“When’s the last time you saw her?” Gina asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. A week ago? Maybe two?”
“Her parents live at the other end of the street,” Gina said. She gestured toward their house. “And they’re heartbroken.” Her words, not mine. “So if you see Beth again, you’ll call the police, won’t you?”
“I will. In fact I’ll probably call them anyway. Have you heard the neighbors across the street? Putting their dogs out at all hours? Disturbing the peace is what they’re doing...”
Don was still talking, but Gina was moving away. “Good evening, Don. Thanks for your help.”
I followed her back to her house, where she handed me a leftover flyer.
“I can’t believe you’re spending all this time helping a stranger,” she said. “But I sure appreciate it. Now enjoy your treadmill, okay?”
I wrote my email address on the edge of the flyer, ripped it off, and asked her to keep in touch if she heard anything.
“I sure will,” she said. “And I’ll tell the police what Don said, too, although I’m sure he already did. They probably got an earful.”
I pulled out of her driveway and took a deep breath. I had to call Dean, but first I’d stop at the convenience store for a few things, including information.
It’s a sad fact I don’t want to confess. When I enter a store, even a rundown, worn-out convenience store, I go into shopping mode. It’s very, very hard not to check prices and see if there’s something I “need.” This is true even when I’m in a rush and running late. Ridiculous.
So my goal in the mini mart across from Beth’s neighborhood was to ignore everything, including an enormous display of clearance summer toys and several shocking magazine headlines—everything except the graying (hair, teeth, and skin), tattooed guy at the counter who, I hoped, had seen Beth right where I stood.
I failed immediately. If he was the owner, I reasoned, he might be more talkative if I made a purchase.
From the aisles of junk food and tiny containers of laundry detergent, mouthwash, and other necessities, I chose a pack of industrial-strength, breath-freshening gum, peanut butter crackers, and a decaf iced tea. In my defense, I did not look at the toys or peruse a single magazine.
While the clerk rang everything up, I pulled Beth’s flyer from my pocket. He spoke before I said a word.
“You know her?” he asked.
“Do I know her? That’s what I was going to ask you.”
“Hell yeah,” he snorted. “I hired her to work evenings, but she skipped out on me.” He took the paper from my hand and squinted at it. “Are you shittin’ me?” He looked up. “She’s missing?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” I answered.
He handed back the flyer and tossed my items in a skimpy plastic bag. I worried the bottle would break against the counter.
“That’s crazy,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re not her ma, are you?”
“No. I’m sort of a family friend. I want to make sure she’s safe. You hired her?”
“Sure did. She was supposed to start last week. She comes in all the time, so one night I asked if she wanted a job. I figured with a baby on the way and everything, she probably needed the money.”
The idea of Beth working for this guy was unappealing to say the least. Even if his intentions were honorable, she’d either be alone in the store, or alone with a guy who, at the moment, was a little intimidating. He sported a fire-breathing dragon on his arm and a bunch of other faded art I couldn’t make out.
“When was she supposed to start working?”
“Monday before last. But she didn’t show. I was damn pissed. I’d already started training her.”
He looked me in the eye, and I stared right back with a smile. I wanted to keep him comfortable and talking.
“I understand. It’s hard to find reliable help. But Beth didn’t say anything about going away or anything?”
“Not a damn word. Now I need someone else to fill the position. I’m workin’ too much.”
“Did the police come by and ask any questions? I know they’ve been around the neighborhood.”
“Not unless I wasn’t here. There’s another guy works mornings. Maybe they talked to him or another part timer.”
“Did any other employees meet Beth?”
“Nope. Not enough time for that.”
“Okay. Could I get a card or something? A way to reach you if I have questions?”
“Sure. But I already told you what I know.” He pulled a bent, fuzzy card from his jacket pocket. Joe Shaw, Owner.
I paid cash and flipped over the receipt. “I really appreciate your help, Joe. Here’s my email address in case you think of anything. Do you email much?”
“All the time,” he said.
“Great.” I glanced around. “And do you have security cameras?”
“I got four. Why?”
“I’d love to see video of the night she disappeared. Even if she wasn’t here, she lives nearby, and there could be something helpful on it.” I shrugged. “There’s always hope.”
“Yep,” he agreed. “But lady, it’s a real pain to go through that video. I don’t think there’s any point.”
“If you show me how to do it, I’ll do all the work,” I offered as a long shot. “I like technology.”
He sighed and shook his head.
“Come on back. I got nothin’ else to do.” As he started toward a back room, I regretted asking for this “favor,” which I worried could lead to finding out what happened to Beth in a really scary way.
I clutched the cell phone in my pocket and wished I’d told Gina where I was going. Don’t worry, I told myself. Your van is outside. Someone will know you’re here. I relaxed for a nanosecond until I realized that if anything happened to me, Joe would have my car keys, which were in my hand, so he could not only ditch my car, but also get into anything I ever locked or unlocked (including my house, my mom’s condo, the neighborhood tennis court, etc., etc.). He’d also have my address from my license, pictures of my kids, everything else in my purse (a lot of junk, but still), and a treadmill. This was getting worse by the second.
