Lost and Found

by Allison Brennan

  Krista jumped off Missy’s profile and logged into a motor vehicle database. After some pecking around, she turned up a record for an apartment in Venice Beach. From there she came up with a number for a leasing office and learned from a harried-sounding leasing agent that Melissa Davis no longer occupied the unit. Krista used a little sweet talk, and the man gave her the address where he’d mailed the security deposit. Krista ran a search of the new address, and the building showed up on an apartment finder website.

  On-site Parking! One- and two-bedroom units! Free cable!

  Krista poked around the site. Melissa’s apartment number corresponded to a corner unit. Krista even found a blueprint of it on the web site.

  This was it. Everything fit. The timing, the location. Krista’s pulse picked up as she zoomed out on the map and surveyed the broader neighborhood. Melissa’s new building was less than a mile away from her old one. So why had she moved? Had she been looking to share the rent?

  Krista glanced at the clock on her computer. Still no word from R.J. and she was done waiting around.

  #

  The sun was sinking low over the ocean as Krista cruised through Venice Beach. She looked at signs and numbers and circled the block for the second time as her phone chimed from the seat beside her.

  “You at your office?” R.J. asked.

  “I found her.”

  “Who—Riley?”

  “Melissa Davis, a.k.a. Missy. She’s in a two-bedroom unit in Venice Beach.”

  “She has a roommate?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Listen, hold off and wait for me. I can be there in an hour. I had to drive all the way down to La Jolla, and I’m just finishing this up.”

  Finally, she spotted the place. It was sandwiched between two concrete parking garages and looked nothing like the picture on the web site.

  “Sorry, no can do,” she told R.J. “I’m pulling in now.”

  “You should wait for me.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought we were doing this together.” He sounded annoyed.

  “We were and then you peeled off to work for Walker.”

  “Damn it, Krista.”

  “Relax. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  She hung up and turned into the lot. She squeezed into a narrow parking space, ignoring the signs everywhere that threatened to tow her car to Timbuktu and fine her a million dollars. She slid out and looked around.

  The apartments surrounded a narrow courtyard with a Spanish-style fountain that Krista recognized from the web site, only this one was bone-dry. She surveyed the building. Missy was in unit 215, which would be on the second level, accessed by a covered stairwell. Krista hiked up, catching a whiff of marijuana as she passed an open window. Someone was playing reggae music. Someone else was watching football.

  Krista stopped in front of 215, but didn’t hear any sounds coming from within.

  Lights were on, though. She peered through a narrow gap in the blinds and caught the blue flicker of a TV in the kitchen.

  Krista knocked and waited.

  And waited.

  She knocked again.

  She looked through the gap, more closely now. The living room was crammed with boxes and laundry baskets. A black futon faced a blank wall where a TV should have been. A low table was littered with cardboard coffee cups, all with their little brown sleeves. Krista tried to read the name scrawled on the side, but couldn’t make out the letters.

  She knocked once more, then walked to the neighboring apartment and gave a sharp rap.

  The door swung back immediately and a heavyset woman in pink sponge rollers stared up at her.

  Krista was struck speechless. She hadn’t seen rollers like that since her Grandma Dot. The woman was short—barely to Krista’s chin—and she wore a purple velour warmup suit that also could have belonged to Krista’s grandmother.

  “Do I know you?” she demanded. Definite smoker’s voice.

  “I’m looking for Missy. Do you happen know—”

  “Probably at work. She waits tables at a restaurant in Beverly Hills.”

  Not really, but Krista didn’t correct her.

  “Hmm…” She glanced around. “What about her roommate? Have you seen her?”

  The door slammed in Krista’s face.

  Okay, then.

  She went back to 215 and looked through the gap in the blinds again. Riley had been here. Recently. Krista scanned the furniture, the boxes, the laundry baskets. Several pairs of shoes were scattered across the floor and T-shirts were strewn about. Two sets of colored earbuds were tangled together on the sofa. On the drop-leaf breakfast table was a mug with some money tucked under it. Krista couldn’t see the amount.

  Her stomach knotted as she put together a scenario. It looked like Riley had been here recently and left in a rush. Krista returned to 214 and didn’t even get a chance to knock this time before the door swung open and Roller Lady glared up at her.

  “Sorry to bother you again,” she said, although it wasn’t a bother, clearly. This woman lived to be nosy. “Just one more thing. I didn’t see Missy’s car out front. Do you know if she usually parks it in the lot here?”

  “I don’t know where she parks, but not here. They keep bumping the rates.”

  “And her roommate?”

  She frowned. “I’ve seen her little bug pulling in a few times. She probably rents a space.”

  Krista glanced over her shoulder. She hadn’t noticed a Volkswagen Beetle, but she decided to take a stab in the dark. “You mean the white one or…?”

  “Sunflower yellow. You can’t miss it.”

  The door slammed once again. Krista tromped down the stairs, scanning the parking lot. No bug.

  She got back into her car. After a few failed attempts, it started right up. She pulled out of the lot and glanced around at the cars lining the street, but didn’t see a yellow Volkswagen Beetle—or any Volkswagen for that matter, vintage or new.

