She had decisions to make, among them whether to stay in D.C. or move back to San Diego. Whether she should go back to school and get her law degree, which several of her professors had encouraged her to do. Or she could follow in Dillon’s footsteps and go to medical school to become a psychiatrist.
She hadn’t exactly fit in at college, which was why she’d focused so intently and had excelled in her studies. She hadn’t been the typical eighteen-year-old college freshman, and she didn’t want to return at twenty-five, even if the students in postgraduate school would be similar to her in age.
She’d interned with the Arlington County Sheriff’s Department for a year and decided that she didn’t want to be a local cop. She was far more interested in the types of crime the FBI investigated than she was in being a beat officer. She’d interned in Congress as well, but she’d never go back there. And the morgue? That had been the most interesting of the three internships, but she didn’t want to work with the dead for the rest of her life.
The FBI had been perfect, with a key priority in her area of expertise-cybercrime. She also had a master’s in criminal psychology, which would help her working in any of the FBI squads.
If Lucy had been in limbo waiting for the FBI letter, she felt even more unsettled now.
She was also ready to move out of her brother’s house.
She’d lived with Dillon and his wife Kate for more than six years, ever since she’d moved to D.C. to attend Georgetown. She’d never lived on campus; that first year it had been difficult to just go out alone. The week she’d graduated high school, she’d been raped and grossly humiliated when her attack had been aired live on the Internet. Though she’d put on a brave face for her family, it had taken Lucy a lot longer to compartmentalize the pain than she’d let on. Moving in with Dillon and Kate had saved her from the watchful eye of her family, and the distance had helped her piece together her life and dreams.
She didn’t honestly know whether she was still living with them because of her publicly stated reason that after Quantico she would go wherever the FBI sent her and get her own place then (so why spend the money now on her own apartment?) or because she was too scared to live on her own.
The fact that her nightmares had returned five weeks ago had been weighing heavily on her. She’d been spending less time with Sean because she didn’t want him to know. She’d dealt with bad dreams before, on her own. She’d do it again.
But everything was crashing down now, and it was easier to be angry with Sean for pushing her into helping than to address her future.
And if she were really being honest, she wanted to feel sorry for herself. She replayed the FBI interview over and over in her head, trying to figure out what she’d done wrong. Driving to the Virginia suburbs outside D.C. with Sean, focusing on another girl’s problems instead of her own, annoyed her, distracted her from her self-pity. Selfish? Yes. If she’d had the energy to argue with Sean, she would be home right now, in bed, trying to sleep, since it had eluded her all night. Yet she thought that she might make the difference in tracking the whereabouts of Kirsten Benton, she hadn’t tried to get out of it when Sean picked her up.
Sean turned off I-95 into the Woodbridge suburb. With fifty thousand residents, planned developments, and strategically placed parks and schools, Woodbridge was a great place to raise kids, but Lucy could imagine how teenagers might easily go stir-crazy. Especially a teenager who had been transplanted three thousand miles from her friends and family by a mother who couldn’t see beyond her own pain and feelings of betrayal.
Several houses in the Bentons’ neighborhood had “for sale” or “bank owned” signs posted in the yard, an all-too-familiar sight across the country, particularly in the halted growth of suburbia. Sean stopped in front of a split-level house more than twenty years old, standard fare for this part of Virginia. The neighborhood was pleasant but unremarkable, the houses on wide lots with bare trees including thinned-out pines separating them from their neighbors. Quiet, not particularly quaint, and now empty, which Lucy suspected had more to do with commuters than the foul weather.
