Where the Lost Girls Go

by R. J. Noonan

  “Forensics hasn’t identified the crash victim yet,” I pointed out. “Maybe it wasn’t Lucy.”

  “Who else could it be?” Kent’s voice was strained, his face flushed with the heat of despair. “It was her car. We argued. She was furious with me.” He shook his head. “Royally pissed. But I stood my ground. I should have backed down, given in. I didn’t know what a state she was in . . .”

  “Kent, no.” Martha leaned close, wrapped her arms around him, and whispered something in his ear.

  Talitha returned, but she stood in the doorway, as if waiting for her cue.

  “I know this is difficult territory,” I said, “but let’s say for a moment that Lucy wasn’t in that car. Who else could it have been?”

  Kent sniffed. “It had to be her.”

  “Sweetheart, there is one other possibility,” Martha told him gently, then straightened to face me. “It could have been theft. A girl from that hippie tribe from the woods. They’ve trespassed on our property a few times.”

  “Martha, they’re homeless.”

  “All the more reason to be afraid; they have nothing to lose.”

  “They’re harmless,” he said.

  “Have you met them?” I asked.

  Kent waved off the question. “Some of them, a while back. Doesn’t matter. I know they’re not thieves. Lucy was the driver; she’s gone.” He raked his hair back and then pounded a fist on the table. “My girl is gone, and I let it happen.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Martha said.

  “Don’t!” Kent held up a hand. “Don’t coddle me, Martha.”

  With a practiced wariness, she stepped back, expressionless as Kent rose and kicked his chair away. As the chair rolled off behind him and bounced against the paneled wall, Martha moved back again, clearing the way for her husband to march out of the conference room and leave the building with a savage slam of the front door.

  Martha hurried out after him, leaving me to wonder at this unleashed rage in Kent Jameson. Yes, he had reason to be angry if his daughter was truly dead. But seeing his fury gave me a glimpse of his darker side. This was no cloistered monk on the hill, as Martha tended to portray him to the media. Kent Jameson was strong, potentially acerbic, and capable of violence.

  It was hard to imagine a scenario in which a father killed his daughter. Still, as an investigator, I had to go there.

  Had he cut the brake lines on his daughter’s car and compelled her to flee?

  It was my job to find out.

  8

  “Today, you saw a very different Mr. Jameson,” said Talitha. “That’s not how he is. I’ve worked here five, almost six years now, and I have never seen him lose his temper before.” Dignified and erect, Talitha sat across from me on one of the loveseats in the reception area. While I’d waited to interview her, she had fielded two phone calls and signed for three packages from FedEx.

  I glanced from the calm young woman to the woodland view of deep-green ponderosa pines and fir trees punctuated by splashes of yellow and orange leaves from deciduous trees. A serene environment designed to calm negotiations and woo adversaries.

  “Did Martha tell you to say that?” In the scurry to jog alongside her boss, Talitha had received some instructions while Martha had pointed her back toward the office.

  Talitha’s brows rose in surprise. “You heard that?”

  So I’d been right; she was trying to “handle” me. “It doesn’t matter. I understand why Mr. Jameson is overwrought. Let’s talk about your observations during your time here. Did you know Lucy?”

  “Of course. She’s the daughter of my boss.”

  “Did you know her friends?”

  “Not well. I only know the trouble they caused Mrs. Jameson. She says they’re loud and they drink a lot. They are not good girls, these friends.”

  “When was the last time you saw Lucy?”

  She didn’t remember. “Maybe a week ago? I am here in this office mostly. I see nothing but trees and people who come in to transact business with Mrs. Jameson.”

  Her answer seemed evasive. I decided to try a different tack. “That’s a very pretty scarf. I love the color.”

  “It’s called a hijab. I like to wear it because it’s how I grew up. In Iran.”

  “The color flatters you. When did you come to the US?”

