

  When I come to them in the capacity of my job with my badge in hand, there's a separateness that is created. There's a casualness that disappears.

  I guess that's to be expected, except that I didn't realize just how informally they had previously treated me. Before, they knew what I really did for a living, but when it comes to Natalie, I don't feel this difference in attitude.

  My job title and my purpose in being here doesn't seem to faze her at all.

  I don't know yet if this is just for show or her normal way of being, but I take note.

  For a little bit of privacy, I pull her away into the dining room. It's simple in design, but the table is wide and beautiful.

  Come to think of it, I've seen it in the pages of a Pottery Barn catalog. "I wanted to ask you about the night of the eighteenth. Can you tell me where you were that night?"

  "I don't know, here. I don't remember doing anything special that night."

  "You were here. Who were you with?"

  "Ah.” She tilts her head back and thinks for a moment. "I don't know. Actually, I was here by myself. My brothers had hockey practice and I was here. Did some homework, watched some Netflix. I don't know, just a regular evening, I guess."

  "You didn't go out anywhere? What about around ten at night?"

  "Nope, still here. I think I went to bed early. I was really tired. I’d had a test earlier that day."

  I nod. It is not lost on me the fact that she and Neil have different stories.

  I wasn't sure what I was going to find out coming to Natalie's house but this contradiction takes me by surprise.

  Why would Neil, her boyfriend, say that they were together the night of the eighteenth, especially around ten p.m., but she says that they weren’t?

  She may not want her mom or her brothers to know, but we're alone here in this room. They are somewhere in the kitchen talking loudly and clearly not eavesdropping.

  I pull Natalie closer to the window.

  "Please, don't feel like you ... I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but you have to tell me the truth. I'm not going to tell your brothers or your mom or anyone, but I have to know. What were you doing the night of the eighteenth?"

  This frankness and the clear urgency in my voice seems to take her by surprise. She loses her composure for a moment. The expression on her face falls and she doesn't look like the confident, outgoing little girl that she was just a little bit ago.

  "I'm really sorry about Violet," she says.

  "Yes, please help me find her."

  "I don't know what I can say. I have no idea where she is."

  "Can you just tell me ..."

  The conversation is drifting off course. I don't want her to think that I'm accusing her of anything, but I need her to tell me the truth.

  "Please tell me what you were doing that night exactly."

  She takes a pause.

  She thinks about it and I can tell something different about this delivery. There's more honesty to it, but not fake honesty, not performative honesty. She shifts her weight from one foot to another, crosses and uncrosses her arms.

  Finally, she raises her eyes and meets my gaze.

  "I was home all night. I'm not sure if someone told you something different, but this is where I was. I had plans to go out with Neil, but I didn't. I was just too tired. I had a test and I was going to do some homework. I was going to start on a project that I was totally supposed to start about two weeks before and of course I didn't."

  "So, you were home all night. What about your family? Were they here also?"

  "Yeah, my brothers got home around eight and then we ordered some pizza, stayed in, and I think I went to bed around ten, kind of early for me but like I said, I was really tired."

  I debate with myself whether I should reveal the fact that Neil had told me something else, but I decide to keep that in my back pocket for now.

  After her brothers confirm her story, I head toward the door with more questions than answers, turning around right before I grab the doorknob.

  "Oh, one more thing.” I turn to Natalie.

  "Yes?"

  "Do you know who Briana Moody is?"

  She looks at me with a blank face, and a confused look.

  I spell her name and wait for some sort of connection, but she shakes her head.

  "The name doesn't sound familiar at all?" I press.

  "Nope, sorry."

  "Okay, well, thank you for your time," I say, walking out.

  Her phone goes off and she looks at the screen right as I step outside onto the porch.

  The last thing I see before she closes the door is that the call is from Neil Goss.

  I get back in the car and wait a few minutes. Maybe she'll run after me, tell me something that she hasn't said yet. I'm certain that Natalie's going to tell Neil about our little conversation.

  I'm sure that she'll tell him about my stopping by and the questioning. I wonder how the conversation about their conflicting stories is going to go.

