“Yes, Mr. Lancaster. That’s what this is all about.”
Doug and Ray Logan talk on the phone. Logan extends his heartfelt condolences. He hopes to God the police catch the sonofabitch who did this.
The autopsy report regarding the death of Emma Lancaster is sealed, in the public interest.
After the first few weeks, when no suspect in what is now a kidnapping and murder is found, the media frenzy subsides. Doug goes back to work, Glenna starts going out into the world again, they try to patch together the pieces of their splintered lives.
A few months go by. Despite the allure of Doug’s reward offer, there are still no legitimate leads.
The ongoing strain is taking its toll on their marriage. The knowledge that Emma had been sexually active haunts Glenna. She can’t stop talking to Doug about it. She tells him that not knowing about such an important part of her daughter’s life, when she had thought they were so close, so mother-daughter bonded, tears at her insides. And she can’t stop talking about her persistent conviction that Emma’s being sexually active was in some way tied to her abduction. In her wild fantasies, she tells Doug, she imagines Emma being a willing partner in her disappearance, imagines that the whole thing wasn’t a kidnapping at all.
Doug doesn’t want to hear that. He’s in denial about it. You don’t sneak out to have sex while two of your friends are sleeping in your room, then wind up being found murdered five miles away, hastily buried off a virtually inaccessible trail. This was a kidnapping, pure and simple.
More and more they find themselves going in different directions.
Sheriff Williams comes to the house on a Saturday afternoon after lunch. It’s a few days before the beginning of summer. Their gardens, tended to perfection, are in full color—the only brightness in their lives anymore.
The three sit by the pool. “So far we haven’t been able to develop any leads, nothing useful at all,” Williams tells them somberly.
Their faces register dismay and despair. “So her killer’s never going to be found,” Glenna says dully. She’s lost fifteen pounds since this ordeal began. Her face, although still striking to look at, is all bones and angles.
“Never say never,” Williams says. “Sometimes things come up. Later.”
“By accident. Chance.”
He nods slowly. “We can’t manufacture something that doesn’t exist.”
Doug sees him out. “Thanks for all your help,” Doug says.
“I’m sorry we haven’t done better,” the sheriff apologizes. “Truly sorry.”
“You’ve done your best. And like you said, something could still turn up. My reward still stands. Make sure people don’t forget that.”
The two men shake hands. “Good luck, Mr. Lancaster,” Williams says.
Luck will have nothing to do with this, Doug thinks. He keeps the thought to himself.
Glenna files for divorce the week after Labor Day and moves to a condominium on Butterfly Beach, near the Biltmore Hotel. They put the house up for sale. Doug stays in the house until it’s sold. The sale is finalized the week before Christmas.
Emma Lancaster’s kidnapping spawned a multiple tragedy: one life gone, two others ruined.
A year goes by. Whoever abducted and murdered Emma is still at large. No leads have ever panned out, no perpetrator has ever been arrested.
A YEAR LATER
JOE ALLISON, CRUISING DOWN Coast Village Road after midnight in his Porsche turbo, is styling. Earlier in the evening he had dinner with Nicole Rogers, his girlfriend, a stunning woman befitting a star newscaster, who is finishing the last semester towards her law degree at Pepperdine, commuting down the coast to Malibu. Now, a Cohiba double corona in hand, the balls-to-the-walls twelve-speaker stereo blasting UB40, he’s feeling awesome.
The dinner was a celebratory event. A month ago, his agent negotiated a contract for Joe to be the 5 P.M. anchor at KNBC, the network’s station in Los Angeles. This evening’s six o’clock newscast was his valedictory performance at KNSB.
Doug Lancaster joined Joe and Nicole for dinner. He was sorry to see his star anchorman leave, but Joe’s ascension had been inevitable from the day he started work at the station. Joe was going places, and Doug was happy to have been a part of it.
