The counselors would have to let the kid go at some point. One boy had been in the program for six months before he finally graduated, but this was different. “I’m not sure—"
Her boss cut in. “Just leave him in the program until we hear from his dad, or a lawyer, or state authorities.”
Ruth didn’t argue. “I’m so sorry about Carrie. Are you gonna take some time off? Should I tell the staff so they don’t bother you?”
“No and no. I’ll be fine as long as Ridgeline keeps making money. My other businesses are borderline.”
Ruth worried about her job now. The boot camps were still profitable, although not as busy, but the gay-conversion therapy camp they ran out of Nevada was struggling. “I’m doing my part.”
“I know you are,” Fletcher said. “Please find out anything you can about the new applicant’s grandfather. What’s his name, by the way?”
“Martin MacFarlane.” Ruth wasn’t optimistic but she would try.
“Call me if you hit any red flags.” The boss hung up.
Chapter 17
After an awkward goodbye with Kyle, Rox headed for her car, parked several blocks away. She cut through the beautiful parks across from the Police Bureau and was reminded how lovely downtown Portland was in the warm months. Halfway to her vehicle, she changed her mind and turned toward the huge concrete building that also housed the county court. She hoped Kyle wouldn’t see her in the bureau and think she’d purposely avoided walking over with him.
Inside the building, she paused and took a moment to appreciate the cold beauty of the stone walls and circular stairs in the lobby—which contrasted sharply with the kinetic energy behind the security barriers. She’d loved her time in the bureau, but too much of it had been spent inside these walls instead of out on the streets. Once her bosses had realized how good she was with data, she’d gotten stuck behind a desk. The CIA had treated her the same way. If Jolene hadn’t been murdered, she might still be in D.C., staring at numbers and patterns all day. Rox pushed away the guilt. Although her life now was significantly better, she would trade it in a heartbeat to have her sister back. Jolene was the only real female friend she’d ever had.
Rox strode up to the counter and smiled at the woman behind the safety glass. “Hi, I’m Rox MacFarlane. I was an officer here for six years, and now I’m a private investigator. I’d like to speak with a detective who handles missing persons.”
The woman, about her age, nodded but didn’t smile back. “I think Sam Kushing is the only one in the building at the moment. I’ll see if he has time.”
She’d worked with Kushing once on a custody case. After a brief phone conversation, the desk officer let Rox through the security door and walked her back to the specialized unit. When she entered, Detective Kushing stood, a thin older man with blond-gray hair and a sweet smile. “Good to see you again, MacFarlane.” He shook her hand. “How’s your dad?”
Everyone knew Marty, who’d been with the bureau for thirty-five years. “He’s good. As long as I keep him busy.”
Kushing chuckled. “Have a seat and tell me how I can help you.”
"I’m looking into a missing teenager. Tommy Goodwin. He disappeared about three weeks ago.”
The detective cocked his head. “Who hired you? That’s still an active case for us.”
“His uncle, Scott Goodwin.”
“Yeah, the mother mentioned him.” Kushing turned to a nearby file cabinet. “Let me get out my notes.” He probably had electronic documents too, but old-school cops liked handwritten memos.
“Donna Goodwin reported him missing?”
“Yes.” Kushing’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure how much I should tell you, but since you’re trying to find the kid too, I don’t see a downside.”
“His case may overlap with another teenager I’m searching for.” Rox wondered if Kushing had any experience with correctional programs. “Have you ever heard of Ridgeline Wilderness Health?”
“It’s one of those boot camps. We worked a case a few years ago that involved a teenage boy who wasn’t really missing but in the program instead.”
“That’s what my client thinks might be going on with his nephew—that Tommy’s mother sent him to a wilderness camp or military school but doesn’t want to admit it.”
“So why would she report her son missing?” Kushing stroked his chin. “I remember thinking that she seemed kind of detached. Or at least not hysterical the way a lot of parents are when their kid disappears.”
“What’s your take?” Rox asked, frustrated with the uncertainty of the case. “Did Tommy run away or did his mother ship him out and not want to tell anyone? Particularly Tommy’s uncle, who’s like a father to him.”
