Let him get it out of her, she thought. Let him shut down this loud, underage party and ruin her night for causing it. Taylor would learn the hard way; she’d learn to be a better actress. Or she’d learn to tell Maggie things first.
Fourteen
Emma
It started to drizzle, a cold rain just steady enough to be annoying, but Emma didn’t stop at her dorm for an umbrella. She rushed straight to the journalism building, running up the damp stone steps, sliding a little in her Converse. She was breathless when she arrived and found Jason in a meeting. The conference room, the only large room on the floor, was wrapped in smeary, streaked glass; it looked like dogs had pressed their noses against it. Jason’s back was toward her, so she couldn’t flag him down, and she realized this was a gift. She shouldn’t flag him. This wasn’t a matter of life and death, after all; it was just a story, and he didn’t know anything about it, and it wasn’t like anyone was in danger, right? There was no serial killer on campus, no rapist she’d uncovered; she realized, catching her breath and calming herself down, that this was not imperative, time sensitive, or worthy of running, so she was grateful she had the time to gather herself before she spoke. Passion was one thing; impetuousness was another.
She used the time she was waiting to strategize. Would knowing Fiona be helpful or hurtful? Could she count on interviewing her or her introducing her to others? She was suddenly annoyed at herself for not being chattier, more forceful. Even Taylor assumed that she’d known; why hadn’t she asked Fiona innocuous questions about her clothes, her going out at night? Why had she just assumed her roommate was simply stylish? And what would Jason think? Would he wonder if there was something wrong with her powers of observation? That she could have slept right next to this girl, who took more time with her clothes and beauty regimens than she ever did with her homework, and not have suspected it was for a reason and not because she was just a prima donna?
Emma took a deep breath. No. That wasn’t it. If another girl had behaved that way, Emma might have suspected right away. But not quiet, Catholic girl Fiona. Fiona didn’t hide the cross around her neck; she wore no other jewelry, went to mass twice a week, and crossed herself instinctively whenever something good or bad happened. She was from outside Pittsburgh, but she reminded Emma of the girls she’d been confirmed with in South Philly. Good Irish girls. Girls who were raised with stories from their grandmothers and great aunts, of other girls who got into trouble, who strayed from the path. Girls like that don’t have indiscriminate sex, and they certainly don’t charge for it. Realizing this made Emma feel enormously better. It was the swinging gold cross around Fiona’s neck that had hypnotized her, nothing else.
Jason’s meeting seemed to go on forever. The real reporters, the seniors and juniors, they were in that room, no one else. She wondered what they were discussing. The lack of equipment? The need for more printers, fonts, photographers? The desire for a generous alumni donor like the business school and the biology lab and even the gym, with its gleaming rows of equipment, had? She wondered what they were working on. If any of them was experiencing the same problems she was.
She watched Jason listening quietly to a guy passionately describing something, gesturing with his arms, swaying his head. Finally, Jason took off his glasses and rubbed one eye. That did not look good to her. That looked like he was tired of listening, that the speech-giver had lost him. She wondered if talking to him after this long meeting, when he’d already grown weary, was bad timing. Maybe she should come back?
At last, they gathered up their laptops and notebooks and stood. A couple of people stretched. Jason opened the door and exchanged a few pleasantries, but the look on his face was clear. He wanted out of that room. She looked at her watch. Maybe he hadn’t had lunch?
Outside at last. Still talking to one of the guys. She stood nearby but didn’t wave, and he noticed, nodded his head, then finally extricated himself, made his way to her.
She smiled, exhaled.
“Long meeting?”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t supposed to be, but what can you do?”
“Yeah,” she said, although she had no idea what he was talking about.
“So what’s up? You got something?”
She nodded. “I do. But if this isn’t a good time—”
“No, this is a very good time, because everybody else in this room,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “got a whole lot of nothing.” He sighed. “Let’s get some air. Can you walk and talk?”
She nodded. It was still spitting rain on and off, but she knew guys didn’t care about that. Guys didn’t care about their hair, their mascara. Outside, they walked and she talked and he listened. He stopped occasionally to wipe the rain off his glasses, but he let her speak. She tried to be succinct, to emphasize facts, not hunches. But when she was done, he went immediately for the weak parts.
“So you have not spoken to your roommate about her work yet?”
“No.”
“And you haven’t witnessed her in this establishment or in a car leaving it?”
“No.”
“And you haven’t been inside the club or found anyone who has?”
“Not yet,” she said. “I know there’s a lot more work to be done.”
“Do you know when the first restaurant was shut down and when the club was built, when they got their liquor license?”
“No, but I will. That’s on my to-do list.”
“How long have you been working on this?”
“A day.”
“A day?”
“Yeah.”
“You found all this out in a day?”
“Yeah. Well, I skipped class this afternoon, so…”
He took a deep breath in, then rubbed his hand across his mouth. She had a feeling that was a good sign.