Joe’s yearly fee is going to start in the medium six figures, with a $125,000 signing bonus. And they promised him a good crack, down the line a year or so, at some of the network’s most prestigious showcases—the Weekend News, subbing on the Today Show, doing live remotes on the Evening News. Tom Brokaw called Joe personally during the negotiations to congratulate him on this upward career move, even joshing that he’d better start looking over his shoulder. Joe and Nicole aren’t spending the night together, as they usually do. That’s the only downside to his new job—she isn’t coming with him. She has a life here, and she isn’t ready to give it up. And he isn’t ready for that kind of commitment either. The career’s got to come first; the personal life will go on hold.
He doesn’t know how long the revolving red lights have been flashing in his rearview mirror. He hasn’t had that much to drink, but he isn’t confident he can go under .08 percent on a blood-alcohol test. You don’t need much booze in your system to test positive—he’s done many a news story on this issue.
“I’ll need to see your driver’s license and registration, sir,” the cop tells him, shining his flashlight into the window. The cop takes a closer look. “You’re Joe Allison, right? From Channel 8.”
Joe smiles at the officer. This might be a small pond, but he’s a big fish in it. “That’s me,” he says brightly. Tone it down, man, he thinks to himself, you’re giving it away. “I wasn’t speeding, was I?” he asks as conversationally as he can. “I’m usually good at staying at the limit.” Pulling his wallet from his hip pocket and handing over the driver’s license, he fumbles around in his crowded glove compartment for the registration. The light isn’t very good. “How fast was I going?” he asks again.
“You weren’t speeding, but you were weaving over the double yellow line. I’m going to ask you to step out of your car onto the sidewalk, sir, so I can Field test you for sobriety. After you find the registration.” A beat. “This is your car, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s mine.” He digs more frantically in the dark compartment. This is pathetic; he needs to throw three-quarters of this shit out. His head buried halfway under the console now, he continues his line of patter, speaking slowly, carefully enunciating each word. “I’ll tell you right now, officer, I have had a few drinks.” Cop to the small indiscretion now and avoid the larger consequence, that’s the smart strategy. His name in the paper or on a police report is what he wants to avoid. Not the best way to impress your new bosses down in Los Angeles.
“After the test, sir.” The officer’s right hand is resting lightly on his hip, above the gun. He’s beginning to get impatient. “Do you need some help?” He starts to shine his flashlight into the car.
“Got it.” Damn! He was panicked for a minute there. Bad enough he wasn’t driving a straight line. Not producing his paperwork would do him in for sure. Although in truth he feels his driving was fine, but maybe he swerved—once. He wasn’t paying attention.
He hands the slip to the cop, who looks it over.
“Okay. Now step out, Mr. Allison.”
Slowly, carefully, Joe gets out of the car. As he opens the door, the cop’s flashlight catches a reflection off something lying on the floor behind the seat.
“Excuse me, sir,” the officer says tersely. “What’s this?”
“What’s what?” Allison turns to look behind him.
There’s a bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon on the floor. It’s half empty. “Turn around, sir,” the cop says harshly. “Come up here onto the sidewalk, and place both hands behind your head.” Keeping his eyes on Joe, he bends down and picks up the bottle. “Having an opened bottle of spirits in a vehicle is illegal, Mr. Allison.”
Joe’s startled. “Hey, I
don’t know how this got here,” he protests. “I don’t even drink bourbon.”
“Do as I say.”
Joe backs off. How did that get there? “The parking lot attendant must’ve left it there, because it isn’t mine, I swear to God.”
The officer pats him down. “Please sit down on the ground, sir, with your hands behind your head.” He opens the passenger door, shining the flashlight on the floorboards and under the seats.
“That isn’t mine,” Joe protests again.
The cop ignores him. He starts rummaging around in the still-open glove compartment, taking items out and laying them on the seat.
“There’s nothing in there.” The sidewalk is damp; his ass is getting wet through his trousers, and he’s sweating like a bandit under the arms.