Kushing looked up from his notes. “I honestly don’t know. We checked hospitals, homeless camps, and youth facilities. We also posted flyers with Tommy’s image at all the places teenagers hang out downtown and tried to question the transients at Dirty Kid Corner. But they won’t talk to police.” The old man shrugged. “We only had one call about a sighting that seemed legit, but nothing came of it. Tommy Goodwin is still missing.”
Rox decided to step up her effort to find him. “What’s your take on the mother?”
“She seemed pretty marginal. Like she wasn’t taking care of herself. You know, dirty hair and physically shaky, the way a drunk or addict is before they get their daily feel-good.”
Everyone handled grief differently. Rox’s compassion for the family deepened. “Donna lost her husband in Afghanistan recently, so she may not be in her right mind.”
Anger flashed in the detective’s eyes. “Still, if she knowingly wasted our time and effort…” He let the thought go.
“Anything else I should know before I waste my time too?”
“You need to accept that the kid might have left the area. Or overdosed somewhere and hasn’t been found yet.”
She’d considered all of that. This wasn’t her first missing-person case. “Can you give me specifics about the day he disappeared?”
“The mother last talked to Tommy on a Friday morning before school. He went to his uncle’s over the weekend, then Scott Goodwin dropped the kid off Sunday night. Tommy apparently took off right after that.” Kushing glanced at his notes again. “June twenty-third.”
“Did Tommy get a call from a friend or say anything about where he was going?”
“Ms. Goodwin wasn’t very clear about the details. She admitted she’d been drinking heavily over the weekend.”
Maybe Tommy had run away. Alcoholic parents could be hard to take. Rox asked Kushing for Donna Goodwin’s phone number, and after a slight hesitation, he gave it to her. “Don’t tell her you got it from me. Your client could have given it to you, right?”
“Yes.” Rox stood. “Do you want me to update you if I find Tommy?”
“Please.” Kushing shook her hand again, and Rox left, eager to meet with Donna and decide for herself if the woman was mentally ill or just playing everyone. Rox knew she had to stay focused on her first client, but instinct told her the cases could be related. If she could convince—or con—Donna Goodwin into telling her the truth about where Tommy was, she might learn Josh’s location too.
As she drove down Second Avenue, Rox recalled Kushing’s mention of Dirty Kid Corner. At Third and Oak, it was only about eight blocks away, not far from the downtown homeless camp. The transients who hadn’t been willing to talk to a police officer might open up to her. Since she was already in the area, it couldn’t hurt to show Tommy’s picture to a few people.
She found a parking spot in a coffee roaster’s lot and climbed out, remembering her last visit to the area. She’d chatted with a young girl working in a soup kitchen run by a cult leader. The mission had closed and an oyster bar was now open in its place. But the nearby homeless camp and Voodoo Doughnuts were still operating. Rox walked back to Third Avenue and scanned the intersection. Scruffy travelers with bandana-wearing dogs occupied the sidewalk in front o
f the Church of Scientology. Across the street, a group of teenagers huddled around a shelter made of cardboard. She headed for the kids, not feeling optimistic.
She told the runaways she was a youth counselor who wanted to help Tommy, but they all shook their heads when she showed his photo.
“Are you with the Rainbow Coalition?” an older boy asked.
“No, his uncle asked me to find Tommy.”
"You might try the park,” a girl suggested. “We panhandle over there sometimes.”
“Thanks.” Rox started to leave, then turned back. “Hey, have you ever heard of Ridgeline Wilderness Health?”
The boy gave an exaggerated shudder. “I’ve heard some bad things.”
“Like what?”
“Walking all day, not enough food, sleeping outside without blankets.” He gave her a weird smile. “Kind of like being homeless.”
Interesting perspective. “Anything else?”
A young girl spoke up. “I was staying in a teen shelter and one girl said she’d been sexually abused by a staff member at one of those camps, but I don’t remember the name.”