I dropped the keys in my bag and heard them clink on the bottle of iced tea. That’s my weapon of choice, I decided. If it comes to blows, I’ll swing the iced tea at his head.
I was so busy plotting self-defense that I didn’t notice Joe was sitting in front of a computer monitor with live, color video playing on the screen. I knew it was live because the date and time were listed in the corner. The screen was divided into four shots, one at the empty counter, where we’d just been, one at the store’s entrance, one at the alcohol display, and one near the gas pumps, where my minivan was parked with a treadmill sticking out the back.
“I just got this setup,” he said. “I can barely use it. So I sure can’t teach you.” He picked up an instructional booklet next to the keyboard and began to read.
My impatience and love of computers made me want to shove in and start pointing and clicking. (Maybe he was the one who needed self-defense.) I was sure I could figure out the program, but I didn’t want to offend or further irritate Joe. Plus, I was still on guard in case this was a ruse to get me into a vulnerable spot, and it seemed smarter to stand behind him than in front of his slim but taller-than-mine figure.
He looked back at the computer and clicked the mouse. “So what day and time should I check?” he asked.
“Let’s try around 10:30 Sunday night, the day before she was supposed to start working for you. Does it go back that far?”
“It better. The guy who sold it to me said it should.” He typed at a snail’s pace, using only his index fingers.
A slightly blurry video popped up of Joe wearing the same outfit: jeans and a short-sleeved jacket em
broidered with the store logo, but the time read 10:30 p.m. on the day Beth disappeared. I got goose bumps, knowing that night, according to April, Beth was hearing April’s news, and she was about to come home.
Joe figured out how to fast forward, and I watched his image hop around the store until someone walked onscreen, a woman in a dark business suit. She paid for something that looked like a candy bar and left. At 11:15, a man with a baseball cap entered, retrieved something from the refrigerated area, and approached the counter. He held out money and froze in place.
“Wait a minute.” Joe had paused the video, creating a surprisingly clear picture. The man might not be identifiable, but he was Caucasian, pudgy, and certainly older than Beth. A baseball cap obscured most of his face.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing really.”
“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t have stopped,” I said. “What is it?”
He shrugged. “I ain’t saying it means anything, but that’s what Beth bought every time.” He pointed at the screen. “Chocolate milk and a scratch-off lottery ticket.”
“Really?” I asked. I leaned closer to the screen. “Can you play it again?”
I peered over Joe’s head at the man paying for a pint of chocolate milk and a ticket, and instead of feeling afraid, I was energized, electric.
“What do you remember about him?” I asked.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Not a damn thing. I’m sorry.”
I tried to imagine what a real investigator would ask. Age? Race? Height? Tattoos? Facial hair? The image of Beth’s tailbone rose tattoo jumped to mind. Joe let the video run again.
“I can tell you he’s about 5’ 8”,” he said. He hit pause again as the customer walked out the door, right past a measuring tape posted at the exit. Joe pointed to it. “See? We have that so we can tell how tall the bad guys are.”
“Great. What about his race and age and stuff?”
“White. And he ain’t no teenager.”
“I agree. What about the other cameras? Do you have those views?” He consulted the booklet again and clicked. The screen split into quarters again, but the parking lot was empty. The customer, wearing a white shirt, khakis and loafers, walked straight ahead on foot, not turning toward Beth’s neighborhood.
“Darn,” I said. “I was hoping he drove.”
“Could have,” Joe said. “If he parked far off. Some spaces are out of range.”
“Did you notice any identifying marks on this guy or Beth, like tattoos or anything?”
I watched him closely. If he appeared to have even a hint of knowledge about Beth’s tattoo, I would die. I remembered an interview I’d seen with an expert on body language. There were so many subtle—yet detectable—signs of hiding information. I couldn’t remember any of them except maybe avoiding eye contact. Joe was looking straight at me with a grin.
“Now you’re sounding official,” he said.
“I’m not official. Just a friend of the family. I swear.”
“I didn’t notice anything about her—and I would have. Look at me.” He held up saggy, tattooed arms.
I wanted to ask if he could rewind further into the past—maybe find Beth shopping, training or interacting with someone—when there was a tinkling sound from the entrance. Joe clicked a tab, and live images of the store returned. There was a woman at the counter.
“Back to business,” he said. His chair scraped the cement floor, and he turned off the monitor.
“What time do you close on Sundays?” I asked.
“Open every night ’til midnight.”
I followed him out the door and waited while he retrieved cigarettes for the pretty, husky-voiced young customer.
After she left, I thanked him again. “Any chance I could see Beth’s work application?” I added.
“Nope. That’s too personal. But I’ll pass it on to the police.”
“Please do. I appreciate that. And I’d love to look at more footage of her. Could I get a copy of what you have?”