The officer has almost finished searching through the pile of bills, old registrations, used food wrappers, and assorted other junk. All the way in the back, almost buried in a crease in the lining, he feels something like a key. He shines his light into the recess, pushing some of the junk aside so he can pull it out and see what it is.
A couple of house keys on a short key ring attached to a funny-looking cross. Expensive, the cop thinks, tossing the keys in his palm. Why does this seem familiar?
Then he remembers.
Joe is brought to the police station. He doesn’t have a lawyer in town; he’s never needed one. He tries to call his agent in L.A., but Scott’s on the red-eye to New York.
At least they’ve got him in a single cell, not sharing with anyone else.
The key ring belonged to Emma Lancaster. Her mother had bought it for her in Greece, when they were on vacation the summer before last. The summer before she died.
It’s after one in the morning. Bert Sterling and Terry Jackson, who had been the lead detectives on the kidnapping case, are called at home. They dress hurriedly and come down to the station. Sheriff Williams is also summoned and comes in.
Joe has already been Mirandized out in the field which he assumed had been on the DUI and open-bottle violation. The arresting officer wasn’t specific. The officers talk about what they should do.
Williams is cautiously optimistic—what an incredible stroke of luck. “We’ve got to be really careful here. We don’t want to blow this.” He thinks about what to do. He calls the district attorney, Ray Logan.
Logan listens intently as Williams fills him in over the phone. There are good reasons to consider Joe Allison a prime suspect, both men agree. The key ring, of course, is a damning piece of evidence. Allison knew the Lancaster house and property well; he’d been there dozens of times. He may well have known the alarm-system codes. And as ugly as the prospect might be, he could be the guy who was fucking Emma—he’s great-looking, charismatic, exactly the kind of man a young girl just learning how to fall in love would go for.
Logan gets to the jail in less than twenty minutes. “What do you think?” he asks the sheriff.
“I think it could be him,” the sheriff says. “That key ring …”
“A big piece, anyway,” Logan agrees. He ponders the options, then says to the sheriff, “Let’s talk to the man.” He thinks a moment longer. “And I want to send one of your men to his house. I’ll call in the search warrant.”
Williams turns to Sterling. “Go get ’em, slugger. You know what we’re looking for.”
A deputy unlocks the door to the holding cell where Joe’s been stashed. Joe jerks awake from his light slumber. “What’s going on?” he asks.
The deputy offers no explanation. “Follow me.”
He leads Allison out of the cell block into the interview section and places him in a small, windowless room. In the middle of the room is a government-issue table with three beat-up metal chairs. There’s also a video camera hidden in the corner of the ceiling that Joe doesn’t know about.
“Have a seat. Someone’ll be in shortly.”
Joe looks around at the drab surroundings. What the hell’s going on? he thinks.
Terry Jackson comes into the room, closing the door behind him. He’s wearing sweatpants and a UCSB varsity basketball sweatshirt, the easiest things to throw on when he got the call. He’s a lanky black man in his late thirties; he played small-college basketball upstate and is known for his booming laugh and needling humor.
“Mr. Allison. Terry Jackson. I’m a detective here in the department. I watch you on television.”
Joe grimaces. “I feel like a jerk.”
“Yeah, I can understand. You shouldn’t have been drinking and driving, man.”
“I didn’t have that much to drink,” Joe protests, but not too hard. These cops hear that a million times a day, he knows. Better to play it cool.
Jackson drops into a chair on the opposite side of the table from Joe, turning it around. He folds his arms on the scarred chairback, leans forward comfortably. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he says.
“Well, okay.” That’s good to hear, coming from a cop. “That’s how I feel, too.”
“So what I’d like to do is, I’d like to ask you a few questions and send you on your way, if that’s okay with you.”
Joe lets out an audible sigh of relief. “That’s fine.”
“Good.” Jackson leans further forward. “The officer read you your rights, right?”
Joe stares at him quizzically. “What are you talking about?” he asks.
“Out there in the street, when you were stopped.” Jackson’s smile is open. “I can’t talk to you at all if you haven’t been told your rights,” he explains. “It’s the law.”