“Nice work,” he said finally. “But there are more questions than answers, and we need a lot more before we can do anything with it.”
“So no one’s come to you with this already?”
“No. I know there are girls on every campus in big cities doing this, but I thought it was on the fringes, through the apps, maybe only a couple. There was a story in the New York Post, or maybe New York Magazine, a while back. But it sounds like your roommate isn’t exactly the type you’d expect.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“How close are you? I mean, other than seeing her in her retainer or hearing her snore, how well do you know her?”
“Not well. She’s quiet and, um, she’s gone a lot at night. And now I think I know why.”
“Any issues with her, though? Any reason you can’t get closer?”
“No.”
“My thinking is that if she opened up to your other roommate, she’ll open up to you. You need this information firsthand, not second. Otherwise, it’s hearsay, gossip. I doubt she’ll go on the record, but you at least need her perspective directly. And you need to work that valet. And, best case scenario, get inside the club. Can you waitress? Or bartend? I’m guessing they have attractive servers.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Had he just called her attractive?
“I don’t know,” she said. “I was thinking that I should find out if she’s told my other roommates. Or anyone else in her classes. Because maybe—”
“No,” he said. “If that gets back to her, she’ll be pissed that you’re talking behind her back, and you could lose her as a source.”
“But she might be recruiting, and that’s really the story.”
“I think based on…what’s her name? Your other roommate?”
“Taylor.”
“Right. Based on what Taylor’s told you, you already know she is. To some degree. So the main focus has to be gaining her trust and getting close to her. Once you have her perspective, you can always widen out.”
“O
kay.”
“And also, don’t tell her you’re working for the paper. Do they know you are?”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever mentioned it.”
“They haven’t noticed your Harriet the Spy routine?”
“What?”
“Your notebook, your wandering around looking for a story to bring me.”
She blushed and tried to stop it by breathing deeply, which sometimes made things worse.
“I’m teasing you. Don’t worry. Anyway, don’t tell them. We can always meet somewhere else in case they suspect.”
He took out his phone and asked for her number. She explained, breathlessly, that she had two.
“One day and you’re already undercover?” He laughed.
“I didn’t want them to think I was following them.”
“Women and Snapchat,” he sighed.
“Guys are worse. They stalk hot girls all the time.”
“No they don’t.”
“They do. Maybe you should be following that story, too.”
He smiled. “Well, first, someone would have to get hurt. It’s not a story until someone gets hurt.”
“No one’s hurt in my story.”
He tilted his head and looked at her oddly. “Keep digging,” he said. “Maybe talk to a few experts about post-traumatic stress, about sex work and power. Maybe you’ll change your mind about that.”
They exchanged phone numbers, and as she was walking away, he called out. “One more thing, Emma.”
“Yes?” she said, turning back.
“Nice work.”
She smiled and walked away, her step just a little lighter, bouncier, than it had been before.
Fifteen
Maggie
Maggie sat down on the curb outside the house and, while she waited for Kaplan, tried to reach Sarah Franco. She tried not to let her anger come through in her texts; she simply said she was on campus and wanted to talk to her.
Who is this? came the reply, finally, ten minutes later.
Emma’s mom, she replied.
I think you may have the wrong number.
After a series of guarded texts, she ascertained that Sarah’s old phone number now belonged to a young woman who was not a student. It could have been Sarah, lying to her, Maggie supposed, but she didn’t think so. The person on the other end of the phone softened, became suddenly human when Maggie said Emma was missing and apologized for texting a stranger at night.
You know, I had to change numbers because someone was stalking me. Maybe your daughter is in hiding for a good reason?
Maggie teared up reading that, this advice from a total stranger. A woman who understood.
Thank you. Maybe she is, she texted back.
Sorry I couldn’t help you but good luck.
Maggie waited an hour for Kaplan. It was hard to be angry when she knew he was interviewing someone he needed to interview, but really, how long could that take? She pictured him stopping for a burger, taking a break, cracking his knuckles as he called his wife to say he’d be late. The party went on behind her, the thrum of music punctuated by an occasional crash or shriek or peal of laughter. Every once in a while, a chant rose up, the rhythm and call of a drinking game.
She made a list of things she needed to do: gather photos, make posters, find Sarah to help her get volunteers, get Emma’s schedule, and talk to her teachers. Her sister Kate could come to town and help, one of her brothers too, she supposed, if she was desperate. Her brothers were immature and disorganized, but family was family. Chloe could take care of the salon without her for a while and would be grateful for the tips. She’d go to the computer center and get help, she thought. There was a whole campus full of resources, and the thought of that buoyed her suddenly, that even lost in an island of strangers and drunk children, there were strengths that could be marshaled on her behalf.
Emma was the daughter of a decorated police veteran who was bravely gunned down in the line of duty. She was a story waiting to happen. Maggie could call a press conference on her own. She could look up the names of the reporters from the TV station and the Daily News who’d spoken to her after Frank’s death and see if they could help. If Kaplan didn’t get the job done, someone else would. People on the force loved Frank. She could find someone, she was sure.