“I don’t know how to do that yet,” he said. “But tell you what. If I get bored tonight, I’ll look back through the past couple weeks instead of playing solitaire. If I find Beth, I’ll look through the instructions and see if I can email you a video clip. Sound fair?”
“Joe, you’re my hero. Thank you so much. Maybe you could send me a clip of the chocolate-milk guy too.”
Joe grinned a gray-toothed smile that thirty minutes earlier might have freaked me out. Talking with Dean would be a nice change of pace.
Eleven
“Dean?”
“Hey, Nicki. How’s it going?”
I was sitting in my van in the parking lot with the doors locked.
“I guess I’m making progress.” I explained what I’d been doing and said I’d call the local Crime Solvers number about Joe. I couldn’t trust that he’d report what he knew. “So what did you have to tell me?”
“I put in a call to a friend in law enforcement. He was kind enough to save you a little legwork. Soon after Beth was reported missing, they checked the local shelters and hospitals, and she wasn’t there.”
I felt like the dumbest person on Earth. “I should have already done that.”
“I assumed it was already done, and it was. Don’t worry. You’ve done a lot. And there’s more to do.”
He was right. I had to put my energy toward success, not regrets. “Got any ideas for me?”
“Let’s be thorough and run a background check on Beth’s parents and Mr. Shaw,” he suggested. I could see Joe through the glass windows, doing something at the cash register.
“Great,” I said. “Should I do that?” I didn’t know if I should use what I’d learned in class or depend on Dean for help. I could do a local check free of charge, but I’d need a database—and some advice—to do anything else.
“I’ll do you a favor on this one,” he offered. “But I expect you to be in class Saturday for surveillance practice.” He was in mock drill sergeant mode. “In all seriousness, I think you’ll be glad to have those skills down.”
“Me too.” I was tempted to request a good surveillance partner. There were several people in class I didn’t want to ride around with all day. But I kept quiet and trusted his judgment.
“I’ll call if I get anything on Mr. Shaw. In the meantime I have a couple other suggestions.”
“Okay.” I couldn’t wait.
“Let’s start with the social networking sites you mentioned.”
“Right,” I said.
“Have you been checking those every day?”
“Absolutely. They haven’t been updated.”
“Have you posted anything on them?”
“Definitely not. Do you think I should?”
“I don’t know. Let me think about it. Who else did you find pages for?”
“April and other kids from their school. That’s how I heard about that party I went to. But I didn’t see a page for Marcus.”
“Those sites are gold mines. We have to keep an eye on them.”
I liked how he said we.
“I’m worried about something you said though,” I told him. “Even if the police checked the hospitals and shelters right after Beth disappeared, what if she showed up now? Would they recognize her as missing?”
“Hopefully the local hospitals are still on alert. Even if they’re not, her situation would probably raise red flags, considering her age and that she might arrive alone.”
“But what’s considered local? I mean, what if she went to West Virginia, Maryland, or D.C.? Or what about southern Virginia, like Richmond?” I was feeling more overwhelmed and less capable by the second. Living in the “DMV” (D.C., Maryland, and Virginia) was like having three home states—fo
ur if you counted West Virginia. The area felt like one big place, even as far away as Baltimore.
“Why would she go that far?” Dean asked. “West Virginia, okay, for family. But Maryland or D.C.? For what reason?”
“Yeah.” I couldn’t imagine her doing that.
“If it makes you feel better to check out West Virginia, do it, especially since her grandparents are there. You should. And keep in touch with April and Marcus. See if they lead you anywhere. Have you made any progress with the adoption agency?”
“Umm, no.” I was too nervous to have any contact with First Steps for fear of jeopardizing Kenna and Andy’s relationship with them. I told Dean as much.
“I understand. Why don’t you have Kenna or Andy work on it? There’s always the chance the agency has heard from Beth by now.”
“Okay.” I was embarrassed to ask my next question. “You mentioned checking out West Virginia. What exactly do you mean?”
“You’ll need her grandparents’ names. Then you can find out where they live and check it out. Drive by, see what they’re up to, just to make sure there’s no sign of Beth or the baby.”
“I’m sorry to sound so stupid, Dean, but how can I get their names?”
He was quiet for a moment. I hoped he wasn’t thinking, What an idiot. Has she learned anything in class?!
“What are her parents’ full names again?”
“Sonja and Bob Myers,” I said.
“And whose parents are these in West Virginia?”
“Beth’s mom’s. Should I check their marriage license for her maiden name or something?”
“I can almost guarantee her maiden name is online. I’ll text you with it.”
So maybe it wasn’t a dumb question. Phew. “Okay. Thank you so much,” I said. “I’m going to head home. I’ll have my cell phone with me.”
“Sounds good.”
“I’m going to have to start paying you for all this work,” I said.
“No way,” he said. “This is an opportunity to help with something unusual. Most of my cases—and don’t try to deny it—are pretty boring. I’m glad to help.”
Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1) Page 14