What kind of home did Kirsten have before her father betrayed her mother and her mother ran away with Kirsten? What did Kirsten see when she came home from school every day-or, more important, what didn’t she see? She was four months from graduating, her future bright, colleges wanting her, yet she sought something she couldn’t get from her family, couldn’t get from her new friends, something that took her away again and again …
Lucy’s stomach clenched as she realized that it was four months before graduation when she first started talking to the man she believed was nineteen-year-old Georgetown freshman Trevor Conrad. Someone who seemed to know and understand her better than her friends did, better than her family did. What Lucy had not known until it was too late was that he’d researched her long before he contacted her. Knew her favorite bands. Her favorite movies. Her favorite books. All because of places she’d visited and made comments about on the World Wide Web. He knew she was the youngest of seven, came from a family of cops and military heroes. He understood-even though she never said it in so many words-that she wanted to get away from home because of the deep sadness that had permeated her family after the murder of her nephew Justin when she and Justin were only seven.
“Trevor Conrad” had known more about her than anyone else, and she’d walked right into his trap.
Had Kirsten made similar mistakes?
“Lucy, what’s wrong?” Sean asked.
She shook her head, realizing that she was staring into space and Sean had been trying to talk to her about Kirsten and her mother. “What isn’t wrong?” she countered, not able to discuss her thoughts right now. “I’m ready, though you hardly need me.”
“We need to talk to Kirsten’s friends, and you’ve worked with teens. You know their in-speak, so to speak.” He smiled at his humor.
“And you don’t?” she said. “I’m here, so let’s get on with it.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “You’re not really mad at me.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Yes, I am.” But she wasn’t, not at Sean. Not anymore.
He reached out and lifted the amethyst daisy pendant off her chest. “No, you’re not.”
“I’m not going to take my anger out on a beautiful piece of jewelry just because the gift-giver picked the lock on my bedroom door.”
He kissed her. “I’ll try not to do it again.”
“Try?”
“I’m not going to make any promises I’m not sure I can keep.”
Lucy supposed that honesty was better than false promises, but she cherished her privacy, and Sean was going to have to learn that sometimes she needed to be alone.
They walked up to the front door. Sean had a key and let them in. “Evelyn had to work today, but that’s just as well because I work better without someone asking a million questions.”
“She’s worried.”
Sean closed the door behind them. “I don’t like that Kirsten hasn’t contacted anyone, not her mother or a friend.”
“Unless one of her friends is keeping a secret.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” He walked down the hall to the kitchen. “First I’m going to check Kirsten’s cell phone records. Evelyn told me she left them on the kitchen table.”
He motioned up the stairs. “Kirsten’s room is at the top on the right. Patrick and I searched it yesterday, didn’t notice anything odd other than what I told you. But maybe you’ll see something different.”
“Because I’m a girl?”
“Exactly.” He kissed her again. “I’m going to set up down here and go through the phone records.”
Sean watched as Lucy went upstairs. He hadn’t been sure she’d like the daisy necklace because she rarely wore jewelry. He was pleased to see the pendant around her neck.
Sean sat at the table and pulled out his spreadsheet of Kirsten’s friends and their phone numbers. He compared that li
st to the cell phone log. Nothing looked unusual. Next, he looked at the phone numbers on the log that didn’t match up to Kirsten’s known friends.
There was one number in the 917 area code that kept coming up. Sean searched the prefix. It was retained for cell phones in New York City. Who did Kirsten know in New York? Sean looked at last Friday’s phone calls and noted that the same number called Kirsten in the morning and they spoke for eight minutes.
He dialed the number. It went straight to voice mail, a generic computer voice telling him to leave a message at the tone.
He emailed Patrick to run a reverse telephone directory search on that number while he continued to go through the rest of the current calls.
The last call Kirsten made was at 1:07 Sunday morning, to that same 917 number. It lasted one minute.
The records didn’t identify where text messages were sent or at what time, and there was no way of getting those messages unless Sean had the physical phone.
Kirsten called two 212 phone numbers on Saturday, in addition to short calls to the original number. Sean dialed them. One was a restaurant. He asked for their hours and location. Manhattan? He quickly pulled the address up on a map and noted that it was only three blocks from Penn Station.
