by Rick Mofina
She stared at Riley Jarrett’s phone as if it was a puzzle. One way or another Watson would solve it.
A cable connected the phone to a state-of-the-art digital extraction device. Another cable ran from the device to Watson’s computer, transferring data, enabling her to see the inner workings of the phone on one of her two large monitors.
Again and again she reviewed Riley Jarrett’s call logs, web browsing history, device notifications, cookies, emails, videos, images, various text and instant messages. In some cases she could see and recover deleted conversations. Most were mundane.
Watson then checked to see if any of the messaging apps Riley used had a third party archiving feature, but there was nothing with cloud providers that she could find.
Most challenging were the apps with messages that delete themselves because Watson had trouble accessing them. She knew that the longer it had been since data was deleted, the less chance there was of recovering it. Deleting data sends it to memory that can be overwritten, like when a message written in pencil is erased and you write over it. It can be recovered, but recovery’s a long shot.
Watson made repeated attempts but could not gain access to the deleted messages. She was forced to write warrants for the creators of the apps to give the Las Vegas police access to their servers.
While waiting for them to comply, Watson initiated work on Frayer Ront Rykhirt’s phone and laptop.
It didn’t take long before she found disturbing pornographic images on both of his devices. Watson also found the photos Rykhirt had taken of Riley at the Sagebrush. Watson was digging deeper into hidden folders when her official police email pinged with a notification.
It was a response to the warrants. Critical information had arrived from the creators of the self-deleting apps Riley had used, essentially a map to finding the messages on their servers. They had not yet been overwritten.
Watson sat up. Checking the timeline provided by the detectives, Watson, before expanding, began reviewing messages created on the day Riley Jarrett left San Diego with her family in their rented RV.
Messages that were supposed to be deleted emerged in Watson’s monitor. She began reading conversations Riley was having with her friends Dakota, Claire and Ashley.
It appeared Riley was angry about having to “get up so early, to climb into this stupid RV where you basically drive around with your own toilet water. Gross!”
She went on complaining about how “devastated” she was over breaking up with Caleb, being uprooted from San Diego, “and taken like a hostage to freaking Pittsburgh.”
You should jump out and come back, Dakota said.
I should, Riley said.
Just kidding, Dakota said. No, I’m not. Yes, I am.
Then Riley began a conversation with Caleb.
Where are you now? Riley asked.
Security line at LAX. Phone going off soon.
I miss you so much it hurts, she said.
I miss you too.
My parents are evil for doing this, she said.
I’ll love you forever.
They’re going to regret making us break up.
You’re the love of my life, he said.
Time went by, then Riley resumed talking with her friends, telling them her “prison van” was coming up to Baker.
John wants us to look at the World’s Tallest Thermometer. Please kill me now! Riley wrote to her friends.
Then nothing.
Watson checked the timeline. This had to be around the time Grace Jarrett said she’d seized the phones of her daughter and stepson.
Watson thought, then clicked on the drafts folder. Sure enough, there was a message Riley had crafted but never sent.
Reading it once, twice, three times, Watson checked and double-checked. The draft was the last thing Riley wrote. It was never sent.
She reviewed the message, reflecting on it, copying it.
Wow.
She swallowed and her keyboard clicked as she began typing a preliminary report for Elsen and McDowell.
Fifty-Three
San Diego, California
Nolan Pace wheeled into the Mobil station, his Silverado pickup rumbling and clunking before he shut off the engine.
“You gotta fix that muffler, pal,” said the man walking by his driver’s window, giving the truck a once-over. “Your ride’s lookin’ mighty ancient.”
Pace, who had parked at the side of the convenience store, nodded. Yes, genius, I’m aware my twenty-one-year-old truck needs repairs.
The master of the obvious walked off.
Pace groaned with fatigue. He’d just finished another shift as a security guard at a downtown high-rise complex. Ten hours of dealing with addicts, homeless people, drunks, idiots and millionaires who thought you were put on this earth to serve them for minimum wage. Now with Carmen six months pregnant and unsure how much longer she could stay at her job making up rooms at the Holiday Inn, he worried. They were barely scraping by as it was. How were they gonna survive with a baby?
Pace picked up his phone, rechecked her text. Bread and milk, peanut butter cookies and butterscotch ice cream.
He got out of the truck. The gas station was at Washington Street and San Diego Avenue, which led to an on-ramp for I-5, making for a heavily trafficked area.
Inside it was the late-day rush with people everywhere in the store, picking things up and queuing at the counter to pay. Pace got the bread and cookies, went to the dairy case for milk and ice cream.
A young woman with oversize sunglasses perched on top of her head was reaching for chocolate milk. As Pace waited she glanced at him. He smiled. She didn’t. Whatever, he thought.
Before she was done, she gave him a furtive look of unease then lowered the oversize sunglasses over her eyes.
It gave Pace pause but he shrugged it off, got his things and got in line.
The same girl was ahead of him, holding her chocolate milk, potato chips, tarts and a couple sticks of jerky, one of which slipped from her grip to the floor. She didn’t notice.