  Softening a bit, she explained that she had come seven years ago with her husband and baby. Talitha had been working as a server at the country club when Martha hired her to work at a dinner party. When Martha discovered the woman had excellent organizational and computer skills, she hired her as a full-time assistant. Around that time, Talitha’s husband made a mistake filling out the immigration forms and was deported. It was only because of the help of the Jamesons that she and her daughter had been allowed to stay. They had hired an expensive immigration lawyer who helped them get citizenship. “The lawyer has been working on getting my husband back for two years now. Because we are Iranian, it’s difficult. For now, we do FaceTime. But my husband wants my daughter and me to stay. There’s more opportunities for her here in the US, and she’s a good girl. Just started third grade.”

  The phone started ringing, and she excused herself to answer. A moment later, she returned, sitting with a sigh. “This was to be a very busy day. Producers coming from Hollywood to talk about making a movie of one of Mr. Jameson’s books. I’ve had to cancel, but they were already on their way. His agent calling and the bookkeeper, and always we get lots of fan letters and messages on his website. Everything must be answered. And now this search in the woods.”

  “It sounds like Martha is lucky to have you taking care of things.”

  “I do a good job, but Mrs. Jameson works day and night. People don’t understand that. I hear them talking sometimes, saying how lucky she is she struck gold. Things like that. But Mrs. Jameson is the one who keeps the business running. She makes deals that bring in pots of money, a lot of them based on his old books. Not to take away from Mr. Jameson. People love his books. But she works hard, too.”

  Her opinion of Martha ran counterpoint to Juana’s view. Two sides to a coin.

  “I’ll let you get back to work,” I said. “I have a few more people to interview, and then I’ll circle back to talk with Mr. and Mrs. Jameson.”

  “I’ll let Mrs. Jameson know,” Talitha said as she saw me out the door.

  * * *

  Looking for a few quiet moments to mull over the investigation, I braced myself against the brisk October air and headed out to find the barn. I passed Kent’s writing studio, the building dark and cold. My boots sunk into the mushy ground near the round corral when I left the path. It was one of those open-air arenas, so I could look inside. Nobody in sight.

  Back on the path toward the barn—or so the sign said—I breathed in the cool air scented by Douglas firs, the smells of mulch and wet earth. As I walked, I looked for the signs of activity on the edge of the path that I had mentioned to the men leading the search party. This part of the ranch bordered Stafford Woods, and the thick growth of trees darkened the area and made for a feeling of desolation. Without the path, it would be easy to get lost back here.

  I was not a horse girl, but everyone in Sunrise Lake knew about the history of the Jameson ranch, formerly a world-class equestrian center. In the 1940s when cowboy film stars traveled to the area, their horses stayed here. Roy Rogers’s horse Trigger and Gene Autry’s Champion had been boarded here. And Buttermilk, Dale Evans’s buckskin quarter horse. My grandmother could not get enough of Dale Evans’s movies and songs. I think my grandma wanted to believe that this heroic cowboy world really existed somewhere in America—a place where right prevailed and a horse named Buttermilk could save the day. When the cowboy culture faded from Hollywood in the 1950s, the ranch became a riding academy. It was still some kind of horsey place when Kent Jameson bought it and began to renovate nearly fifteen years ago, building new structures and acquiring alpacas.

  How many times had Lucy wa
lked this path, headed out to ride one of her horses? More important, what had been on her mind yesterday when she got into that argument with her father? Had she fled back here, into the woods, harboring resentment toward her stepmother or rebelling toward her father like most seventeen-year-old girls? Having a wealthy father, horses, a classic sports car, and a beautiful home did not preclude Lucy from having problems. Everyone had issues and demons, but I still didn’t have a handle on what drove Lucy Jameson.

  To that end, I was curious to meet the ranch manager, Andy Greenleaf, wanting to get a gauge on whether he might have been Lucy’s secret lover. I still hadn’t had a chance to ask the Jamesons if they knew that a registered sex offender was living on their property, sleeping less than two miles from their daughter’s bedroom.

  The paved path emerged from the woods and curved toward the squat red barn looming ahead. This side of the hill had been cleared of dense timber, allowing a wide view of the pale yellow fields, stone walls, hillocks, and in the distance, the river and Mt. Hood. It was a view of pastoral splendor made comical by the alpacas milling in the fenced-in area beside the barn. The fluffy, arched creatures roaming the area resembled oddly assembled crosses between ostriches and oversized poodles. Some grazed, a few roamed in a pack, and others watched one white oddball roll and twist in a mud puddle.