Amtrak had service from Union Station in D.C. to Penn Station in New York. If Kirsten paid cash, there was no way to trace it. That’s why she didn’t take her car when she left home; she had taken a train to New York. From Woodbridge, there was both train and bus service direct to Union Station.
He called the second number.
“Clover Motel, Brooklyn.”
Brooklyn? That wasn’t near Penn Station. “I’m looking for a guest, Kirsten Benton.”
“Room number?”
“I don’t have it. She would have checked in Friday night.”
“Just a sec.”
Sean heard the phone placed on a desk and television noise in the background. He Googled the motel for the address. The motel didn’t look too bad, though it wasn’t a place Sean would stay. Had Kirsten reserved a room, or was she calling a guest?
“Sorry,” the clerk came back on the line. “We have no guest by that name.”
“What about Ashleigh Benton?”
The clerk sighed. A moment later he said, “No. No Benton. No Kirsten. No Ashleigh. Anything else?” the clerk asked.
“Did you work last Friday night?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a private investigator looking for a missing teenager.”
“How do I know you’re not some crazy asshole? You want information, you come down with proper ID, and I’ll tell you. I can spot a fake, so don’t be pulling any shit with me.” The clerk hung up.
Sean didn’t much want to go to New York just to talk to a motel clerk when he didn’t know for certain that Kirsten had been there.
Lucy shouted from upstairs, “Sean!”
He took the stairs two at a time and almost ran right into Lucy as she stood in the doorway.
“I wasn’t sure you heard me,” she said.
“What happened?”
“Kirsten emailed Trey.” She strode over to the computer. “And he responded.”
Facebook threaded messages so you could see the original message and every response chronologically.
Kirsten had sent Trey a message at 7:58 a.m.
Trey,
I don’t know where to start. I’ve been sick. I didn’t even know it was Thursday until I woke up this morning. I’m better, but I sort of can’t walk right now.
It’s a long story, but I have no way of getting home. I lost my phone. Tell my mom that I’m OK. I have plenty of money and so, yeah.
I don’t know what to do! I’m too scared to go home but scared to stay, too. Isn’t that silly? Jessie’s message was all wrong! And who would hurt her? I think they know me but maybe not. But don’t tell anyone where I am! Please please please. My head is foggy and I can’t think. But it’s all weird here and the news in the paper doesn’t explain anything. I already miss her maybe it was my fault I don’t know anything.
Can you pick me up in New York when I figure out where I am? I’m somewhere very nice. It’s pretty and there’s a big bridge.
So sorry everything you were right I was stupid about everything I want to play softball but now I can’t I want to
Several of her sentences were incomplete, and her message ended there, unsigned. Trey had responded at 8:10 a.m. from his mobile phone:
Kirsten, are you still there? What’s wrong? I’m leaving for New York right now. Email or call me as soon as you get this message. Are you in the city? Which bridge? It’ll take me at least five hours to get there. I’ll let you know as soon as I arrive. T.
“He’s going to New York?” Sean was furious. “He promised he would call me if she contacted him!”
“I’m worried about her,” Lucy said.
“Because she was sick?”
“Read her message carefully. There’s a lot of information there, but she must have a fever or maybe she’s drugged.” Lucy frowned. “She left on Friday?”
Sean nodded. “Did you save that message?”
“Yes, I have a screen capture and I emailed it to myself.”
“She has a friend in New York, but when I tried the number it went straight to a generic voice mail. Patrick is running it now. She received a call from that cell number on Friday morning, and left Friday afternoon. She made several calls to the same number after she presumably arrived in New York.”
“Where is she staying?” Lucy asked, more to herself.
“She called a motel when she arrived in New York, but the clerk said he didn’t have her registered, under Kirsten or Ashleigh.”
“Did you describe her?”
“Didn’t get the chance. He hung up on me. I don’t think the motel has earned even one star.”