Pace tapped her shoulder. She turned to him, tense, as if she were gripped with trouble. She appeared to be fourteen, maybe fifteen. She looked at Pace as if she were afraid.
“You dropped the jerky.” He pointed to the floor. Her hands were full. So were his, but he adjusted things, bent over and picked it up, noticing her sneakers were so new they glowed.
“Thanks,” she said when he handed it to her. She paid for her stuff with crumpled bills.
After he paid and headed outside, he noticed her look back at him, anxious as she climbed into the front passenger seat of an SUV. A guy, another teenager, stared at him from behind the wheel.
Pace gave the SUV a hard look before it drove off.
* * *
When Pace got home, he heard Carmen in the kitchen, closing the door to the microwave. Leftovers again. That was fine. He loved leftovers. He put the bag on the counter, kissed her then washed up.
A few minutes later, she put a plate of beans, rice and enchiladas before him, joining him at the table with a plate for herself. They talked and watched TV, catching the tail end of a rerun of The Office. Carmen liked the show; it made her laugh.
“So how you doing, babe?” he asked.
“My ankles hurt.”
“I’ll rub them for you later. So what’s new?” he asked as he ate.
“We might have to move in five months. Yolanda’s breaking up with her boyfriend. She called me. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“That’s just after the baby comes, Nolan.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll talk to her.”
The show ended with a block of commercials. Then the local evening news began. Pace was a consumer of news, old-school and online, to stay informed for hi
s job.
The top story was about the discovery of another illicit tunnel at the border, then something on local politics and zoning.
“So I called my mother, to tell her,” Carmen said. “Know what she said?”
Nolan had eaten much of his meal when the third story came on, an update on a fourteen-year-old San Diego girl who was missing near Las Vegas. The girl’s face popped up on the screen.
Carmen was talking but Pace had ceased eating, he was fixated on the anchor. Vera Henderson was throwing to a reporter in Nevada.
“We go now to Drake DeKarlow with our Top Story News Team on the scene near Las Vegas,” Henderson said.
“Vera, mystery continues to surround the disappearance of Riley Jarrett of San Diego and now involves police in Nevada, California, and the FBI...” DeKarlow began as more photos of Riley Jarrett filled a quarter of the screen, along with footage of an RV crash, a huge truck stop, the Las Vegas Strip, and search activities.
“...last seen at this massive truck plaza, the Silver Sagebrush, located off Interstate 15 south of Las Vegas. Investigators suspect she was approached by Frayer Ront Rykhirt, a convicted sex offender from Riverside, California, who died in an attempt to escape police custody while being questioned...”
Footage of Rykhirt’s arrest and his mug shot were shown.
“...police will not confirm or deny theories that the Jarrett case may be connected to the murder of Eva Marie Garcia of Riverside, California, and if Rykhirt was a suspect in that case as well. The seventeen-year-old’s body was found a year ago in the Nevada desert not far from where I’m standing. Police have also refused to confirm reports that the family’s rented RV was being used to transport illicit drugs.”
Pace watched as footage of search teams and helicopters ran.
“Exhaustive searches of the area are increasing and expanding after a single sneaker, said to belong to Riley Jarrett, was discovered in the desert a few miles from where she went missing.
“Warrants and subpoenas have been issued in the case. Police say the family has been cooperating and detectives have not ruled out anything or anyone as their investigation continues.
“Meanwhile, the reward for information leading directly to Riley Jarrett’s safe return, raised through online donations and supporters in San Diego, now stands at twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Pace’s eyebrows climbed a little.
“Las Vegas investigators ask that anyone who has any information on the case call them.”
Photos of Riley Jarrett and a detailed description filled the screen for a few seconds.
“Nolan?” Carmen said. “Did you hear me tell you what my mother said?”
Pace grabbed the remote and froze the screen on Riley Jarrett’s face and written description.
“Nolan, what is it?”
“I saw that girl, the missing San Diego girl. I saw her today at the Mobil station before I got home.”
Fifty-Four
Las Vegas, Nevada
The sun had set over Las Vegas, silhouetting the mountains, turning the sky into a sea of burning red.
At Metro headquarters working at her desk, McDowell texted Jack saying she wouldn’t be home for pizza with him and Cathy.
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“It’s okay. We’re going to watch Ghostbusters number one. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
She downed the last of her tepid coffee from her cherished Raiders cup, continued following up on leads when she came to a new report from Sue Watson in the Digital Forensic Lab.
Watson had finally gained full access to Riley Jarrett’s phone.
After reading her analysis and the attached pages of Riley’s conversations with her friends and her ex-boyfriend, realization pinged in McDowell’s mind.
This is definitely something.
Seeing Elsen was still talking on his phone, she reread the report until he ended his call.
“That was San Diego PD—” Elsen started.
“Dan, did you see Sue Watson’s report? We just got it.”
“No, I was on the phone.”
“Look at it now before you tell me anything.”