  Krista glanced at her dashboard and noticed the fuel light glowing beside all the other warning lights. She checked her watch and turned into a gas station, debating whether to call R.J. as she rolled up to a pump.

  Krista hated to admit defeat. Hated it.

  And she wasn’t defeated yet, but she’d definitely had a setback. Riley had been in that apartment recently. Today, in fact. Within the last few hours. Krista wasn’t sure how she knew, but she felt strongly about it.

  She pictured Riley rushing home from somewhere, maybe work, rattled by the news that someone was looking for her, someone her ex-boyfriend believed to be a cop. Then she pictured Riley struggling with the pros and cons and then finally deciding to take off.

  Or maybe she hadn’t struggled at all. Maybe she’d known right away that she wouldn’t stay. Krista envisioned her rushing around the apartment, gathering shoes and separating out favorite T-shirts from loads of laundry, combing through closets and retrieving all the little things she and her roommate had swapped back and forth. Krista imagined her throwing things into a bag and maybe a few boxes and jamming all of it in the back of her VW before taking off.

  A faint bleating noise emanated from Krista’s purse. Her pulse jumped. She grabbed the purse off the floor and rummaged through it to locate the burner phone she hadn’t used in ages. Very few people had the number, but she’d given it to Jared Burris earlier that day.

  “Hello?”

  For a beat, nothing. Then, “Stay away from my apartment.”

  Chapter Six

  Krista glanced over her shoulder. She looked around, but didn’t see Riley Campbell or a yellow Beetle. Was she somewhere nearby, watching? Had Roller Lady tipped her off? The traffic noise in the background told Krista that Riley was definitely outside somewhere.

  “Where are you?” Krista asked.

  “I mean it.” Her voice sounded strained, worried. “You’re putting Missy in danger.”

  “We need to talk, Riley.”

  “You th
ink I’m stupid? You think I don’t know who you are? You don’t know me from Angelino’s. You’re with L.A.P.D.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Yeah, now you’re a private detective. And you’re messing with things you don’t understand.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’d like to.”

  No response, just background noise. Krista held her breath. She could practically feel the tension coming through the phone.

  “How about we meet up for a cup of coffee, you can tell me about it?” Krista used her empathetic voice, her non-cop voice.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You can’t just keep running, Riley.”

  The driver behind Krista honked and motioned for her to either gas up or move on. She ignored him.

  Tension as Krista waited. And waited. She was on the verge of talking. Krista could feel it.

  “Riley?”

  But the call went silent. She’d lost her.

  #

  Krista refused to give up. She’d been so close.

  She drove down the coast, battling her feelings of frustration. For weeks she’d been looking for this girl, and tonight, she’d probably missed her by minutes. Minutes.

  Krista drove through Huntington Beach, eyeing the busy sidewalks and feeling dejected. She was tired. And hungry. And discouraged. And she was dreading her next conversation with Scarlet.

  She was dreading her conversation with R.J., too. He’d come up with so many solid leads in this thing, and in the space of a few short hours, all of them had turned into dead-ends.

  She didn’t want to talk to him, but she was annoyed with herself for being such a wimp. So she called him. To her relief, the call went straight to voicemail and she left him a detailed update.

  Krista drove toward home and tried to give herself a pep talk. The day hadn’t been a total loss. Riley had picked up the phone and called her, hadn’t she? It showed she was conflicted about something. And that told Krista she still had a chance of getting her to talk.

  Krista spied Max’s Diner and on impulse turned into the parking lot. No purple tow truck this time, but the lot was full. Evidently, they were known for more than just breakfast.

  Krista managed to get a corner booth in the back. A waitress promptly appeared with a pot of coffee.

  “What’ll it be, hon?”

  Krista skimmed the menu. What she really wanted was a greasy hamburger, but she hadn’t eaten a vegetable in three days.

  “I’ll have a Cobb salad, hold the bacon.” Krista’s cell chimed and she checked the number. “And a chocolate shake.”

  When the waitress disappeared, Krista answered the phone.

  “Where are you?” R.J. asked her.

  “At Max’s. Where are you?”

  “I got your message,” he said, dodging the question. “You think she was living there?”

  “Looked like it to me. I think she packed and took off, maybe going to a friend’s place or maybe leaving town.”

  “Listen, I’m still tied up here,” he said, “but I wanted to assure you I’m working on this.”

  “How’s that exactly? You’ve been in La Jolla.”

  “I’ve got resources deployed.”

  “You mean your cousin Carrot Top?”

  “He’s a good investigator.”

  “He’s ten, R.J.”

  “Twenty-one. And he’s great on computers. You should give him a chance.”

  “I don’t want to give him a chance. I hired you. At a ridiculous rate, I might add. For two grand a day, I should be getting the legendary R.J. Flynn, not the B-Team.”

  “You are getting me. I’m just multitasking.”

  Krista rolled her eyes, but unfortunately he wasn’t there to see her. “If I locate her before you, the deal’s off.”

  “Okay, but let’s define ‘locate.’ You want an address? An actual sighting? What?”

  “I want a meeting,” she said. “I need to talk to this girl so I can convince her to come forward and give a statement about what she saw.”