Lucy said, “Did you see this? Who would hurt her? You need to ask her mother if she has a friend or relative in New York.”
“As soon as I talk to Trey.” Sean dialed his number. The phone rang four times before bouncing to voice mail.
“Trey, I saw the message Kirsten sent you. Don’t be an idiot. Call me.”
Sean hung up. “Can we send Kirsten a message? A strange guy might scare her, but you-”
Lucy nodded. “I understand.” Lucy logged onto her own account and sent Kirsten a message with her contact information as well as some advice.
Call the police as soon as you can and tell them you need to be put in protective custody.
NINE
Suzanne and Detective Panetta had been sitting in the waiting room of CJB Investments for twenty minutes, watching the bustling staff. In the adjoining suite, the Barnett Family Trust offered grants and scholarships to young people for college or the arts.
Suzanne spoke in a low voice, reading information off her BlackBerry. “Wade Barnett is twenty-five, works for his brother, graduated from NYU two years ago. No federal record. You?”
“Two DWIs, that’s it. License suspended for a year. Some other stuff. Nothing official, but my boss said he’s been pulled in a couple times. Charges dropped.”
“On what?”
“Illegal gambling, drunk and disorderly at a nightclub when he was underage. A lot of spoiled rich kids get their hands slapped and sent on their way. The DWIs were more serious; they definitely stuck.”
“Where does he live?”
“Upper West Side.”
Suzanne said, “On the business side, the investment company is doing well. I put an inquiry into our White Collar Crimes Unit, and it looks like CJB is pretty clean. Ditto the charitable trust. According to my analyst, their last tax filing showed just over fourteen million in scholarships, with an operating budget of less than ten percent.”
“Good management. I don’t think it’s Wade Barnett.”
“CJ Barnett is the principal,” Suzanne said.
“We tread lightly, Suzanne,” Panetta reminded her. “The Barnett Tru
st is well respected.”
“I’m not looking to tarnish anyone’s reputation. Just want the truth.”
An attractive young female came out to the lobby. “Mr. Barnett is available now. May I bring you anything to drink? Water? Coffee? A glass of wine?”
Suzanne shook her head and Panetta just grinned. They walked into Barnett’s large corner office, which seemed incongruous with the rest of the office they’d seen. The expansive view of lower Manhattan was the first thing that struck Suzanne, followed by the opulent office space, which was bigger than her East Village apartment. The steel-gray carpets were soft and plush, the art trendy and local, and an entire wall a shrine to the New York Yankees. Being a Yankees fan scored Barnett points with Panetta. Suzanne preferred the Mets.
Wade Barnett was lounging on his couch talking on the phone. His feet were bare, and he wore simple khakis and an oxford-style shirt with a tie, sleeves rolled up. His brown hair was thick and shaggy, in one of those styles where he could step out of the shower looking good. His poise and style suggested he knew he was attractive.
“Gotta go, Jimmy. But we’re on for the Knicks tonight, right? I’ll swing by and pick you up at the bar in an hour.”
He hung up. “It’s not baseball, but it’ll pass the time until April,” he said.
Even Wade Barnett’s welcoming smile was charming, in an arrogant and privileged way.
“I’m Special Agent Suzanne Madeaux with the FBI. This is NYPD Detective Vic Panetta. Thank you for taking the time to meet with us. We hope you’ll be able to help with a case we’re working.”
“Shoot.” He sat up straight and grabbed a baseball off the table, tossing it between his hands. “Sit, please. What can I do?”
Suzanne and Panetta sat in leather chairs across from Barnett. Panetta said, “We came to you because we heard you were familiar with underground parties in the city.”
Barnett frowned. “I don’t care to talk about that.”
Suzanne knew they would lose him quickly if they were too rigid. She said, “We’re not here about the parties specifically, we’re here about a murder. And because you’re in the know about the parties. I don’t really care at this point if you’re the one setting them up. What I do care about are four dead young women.”
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