  Frankly, I have no idea which one of them is telling me the truth. I knew that Neil was full of it when I first met him, but that doesn't mean that every single thing that he told me is a lie.

  Yet this morning, I got the clear impression that Natalie was telling me the truth.

  That means Neil was lying, but why?

  I decide to give him a call. Perhaps the best thing to do is to just catch him unaware and get him to confess or admit something that he wouldn't if he had some time to think about it.

  It goes straight to voice mail.

  I know that he must have looked at the screen, saw that it was me, and ignored it.

  I'm tempted to leave a message, but I don't.

  Instead, I get back on the road and start driving in search of coffee.

  A few minutes later, my phone rings. It’s Neil.

  17

  "Hey, how are you?" I say, answering the phone in my most friendly and peppy voice. "Thanks for calling me back."

  "I'm not supposed to talk to you," Neil says.

  "So, thanks for calling me back," I repeat myself. "I just wanted to ask you why you told me that you were with your girlfriend Natalie when you weren't on the night of the eighth?"

  "Yes, I was."

  "No, no, you weren't. Not according to her."

  He pauses, hesitates. Now I know something is up.

  "Listen, I just talked to her and she didn't say anything about it," he admits.

  This takes me by surprise.

  I was so certain that two thirteen year olds who recently talked to an LAPD detective would at least discuss that incident with each other. Or maybe he’s just lying.

  "So, can you tell me what you were doing on the night of the eighteenth?" I ask. "The truth this time."

  I hear him hesitating. I can almost imagine him licking his lips and opening his mouth to say something, but then stopping himself.

  "My parents told me that you have to go through our lawyer and that I can't talk to you anymore. I'm sorry about that," he says and hangs up, just like that, click and the conversation's over.

  I wait at the red light and look at my black screen.

  Neil and Natalie have exuded more confidence and self-assuredness talking to me than most grown adults have. They may not know this but this gives them the ability to wield a lot of power. They have the ability to get away with anything. Perhaps, they already have.

  I keep driving down Big Bear Boulevard, past my mom's house and the Village. The road veers off and I follow it into Whispering Pines toward the Goss’s house.

  I shouldn’t do this, but I have to try. Yes, he hung up on me, but perhaps in person he won't be able to be so dismissive.

&
nbsp; I drive up to the gate, press the intercom, and wait for someone to answer. I keep calling and then after a few rings someone comes on, a voice that I don't recognize.

  "Please leave us alone, Detective Carr. We have nothing else to say to you. You can now go and get all of your questions answered through our attorney."

  The voice is practically robotic in its delivery, but it is not a recording. It belongs to a woman, but not his mother. It doesn’t sound familiar.

  I mutter to myself and turn around in the driveway right before the gate.

  It's a relatively tight fit and it takes me a few turns to get out.

  I debate what to do next. Maybe I should go see my mom and check on those flyers or go to Violet’s school. There is a lot to do, but suddenly I can’t bring myself to do anything.

  I feel lost and alone.

  I need my sister back.

  I haven't had much sleep and my emotional breaking point isn't as far removed as I usually like it to be. I've always been this way about sleep.

  If I don’t get enough shut-eye, I can get triggered by any number of things and most have nothing to do with what’s going on.

  Many men in my line of work are the same way but instead of tears they yell or throw a punch or discharge their weapon. Due to an unfortunate double standard, getting angry isn’t considered a weakness, but getting sad is.

  “I need some coffee,” I say to myself and drive over to the Starbucks in the main shopping plaza in front of the Ralph's.

  There's a Radio Shack across the street along with the Dollar General where I used to shop for all sorts of little finds. I've always liked flea markets and 99 cent stores and anywhere you can get a deal.

  Big department stores have everything, but it’s places like this where you find something you wouldn’t expect. The inventory is constantly changing. One week they have something, the next they don’t, and you never know what you’re going to find.

  After getting a latte and enjoying the first surge of caffeine through my veins, I walk over to the dollar store and meander through the aisles, picking up a few of the items.

  When I get to the candy aisle, I can't stop myself. Dark chocolate is my kryptonite. I love it. The darker, the better.