It was past midnight, and the length of her day and the strength of her emotions were starting to catch up with her. So much to do still, and yet a weariness in her bones, a feeling she associated with grief, a feeling she couldn’t accept, wasn’t ready for. She called Kaplan again, and he was so close that she heard his phone ringing and his shoes scuffing on concrete. She hung up the phone.
“I told you I was on my way,” he said. He loomed over her, pants still looking creased, eyes still wide and calm.
“You also told me it was best to go get some sleep,” she replied. “So forgive me if I don’t believe everything you say.”
“Insulting me is probably not your best strategy.”
“Well, leaving me in the dark isn’t yours.”
“You have to let us do our jobs.”
Maggie let out a long sigh. How many times had she heard this complaint from Frank? That people wouldn’t leave him alone, didn’t trust him, couldn’t wait for answers. There’s a process, he used to say. There’s a protocol. Things take time. But when your child is missing, time is of the essence. Process, protocol, things that sound time consuming? No. Just no.
“What did the boyfriend say?”
“He said he wasn’t her boyfriend, for starters.”
“Hate to say I told you so.”
“No you don’t. You love to say that. Anyway, he may be lying. Everyone thinks she was seeing somebody.”
“Since you haven’t talked to anyone but Sarah Franco and her RA, how do you define everyone?”
He ignored her question and started asking about Taylor. What she looked like, where she was inside the house, if she was with anybody, if Maggie was sure she hadn’t left.
“Do you want me to come in with you?”
“No, I—”
“How about you just give me your gun and your badge and I’ll go get her? How about that?”
He looked up toward the sky and shook his head. “I’m starting to see why—”
“Why my husband slept with someone else? Is that what you’re gonna say?”
“No, I was gonna say why your daughter didn’t tell you where she was.”
“Yup, just one of those pain-in-the-ass mothers who worries when her daughter goes missing.”
“Look, I’m sorry, but the minute I go to that door, kids are gonna skitter like roaches. If I don’t make it clear that it’s not a raid and I only want her, I’m sunk. So I have to know what she looks like.”
“She’s out back,” Maggie said.
“Good. I’ll climb over the fence then.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Well, I’ll probably use the gate if it’s not locked.” He took two steps away from her.
“Wait a minute. So this boy, this kid, he told you nothing useful?”
“He’s not a kid. He’s a twenty-one-year-old straight-A senior who edits the school newspaper and says she was working on a story and probably felt the need to lie low for a while.”
“Wait, what? That’s ridiculous. Lie low? She doesn’t work for the paper!”
“Well, he said she does. And she felt a need to work undercover.”
“Undercover? She’s not a journalist breaking Watergate, good God—”
“He said he couldn’t say more without revealing his sources. I asked if I could look around his apartment, and he said no, not without a warrant.”
“Christ, get a warrant!”
“Mrs. O’Farrell, warrants are for crimes. Right now, we have nothing. Nothing bu
t rumor and…paranoia. Also, this guy—”
“This guy what?”
“He’s solid.”
“Are you kidding me? You think because he gets good grades and his professors like him or whatever that he somehow walks on water? Are you kidding me right now? Okay, the mother is the last to know. Everyone says Emma had a boyfriend. He might be lying about being her boyfriend, and we all know, dear God, it’s always the fucking boyfriend! And you just what, you let him go?”
“Was I supposed to arrest him for editing the paper? For liking a girl, even if he wasn’t dating her?”
“Did he say that he liked her? How do you—”
“You,” he said loudly, “are not being any help to your daughter by being exhausted and hysterical.”
Maggie laughed then, a maniacal, tear-splashed laugh that could only come out of the mouth of a mother who wasn’t being taken seriously, wasn’t being listened to.
“Let me tell you how this is going to go,” she said. “You’re going to go in there and find Taylor too drunk to speak coherently, or at least pretending she is and fooling you. Then you’re gonna tell me to go home and get some sleep and trust in your fucking process, and I’m going to tell you to go fuck yourself, and I’ll find the other roommates before you will, okay? I’ll wait till tomorrow, when they’re no longer drunk, merely hungover, and I’ll get it out of them while you’re still on your first cup of coffee, filling out paperwork as part of your fucking process.”
“I don’t need to take this from you.” He headed for the door.
“No? Well, prove to me that you can get something done. Steal Taylor’s phone, and text her roommates to meet you. Or drag her out here, and I will!”
“If you want me to find your daughter, you need to calm down.”
“No, Kaplan, if you hope to find her, you need to rev up.”
He exhaled in disgust and headed for the back deck.
Maggie sat back on the curb and waited, scrolling through Emma’s phone. One voicemail from an unrecognized contact, left over a year before? Could this be important? She pressed play. Hi, Em, it’s Dad…
Where She Went Page 8