A troubling new element. “Thanks again.” Rox headed back to her car. The Waterfront Park was massive, and searching it would probably be a waste of time.
On the drive home, she called Donna. When she didn’t answer, Rox hung up. She wanted to think this through. She might only have one chance to get information from Tommy’s mother, and she didn’t want to blow it. A face-to-face talk would be better. For that, she needed to know where Donna lived or worked. She called Scott Goodwin and left him a message, remembering at the last moment to give her investigative name. “Hey, this is Karina Jones. I still need to chat with Tommy’s mother, and I’d like to do it in person. Call or text me with her address, please.”
Rox pulled into her own driveway and noticed that Marty’s car was gone. She hoped he was checking into Curtis Fletcher, who might be the key to finding both teenage boys. In the house, Rox checked her email. She scanned through a bunch of troll-type Craigslist responses to her personal ad, then came across a message from Ridgeline. She clicked it open, eager to see if they would give her information about the transport service for her fake son.
The content was brief: Your application has been rejected and your deposit will be refunded. Please don’t contact us again.
What the hell? For a business that was hurting for clients, the rejection made no sense. Unless they’d somehow become suspicious of her. Maybe it was the use of Marty’s credit card. Damn. Rox told herself it didn’t matter. They would find the local transport office another way. It would just take longer. Now she didn’t have to hire an actor and worry about his safety during the abduction-style pickup.
She called Marty, but he didn’t answer so she texted him: BTW, Ridgeline denied my application. Would he understand the abbreviation for by the way? She usually had to spell out everything for him. But at least he was finally reading and responding to texts. Sort of.
Her work phone rang, and she looked at the ID. Scott Goodwin returning her call. Rox picked up and said, “Hello.”
“Hey, it’s Scott Goodwin. I’d love to buy you dinner and get an update on the case.”
Chapter 18
Marty drove up Miller Road into the new Northwest Heights development, surprised by the size of the houses. As soon as he’d started the climb, his expectations had altered, but now he realized the neighborhood was definitely upper middle class. Maybe even rich. Many of the homes had views of the city skyline and the coastal range beyond it. He didn’t envy them. Money always created its own problems. He’d had a good life without a need for frills.
Near the top, he turned on Skyline and drove slowly, watching for house numbers. He didn’t want to park directly in front of Fletcher’s residence. Bowman had found the address in the bureau’s database—because Fletcher had once reported a vehicle vandalized. But it probably hadn’t happened in this area. The only other thing Bowman had found was that Fletcher had been arrested in Portland for indecent exposure when he was twenty-one. After that, he’d let his Oregon driver’s license expire, then renewed it fifteen years later—most likely after moving out of state for a while. Now the Ridgeline owner was forty and lived in a million-dollar home. According to Rox, the teen-correctional business was in decline because people were turning away from the harsh programs, but Fletcher was still doing just fine—at least on the surface.
Marty spotted a close-enough address and parked behind a delivery truck on the right side of the street, giving him a diagonal view of Fletcher’s home. The charcoal-and-burgundy-brick structure featured two round turrets flanking the front, with a wide, sweeping set of matching steps leading up to the front door. Classy. Marty reached under his seat for his binoculars. He would have to be careful in this neighborhood and move his car a few times or someone would report him.
Was anyone home? No vehicles sat in the driveway, but the massive three-door garage could easily house several cars. Marty reminded himself that Curtis Fletcher’s girlfriend had just been murdered, and the man was likely grieving—even if he had done it himself. As a cop, he’d seen that a few times. What did people normally do the day after such a tragedy?
When he’d learned that his daughter Jo had been shot by her crazy, polygamous husband, he’d been too shocked to do anything for days. He’d cried and slept and talked to both Rox and Georgia, his ex-wife, on the phone. After Jo’s service, he’d become enraged and energized enough to drive to the remote house where his baby girl had died. But he’d lost his courage at the sight of it and hadn’t gone inside. Everyone in the home had died that fatal day, leaving no one to help him understand why Jolene had married into the weird little cult. He still didn’t know. And thinking about her still hurt his heart.