“Well …” Joe’s hesitant. This is the first time in his life that he’s been in a jail cell. He isn’t following this clearly—he’s too nervous.
Jackson stands up, heads for the door. “Listen, if you’ve got any kind of problem with this, it’s not a big deal.”
“Wait a minute.” Joe stops him. “Am I going to be released now anyway?”
Jackson stops a step from the door. “That I can’t do,” he says. “But it’s no big thing, you’ll be sprung sometime later this morning.”
No way. He wants out now. There could be a reporter or someone who knows him around in the morning, and then he’d really be screwed.
“That’s okay,” he says before Jackson can leave. “He read me my rights.”
Jackson turns back to him. “And you’re all right with that?”
“Sure, I’m fine.” He smiles. “I have nothing to hide.”
Jackson sits back down again. “That’s good, Mr. Allison. A little cooperation from you, a few pieces of information, and we can wrap this up.” He takes the key ring, which is in a Ziploc bag, out of his pocket and places it on the table between them. “This belongs to you, that’s correct?” he asks, taking the key ring out of the bag and passing it across the table.
Joe reaches out and picks the key ring up, looks at it. He hadn’t seen the arresting officer take it out of his car. “No. This isn’t mine.”
Jackson seems surprised. “It isn’t?”
“No. I don’t recognize it.”
Jackson sits back, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “That’s weird.”
“Why?”
“Because we found it in your car.”
“Well, it isn’t mine. Somebody must’ve left it in there.” First the bottle, now this? What’s this all about?
“Like who?” the detective asks.
“I don’t know,” Joe answers truthfully. “I have a million people riding in my car. Anyone could’ve tossed it in there.”
In an adjoining room Logan and Williams are watching over the video feed.
“He’s handling this well,” Williams comments; he’s nervous as hell about this. “If he’s our man.” Doubt is starting to creep in.
“He’s a television personality,” Logan reminds him. “He’s trained to be cool under pressure.” He pauses. “And to lie when it’s convenient.”
Inside the interrogation room, Jackson is pressing. “Ma
n, you let anybody rides with you mess around in your glove compartment?” he asks with a disbelieving smile. “I don’t let anyone in my box, not even my old lady. I got my car phone in there, gasoline credit cards, all kinds of personal stuff. Come on, man,” he says jocularly, “a guy like you?” He winks at Joe. “You’re not going to let anybody rummage around in your personal stuff, I know that for a fact.”
Joe shrugs. “I don’t keep my personal things in there. What is the point of all this?” he adds.
Jackson changes the subject. “Tonight was your swan song at the station, so I hear.”
“Yes. I’m moving to Los Angeles.”
“Ooooh,” Jackson croons. “Tough city. Too big for this small-town boy. But if you want to get to the top, you got to make the move, right?”
“Yes.”
“Guess your boss’ll be sorry to see you go. Mr. Lancaster.”
“He knows it’s a good career move. That’s the way it is in our business.”
Jackson shakes his head in sadness. “What a terrible thing that family’s gone through. And they never did find out who did it. We take that personally in this office,” he adds, as if defending the entire department.
“You’re right,” Joe agrees. It was a terrible tragedy. He knows—he and Glenna have talked about it. Since her marriage broke up, she and Joe have spent time together. She needs someone to talk to, and he’s a sympathetic listener.
“You were pretty close to them.”
“I still am. I’ve talked to Mrs. Lancaster about it. Moving ninety miles south isn’t going to diminish our friendship.”
“That’s good, that’s good.” The detective stares at Joe for a beat. “That young girl, their daughter. I heard she was a hell of a nice kid.”
“She was a wonderful kid,” Joe says forcefully.
“A little headstrong, though? We’ve heard stories she used to sneak out and meet up with boys, right under her parents’ noses.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Joe answers stiffly. He’s uncomfortable talking about this kind of personal thing regarding the dead girl, especially with someone he’s never met before.
The Disappearance Page 6