  “Fine, then we’re good.”

  Krista laughed. “How are we good? She took off again.”

  “I’ll get you your meeting. Just be patient.”

  They got off the phone, and Krista spread out her notes. She had two notepads going, plus some texts she’d traded with Scarlet. Whenever Krista got stuck, it helped her to look at everything together and try to get a bird’s-eye view. The waitress delivered the food. Krista halfheartedly nibbled the salad as she combed through her notes.

  “Hi.”

  She glanced up to see Brian looming over her table. He smiled down at her so cheerfully she felt bad for calling him Carrot Top.

  “Mind if I join you?” Without waiting for an answer, he slid into the booth.

  “So, R.J. brought you in on this, huh?”

  He shrugged. “I wasn’t busy.”

  “Any leads?”

  “One. Don’t know if it will help, though.”

  “Let’s hear it.” Krista dug into her milkshake.

  “Well, basically I started with the car lead.” He pulled a phone from his pocket and tapped open the notes screen. “The woman you’re searching for—Riley Campbell—it looks like she sold her Honda Civic at CarMax three days after the incident in question.”

  “You mean the shooting?”

  His eyebrows arched with surprise. “Someone got shot?”

  “Yeah, my partner. She was ambushed during a police operation. She took three bullets, but didn’t get a look at the gunman. Meanwhile, Riley was parked outside where it happened getting a traffic ticket, so we think she might have witnessed a person or a vehicle fleeing the scene.”

  Brian looked blank.

  “R.J. didn’t tell you all this?” she asked.

  “He was a little vague on the details.”

  “Typical.”

  “Anyway… the three-day time window.” He consulted his notes. “R.J. thought that seemed weird. He said he would have expected her to leave town right after the incident, but she waited around.”

  “I agree. It’s strange. Maybe she was biding her time or something, making her plans to leave.”

  “Maybe.”

  But she could tell by his tone he didn’t agree.

  “Why?” she asked. “You don’t think so?”

  “Not after what R.J. dug up. Last night, he went to the place she worked. Angelino’s? He asked them what day she officially stopped working. Turns out, their employment records are kind of a mess. So he asked to look at the security footage so he could see the last night her car pulled into work. In other words, did she keep coming to work after the incident? Or did she, you know, lay low in her apartment or whatever before she skipped town.”

  “You’re telling me R.J. walked into a strip joint and asked their management to look all this up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why on earth…?” Her voice trailed off as she got it. He’d paid them.

  “R.J. greases the skids pretty good from what I can tell,” Brian said.

  “I guess so.” Krista pushed the salad aside and focused on the milkshake.

  “Anyway, they sent him a copy of their security footage from the week in question. It’s all digital, so it’s not like it’s that hard to do or anything.”

  “I’m surprised they keep footage back that far. Sounds kind of meticulous for a strip club.”

  “Not really. Their system automatically saves everything unless you go in and erase it. So I went through the footage from the days we wanted, every last minute. Took me about five hours.”

  Krista’s stopped eating. “You found something?”

  “After the incident, Riley Campbell showed up for work two more nights. On the second night, someone followed her as she left.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “You can see it on film.”

  “Who followed her? You mean like a customer?”

  “I
don’t think so. He didn’t go into the bar. This guy never left his pickup, just pulled in and waited in the parking lot. When she got off work and pulled out of the lot, he tailed her.”

  “And… all this happened the night before she left?”

  “Near as I can tell. She didn’t come back to work again after that. And the very next day, she sold her car. So the theory is—”

  “Something this guy did or said prompted her to leave.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Tell me you saw a license plate.”

  He grinned. “Yep.”

  “No way.”

  He turned his phone to face her, and Krista read the tag number.

  “I looked it up,” he said. “It’s a black Dodge Ram and it traces back to Oliver Miller, who lives in Anaheim.

  This was a whole new avenue for investigation. Riley might be gone—at least temporarily. But this lead could help them figure out what, or who, had made her skip town in the first place.

  Krista glanced at her watch. Almost nine. She pulled out her wallet.

  “What are you doing?” Brian asked.

  “Following up.”

  “What do you plan to do?”

  “Go to Anaheim and check out this guy Miller. You don’t have to come. In fact, it’s probably better if you didn’t.”

  He sighed.

  “Really, I’m good.” She left some bills on the table and scooted from the booth. “Go back to R.J.’s. Get back to whatever you were doing tonight.”

  “This is what I’m doing tonight. I’m working on this skip trace.”

  “Then sounds like you’re coming with me.”

  #

  They took separate cars to the address and parked a block over, beside a baseball field. It was a middle-class neighborhood, but far from fancy. One-story houses, chain-link fences, the occasional overgrown lawn. It was the kind of place where about ten percent of the homes had gone through foreclosure and were in the process of being flipped. As they walked down the sidewalk, Krista spotted the properties where it had happened by the new paint and freshly laid sod.

  Nothing fresh about Oliver Miller’s place, though. The brown ranch house hadn’t seen a coat of paint since 1975. The yard was patch of weeds and the front stoop had been taken over by a tangle of wisteria.