  “Snowbell!” someone called out. “Snowbell! Get out of that mud.”

  I bit back a smile as Snowbell, the white alpaca, squirmed in delight, staining her coat with brown dirt.

  “Come on, now!” A young man called from the side of the corral. Andy Greenleaf was better looking than his mug shot, with chiseled cheekbones and golden hair that was cropped close in the way of an all-American quarterback. The only drawback was the large, square set of teeth that made him resemble the horse grazing nearby.

  “That damn alpaca thinks she’s a hound dog,” Greenleaf muttered to a scruffy cowboy type with a gold tooth, maybe twentyish, who was brushing down a horse the color of caramel corn. The horse didn’t seem to care about the alpacas meandering nearby, and the fluffballs on stick legs acted as if the horses were invisible.

  “Andy Greenleaf?” I was in uniform, but I showed him my ID, too. It felt so official. “Officer Laura Mori.”

  “Hey, Officer.” He slung me a casual smile. “You got it, Blane?” With a nod, he moved away from the horse groomer and stepped into my personal space. This one didn’t seem to fear me at all, but then he didn’t seem menacing, either. He moved with a lanky awkwardness, like a boy who hadn’t yet adjusted to his man-sized body. Despite his youthful look, he had man hands—calloused and rough from doing manual labor outdoors. “That’s tough news about the crash, right? Really sad. Did it turn out to be Lucy?”

  His response didn’t fit a man who had dated Lucy Jameson. I kept my voice level. “We’re not certain yet. Forensics is working on identifying her.”

  “I feel awful about that. Lucy was a nice kid, and her parents are the best. They are good people and generous employers. I mean, look at this.” He gestured to the barn and surrounding hills. “What’s not to love here?”

  “It’s beautiful country,” I agreed. “And the alpacas are very cute.”

  “Yeah. Girls like them until they spit. But they don’t do that too often. It’s a kind of defense mechanism.”

  “You live on the property, isn’t that right?”

  “Sure do.” He jabbed a thumb toward the barn. “I got a cabin on the other side of the barn that Mr. and Mrs. J fixed up for me. Just one bedroom, but that’s all I need. Got a satellite dish now, so I can watch anything I want. How’s that? Not bad for a working guy like me.”

  “Yes, I saw this address listed in your criminal file. Do the Jamesons know you’re a registered sex offender?”

  “Hey.” He shot a look over his shoulder to see if the other worker had heard, but the young man kept on brushing the horse. “Come on, now.” He took a few steps away from the fence, away from listening ears. “I try not to advertise it to everyone. But yeah, they knew from the beginning. I think that’s sort of why they hired me. Mr. and Mrs. J, they kind of collect people who need help, and man, I needed saving back then. You know the woods back there? That’s where I lived, in a freakin’ tent. My probation officer was pissed because I didn’t have a real address. If you got nowhere to live, you have to check in with probation every thirty days. It sucked. But my stepfather threw me out, and I couldn’t get a job, and you can’t get a place to live without a job.”

  “A vicious circle,” I said. He had an easy, winning manner, though a little rough around the edges.

  “Yeah. I got lucky with the Jamesons. They could see I was good with animals from the start. Then when Mrs. J saw that I could fix just about anything, mechanical or carpentry or whatever, I got the job here.”

  So he had mechanical skills, too. I suspected he would know how to disable the brakes in the Karmann Ghia. “So the Jamesons saved you.”

  “They did. That conviction destroyed me, and it wasn’t even my fault. I didn’t do anything wrong. Not really.”

  I had not received his case files yet, but I suspected Andy’s experience was quite different than the judge’s findings. “Why don’t you tell me your side of the story,” I said.

  “I was just a guy in love with a girl whose parents didn’t want us to be together.”

  “A girl,” I repeated. “How old?”