Observing the enthusiasm in her face, Elsen turned to his keyboard, opened Watson’s email and read. McDowell came around, leaning behind him, pointing her capped pen, nearly touching the messages.
“Look. Here. Caleb’s at LAX security and she says her parents are evil and will regret making them break up.”
Elsen nodded, scrolling down.
“And here,” McDowell said, “she begs Caleb not to go.”
“He doesn’t respond,” Elsen said.
“Right, he likely switched his phone off at security.”
They reread more of Watson’s analysis on the timing.
“Then this,” McDowell said, pointing. “The draft Riley never sent. The last thing she wrote before her mother took her phone. In her report, Sue wrote she thinks Riley was going to send this to one of her friends but never did.”
They both read: I should just escape the first chance I get, go back home and wait for Caleb.
“Go home and wait for Caleb,” McDowell repeated.
Elsen let out a soft, low whistle.
“This is a strong indicator,” McDowell said. “It goes back to one of your theories, that Riley was incensed and had some kind of plan to run away and join her boyfriend.”
Elsen was shaking his head.
“What is it?” McDowell asked.
“The call I just finished was with San Diego PD. They did a check at the Clarke residence. One of the family’s vehicles is missing, a Ford SUV.”
“Caleb?”
“Could be.”
“I’m thinking if we find him, we find her.”
“Could be.”
A silence passed between them while they sent messages updating their supervisors. For the next fifteen minutes, Elsen and McDowell weighed more theories when they noticed Lieutenant Holland approaching from across the empty squad room.
“Did you read Sue Watson’s report?” McDowell asked him.
“I did.”
“And you know about the missing Clarke vehicle?” Elsen asked.
“I do.” Holland loosened his tie and leaned on McDowell’s desk. “I just got off the phone with the captain, the FBI and San Diego PD.”
“Where do you see this going?” Elsen asked.
“I see it going to California,” Holland said.
Elsen and McDowell exchanged glances.
“Listen,” Holland said. “San Diego just got tipped that a girl fitting Riley Jarrett’s description was spotted at a Mobil station getting into an SUV driven by a male teen. They shot out a BOLO for the vehicle and alerted the border. The FBI still has nothing on the boy’s phone. They’re going for warrants on the Clarkes’ vehicle, try to track its GPS. San Diego PD will go after security video. Everything’s in NCIC. Things are getting hot.”
The detectives listened.
“We want you to go to San Diego, follow this through. We’re booking you on the first flight out in the morning.”
“Tomorrow?” Elsen said. “So we just drop the Rykhirt aspect?”
“Not drop. Pause,” Holland said. “The evidence pointing to Rykhirt, the video, his photos of her, the sketch, her shoe, the shovel and pick in his car, is very strong and we’re not ruling him out. But we’ve got to eliminate all other aspects. The Rykhirt evidence can wait. It’s not going anywhere, and our desert search for Riley won’t stop. But right now we’ve got fresh developments that cannot be denied. We must act on this now.”
“We still have other considerations that have not been put to rest,” Elsen said.
“The suspicion of drugs in the RV?” Holland said.
“The drugs, the kidnap-ransom pos
sibility,” Elsen said.
“Right,” Holland said.
“And the family history. We were told that the drowning deaths of John Marshall’s first wife and daughter were thought to be suspicious.”
“Yes, I saw your notes on that,” Holland said.
“And we get the sense that the family’s not been entirely truthful with us,” McDowell said.
Holland nodded then stuck out his bottom lip. “We know these cases are not like TV,” he said. “When you delve into people’s lives, you find a lot of complications and uncover a lot of ugly things they want to keep secret.”
“Happens all the time,” Elsen said. “We keep that stuff in our back pocket. And, we won’t alert the family about San Diego just yet.”
“Right. If they, or someone close to them, are involved in any way, it would tip our hand,” McDowell said. “They won’t like it, but we have to protect the investigation as best we can for now.”
“Absolutely,” Holland said. “Our job is the safe return of Riley Jarrett to her family and to determine if a crime’s been committed. With the exception of Rykhirt’s actions, we have no evidence of a crime. Riley’s shoe in the desert is troubling but not a crime, but it may point to one. So far we have no evidence the family’s involved in drugs or being extorted, or concealing another crime. What we have is a missing juvenile, disturbing circumstances and hearsay. Until we clear this case, nothing’s ruled out.”
“Got it,” Elsen said.
“You’ve got the list of people who attended the family’s farewell party, right?” Holland said.
“Yes,” McDowell said.
“Use it when you’re in San Diego. Follow up on everything you can while you’re there, and we’ll keep things rolling here.”
“All right, boss,” Elsen said.
“San Diego PD and the FBI are standing by to assist you in California,” Holland said. “Get some sleep. You’ve got an early flight.”
* * *
It was dark when Elsen got home.
He called Wendy Davis, his neighbor, a professional pet photographer who owned a lab called Sheeba. Elsen asked her if he could leave his dog with her while he was out of town.