Movement in a window caught his attention, and Marty pulled the binoculars to his eyes again. Through open blinds, he could see parts of a large, likely-male figure moving around. Marty called the number Bowman had provided, not optimistic that it was current or even connected to Fletcher anymore. The call went straight to voicemail: “This is Curtis Fletcher. You can leave a message, and I’ll try to get back to you.”
No hint of warmth and no promises. Marty hung up. He needed to see the man’s face and look into his eyes before making any judgments. He’d never worked as a homicide detective, but after thirty years as a police officer, he knew when people were lying. He climbed out of his sedan and crossed the quiet street. He’d worn a suit and tie for the occasion, figuring he might have to play this out. Still, the prospect of the encounter made him nervous. But if Rox, with her blunt compulsions, could do tradecraft fieldwork, so could he. Her treatments had given her more flexibility, more intuition, and he was proud of her.
As he walked up the long, curved driveway, the sun blazed in a blue sky, making him sweat in his long-sleeved layers. Not good. He rang the doorbell and rehearsed his lines. This would be no problem. He’d already made some con-based phone calls in his partnership with Rox, as well as played out a few phony-security-guy gigs. Whatever it took to rescue young people from their messed-up situations. It beat the hell out of playing golf or working on the damn house.
No one came to the door. Marty rang again. Finally, a voice came over an intercom somewhere. “Go away. The sign says no solicitors.”
Marty looked up, scanning for the camera. “I’m Bill Parsons, a grief counselor, sent out by the Community Fellowship.”
Silence for a long moment, then footsteps sounded and the front door opened. Five-eleven with a big belly and not much hair, the man looked worried but dry-eyed. “I appreciate your concern, but I don’t really need any help.”
“You’re Curtis Fletcher?” A force of habit to confirm.
“Yes. But God—or the collective human spirit, whatever you believe—can’t help me with this.” A note of pain in his voice.
“I’d like to try. We can at least pray together.” Marty really hoped the man wouldn’t take him up
on that.
“I’m fine, really. Just because I go to the fellowship doesn’t mean I’m religious.”
Marty didn’t understand, but also didn’t care. “What about Carrie’s son? I’m sure he needs counseling.”
“He’s getting that where he is right now.”
“He’s not here with you?” Marty tried to look surprised.
“No. He’s not my responsibility.” Fletcher gave a strange, tight smile. “You have to go, because I’m leaving soon.”
“God bless you. Take care.” Marty turned and left, puzzled by the man’s demeanor. Fletcher wasn’t grieving the same way Marty would if his wife had died, but the man did seem distressed. And it was clear he had no intention of bringing Josh home from the wilderness camp. They would have to extract him as planned. If the boy learned of his mother’s death and felt trapped in the program, his suicidal thoughts might be overwhelming.
On the sidewalk, Marty moved past where his car was parked on the other side—in case Fletcher was watching him. When he was out of eyesight, he crossed over, hurried back to his sedan, and climbed in from the passenger’s side, where he had less exposure. Slumped down, he waited, wondering if Fletcher really planned to leave or if he’d just wanted to get rid of him.
A few minutes later, he heard a vehicle rolling down a driveway, the only sound on the quiet street. Marty eased over to get behind the wheel, keeping himself low in the seat. The other vehicle cruised by, moving rapidly. Marty started his car, waited for a count of twenty, then pulled a U-turn. Near the curve below, he spotted a red BMW speeding downhill. Keeping a safe distance back, Marty followed, hoping for some traffic to blend into.
At the bottom of the winding road, the BMW turned left and headed south. Marty sped up, not wanting to lose sight. At the highway, Fletcher went east, heading into Portland. Marty followed for twenty minutes, until the red sedan pulled into a parking garage under an office building downtown. Three stories tall, it housed multiple businesses. Marty followed the vehicle underground, then passed it as Fletcher parked near the entrance. After finding an empty space on the far side of the structure, Marty climbed out and hurried through the dark parking area to the building’s entrance. Fletcher was nowhere in sight.
Broken Boys_The Extractor Page 10