  “Fifteen, in the beginning. Ginnie Walters. Man, I loved that girl. She was fifteen and I was nineteen. We were in high school together. What do people expect? At that age, you meet someone, you hook up. We were together for two years and it was fine. I mean, her parents didn’t like it, but they lived with it.”

  “And you were protected by the Romeo and Juliet law,” I said. In law classes at the academy, we had learned of recent laws designed to protect teenagers who were a few years apart and engaged in willing sexual relationships. “If your relationship was consensual.”

  “It was. Of course it was! She was my girlfriend.” His lips puckered in disapproval. “I wasn’t some pervert. But her parents didn’t want us together, and some lawyer friend helped them screw me over. When I turned twenty-one, they filed charges against me for sexual assault. Ginnie was seventeen, still a minor, so she didn’t have any say in the matter. And according to the law, once I was twenty-one, the Romeo and Juliet thing was out the window.”

  “Wait. You were prosecuted after two years with this girl?”

  “Shit, yeah, if you’ll pardon my French. Her parents really stuck it to me, and the county prosecutor, I don’t think he had much of a choice.”

  “And Ginnie?”

  “Hell if I know. The Walters sent her away to live with some aunt after the hearing, and one of the terms of my probation was that I had to stay away from her. But that was, like, seven years ago. Yeah, seven. A lot’s changed since then. I’ve got a girlfriend and a good job. So fuck the Walters. You know what they say. Success is the best revenge.”

  This was not at all the story I’d expected to hear. Perhaps I’d been wrong in thinking that he was A, the older lover mentioned in Lucy’s diary. “Your current girlfriend,” I said. “What’s her name?”

  “Heather.” He lifted his chin, content as a cat. “Heather Erickson.”

  “How old is Heather?”

  “She’s going to be twenty-four next month. And her parents like me. Yeah. I’m not making the same mistake twice.”

  “What about Lucy Jameson?” I kept my voice level. “Were you ever involved with her?”

  “What?” He winced. “Hell, no. That was one of the things Mr. J told me when I was hired. Keep away from his daughter and out of his business. I respect that. And when you got a sweet job like mine, believe me, you don’t want to mess it up. Besides, Lucy was just a rug rat when I got here. That’d be twisted.”

  “Seven years ago it would have been grossly inappropriate. But now she’s seventeen, almost of age.” I decided to see if I could ca
ll his bluff. “And she wrote about you in her diary . . . that you had a relationship.”

  “She did?” He blanched, and I couldn’t tell if he was shocked or worried. “Well, that’s not true. I mean, I run the barn and all, but she barely looks me in the eye when she comes through here. So what did she say about me?”

  “She wrote of her sexual experiences with you. Some fairly graphic details.”

  “What? That never happened,” he said indignantly. “The only time I ever talked to her was when she came by to go riding, and even then, I barely said two words. All business. And most of the times she was with a friend.”

  “So you weren’t the sexy, older lover who’d captivated her?” I cocked my head to one side. “Maybe it was all in her imagination.”

  “Well, she may have been fantasizing about me.” He smiled. “I guess a lot of girls do. And Lucy grew up pretty dang nice. She’s got a kick-ass body now. But I stayed away.”

  “Right.” It wasn’t the most reassuring answer. “I guess it would have been hard for the two of you to keep the relationship secret from her father.”

  “Not really. Mr. J keeps to himself. But hold on, now. I’m not admitting to anything.” He held up a hand, like a traffic cop stopping a vehicle. “You trying to get me jammed up here?”

  “I’m trying to find out who was driving that car and why she blew out of here last night.” Those mysterious forty-five minutes. I kept the information about the brake tampering to myself. I didn’t want to show my hand. “Did you have an argument with Lucy yesterday?”

  “No.” He raked his hair back, frowning. “I don’t even know if I saw her yesterday.”

  “Do you want some time to think about it?”

  He swatted at the air. “Hell, no.” A tawny-colored alpaca seemed to think Andy was flagging it down; the creature trotted right over and parked itself behind him like a loyal pup. There was no question that the animals loved him—nature’s endorsement.

  “So you don’t remember seeing Lucy yesterday. Do you remember where you were last night between six and eight PM?”